#riddler smut

As with every disagreement between you and your employer, you approached it tentatively, but with glee. Edward Nigma was fiery when enraged, and it didn't take much to get him there. And while you normally delighted in riling him up for the sake of it, this time you were arguing because you believed you were right. After all, he was still Edward. He could argue until his pallid face became blue, or more likely bright red, but you couldn't imagine his claims were anything but fabricated and egomaniacal delusions. No one who willingly named themselves The Riddler could be quite as well-versed sexually as he happened to be stating as fact. And given it was such a personal point of contention, you knew you could get some joy out of seeing him scramble to convince you.

"I hate to be insubordinate, b-"

"But you will try your best to persevere."

Eddie interrupted you with the casual, quick witted cruelty that came so naturally to him, and you rolled your eyes as you continued in spite of his comments. After all, his dismissive attitude had only encouraged you to keep going, dead set now on engaging him, and refusing to back down from the argument. Especially if he was going to be so childish.

"But! If you'll let me speak. I hate to be insubordinate but I will be. Since I know how much you hate that…" The sarcasm spilled forth so easily, your own specialty, the familiar tone you took in any disagreements the two of you had as you worked together. You gave it as good as you got from him. It was likely one of the few reasons he kept you employed, because as much as he liked to be right, he loved an argument so much more. "But. I will have to argue with you here, Eddie. I just don't picture you as… Like… That kind of guy."

He remained focused on his work, his eyes never moving from his tools or his hands, only a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth a sign that he was still listening, smiling at your inability to find the right words. So you continued, desperate to hook him in.

"I mean, you're just… You're like… Not the opposite, exactly, but… I've just never seen you with anyone. So I always figured you were kind of inexperienced. Which isn't a bad thing of course!"

Now you had him. Hook, line and sinker. Eddie had actually put down his tools and had turned his entire body to face you, wearing a scowl on his face that shifted the goggles he wore above his forehead into a slant. It was no longer idle chit chat, no more a playful argument that he suspected he would win eventually either through his determination or your lack thereof. Your belief that he was simply bragging falsely about his skills in an attempt to boost his ego or confidence had bruised his ego, insulted his reputation. The rage was to be expected, and as much as you knew that getting him into that state would result in a long-winded lecture, you had continued to tease him anyway. And now you would suffer the consequences.

"Oh, you poor misguided creature. Do you think if I had any guests around that qualified or quantified my experience that you would know about them? My personal life is none of your business. Surely I remind you of this frequently enough for it to have settled into the surface level, minuscule ridges of your otherwise smooth brain, no?"

"You say that, but here you are, trying to convince me th-"

"It's not as though, within the boundaries of this one particular argument, that I am divulging every single physical or sexual encounter I have ever had!"

Eddie's teeth fell together, upper jaw gritting against the lower as he tried to calm himself down. He knew all too well that become frantic and loud was a sign of desperation, and he wanted to convince you without making a fool of himself. So with a deep breath and a renewed focus, he continued at a lower tone.

"I am simply stating to you that I am exceptionally skilled in all areas, including those matters. In everything, I am studious and practised. You have seen me take on tasks fresh and new only to become adept and expert in them within seconds.

The desperation in his voice had risen once more. He couldn't help it. You were so frustrating, so irritating, so ignorant to all evidence to the contrary to be able to suggest that there might be something out there in the world that he wasn't good at.

"Why do you find it so hard to believe that when it comes to the particular art of cunnilingus, that I might be sub-par!?"

Eddie was furious now, frothing through his clenched teeth as he raised his voice which had, much to his chagrin, taken on a whining and frantic tone as he became more determined to convince you. And the fact that he was behaving in such a manner over something you viewed as trivial, perhaps even inconsequential as far as you were concerned, was a little bit funny. So much so that you couldn't help but giggle a little as you spoke, trying to keep your answer light in order to relieve some of the tension. You offered him a shrug as you offered up your reply, watching as his face turned a light shade of pink.

"Maybe because you call it cunnilingus…"

Your found your own comment hilarious, having to purse your lips in an unnatural manner to hold in your laughter. Eddie, on the other hand, did not find it amusing in the slightest.

"So, because I am formal and educated, that means I can't be good at something? A million academics worldwide might disagree with that."

"You're not an academic though."

Now you were hitting him where it hurt. His status amongst those he refused to call peers was always a source of contention, a particularly soft spot. Eddie could argue all he wanted that he didn't require formal certification or recognition to know he was smarter than everyone else, but knowing some of his fellow criminals had a title, held doctorates, did rub him the wrong way. But that was an argument, regretfully, for another time. He had to stay focused.With a furrowed brow, he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath, releasing it with a growl.

"And what would you rather someone like me called it, then? Hm?"

As always, he had you cornered. His intellect was hard to beat. You were caught short of an answer. Or maybe it was more that saying the words you would usually use but in front of Eddie seemed like breaking a rule or crossing a line. You could feel yourself cringing in embarrassment just from thinking them in his presence even. Silence filled the space between you as you prayed that he would move on from this, but he never was one for letting things go.

"Oh, now it seems you're suddenly short on words? Nothing to say? Cunnilingus isn't an appropriate term for you, but you can't think of a good enough replacement? A shocking lack of foresight or your own argument, but I shouldn't be too surprised."

Heat flushed over your skin as he stepped out from behind his desk and took one solitary step towards you. Under any other circumstances his repetition of such a ridiculously formal term might have elicited either immature giggling or no reaction from you at all, but hearing Eddie now enunciate each syllable sent a shiver through you, and you could feel yourself tensing to try and avoid the warmth of arousal settling in. Futile, ultimately, as he continued.

"Shall I help you to come up with some alternatives? Do you need me to assist you in this, as well as everything else I ask of you? Perhaps you would rather me say that I'm an expert in 'eating someone out'? That I can 'devour pussy' better than anyone else who would claim to? Or I can profess that there isn't a chance that my skilful tongue couldn't conjure an orgasm from your wet, eager cunt?"

Each sentence was underscored by a few paces closer to you, the genuine filth he spewed for the first time since you'd met him punctuated by the decrease in space between his form and yours. Leaning back against the desk for support was your only option for stabilisation as you felt your body weakening, in resolve and physically. Your clit throbbed, a jolt that tickled through you, and you pressed your thighs together as though that would stop your juices from spreading onto your underwear anymore than they already had. But there was no hope for you, as Eddie was now standing before you, a cruel expression worn on his face, giving him the look of someone who believed they had already won before the fight had truly started.

"I propose a solution, my dear. And while normally I don't feel like I have to provide any kind of evidence to my skill set, I suspect it might be the only thing to make you cease this imbecilic insistence that you know all. Said solution would be to show you. To provide you with concrete proof."

Nerves began to bubble in your chest, bile rising in your throat as your body considered whether throwing up might be a reasonable response to what you assumed Eddie was offering you. It seemed like the kind of thing you might have blearily imagined, dreaming it up out of the confines of your deeply buried and lust filled desires. Hearing what you wanted to hear, and not what he had actually just said out loud in the real world. Instead of nervous retching, you decided to play stupid, hoping to buy yourself some time. Because embarrassing yourself by seeming like an idiot was far better than embarrassing yourself by seeming eager to take up an opportunity that wasn't actually being offered.

"H-how would you, uh, show me?"

Eddie smiled, a cruel grin that spread into his gaunt cheeks, wider and wider as he relished in your obvious fluster and the clear fact that you so badly wanted his demonstration.

"Don't force an act of stupidity, dear. Especially not when it comes so naturally to you. You know precisely how I would achieve a display of my skills. And do you see any other suitable subjects around? Am I expected to go up to the surface and find a potential victim to waste my energy on when I have a perfectly willing one right here?"

He spread his hand outwards, fingers fanning open in your direction, like he was showcasing you as a prize on some insane post-watershed game show.

"Is this a trick? Am I supposed to say no so that you can say I have no proof that you're wrong? Or do you actually… Want me to agree? Or is it that I say yes and then you-"

"I want you to believe me. I want you to know that I'm right, as always. Whatever that takes. Whatever I have to do. That's what I want."

"Fuck." You clasped your hand over your mouth, hoping the meaning behind the outburst wasn't too obvious, but from the sinister smirk Eddie wore, you could tell he had you figured out. So you stumbled over your words, not wanting to give him a second to be able to fluster you further. "OK, so… You do… that… to me… And I'm guaranteed to think you're the best? It settles the argument?"

A deep, withheld chuckle slipped out so delightfully through his throat and over his lips and you felt it change the steady beat of your heart's rhythm.

"If you give me even just five minutes to work at your dirty, desperate hole, I will show you something so extraordinary you'll never think of another person again. It will make you ache for me for the rest of your pointless life, and you will chase the high with no success of replicating the feeling I can give you. But it'll be definitive proof of my skills, at least."

"Fuck." There was no point in pretending anymore. No reason to hide your shock. "Well… Where do you want me?"

Eddie raised his eyebrows, surprised at how quickly you had come on board, but he maintained the upper-hand as he uttered yet another phrase you would have sooner believed had come from a dirty paperback than from the mouth of The Riddler.

"I could shatter your entire belief system anywhere and under any circumstances. So please, cater to your own comfort. The desk, the floor. I'll even happily take you upstairs to my bed if you so choose."

You had already begun to shake your head before being able to speak. Not his bedroom. That would be too much in one day. Having Eddie doing his best work at your cunt and seeing the environment in which he slept? That was far more excitement than you thought you could take.

"The desk. The desk is fine."

"As you wish."

More than a few awkward moments of pure silence and stillness passed between you both before you excitedly, and somewhat clumsily, hopped up onto the desk behind you, hauling your body up on arms that trembled under the stress of wanting to make sure you kept yourself desirable enough for Eddie to follow through. And then another minute ticked by, oh so painfully slowly. You didn't know what to say or how to start things off. Truth be told, you expected Edward might do that since this was his idea and he had claimed to be the experienced one. Luckily, he did eventually break the tension by spitting his next words at you, irritated yet again by what he believed to be your bad habit of appearing thoughtless, gormless even, in the face of what for you was great difficulty.

"You will have to take off the clothes on your bottom half. Your underwear too. I'm exceptional, but not a magician. Or were you waiting there so lazily, expecting me to do that? Perhaps if you lay back and let me take care of everything my efforts will be worth a few more points in your books?"

"You can if-"

"I was being facetious, dear. I insist you do at least some of the work involved. This isn't solely about giving you satisfaction, though it is ultimately the end goal. It is more important, however, for me to be proven right, thank you very much. So do the bare minimum and present yourself to me."

Your heart rose up into your throat, but at least with that statement you could consider permission now secured. And so your nervous hands moved to the front of your pants, fumbling with the button and zipper under Eddie's watchful and impatient eye. When he let out a long and deep exhale from his nose, you gave up and instead began tugging at the waist to slide them down over your form, past your thighs, your knees, and then to your ankles where you let them pool on the floor at your feet. A quick step to the side followed by a gentle kick and you had moved them out of the way. Now you had to face the scary part. Taking off your underwear. It felt like it was the true point of no return. He would see you, nude and exposed. From the waist down, at least. And there really was no other reason to be naked in his presence, to have your underwear off in Edward Nigma's work room, except for what was certainly going to happen once you were finally free of your clothes. It sealed your fate. It was definitive.

Trembling fingers that no longer felt like they belonged to you teased at the elastic band of your panties before your thumbs hooked under it and took hold, easing them down not too slow and not too fast, but definitely with the distinct air of overthinking an act that truly would requite no thought under normal circumstances. And the whole time, Eddie watched you, admittedly a little unsure of what he should be doing with himself in that moment. Looking away might make him seem prudish, or even rude. Or, worst still, could be misconstrued as an admission of his interest beyond the argument. On the other hand, staring too intensely could prove to be off-putting, discomforting, sleazy. It upset him to think he might not have the right answer, but at least he knew his brain was firing adequately even with your distraction to provide him with all the potential solutions and outcomes.

In the end, he settled on making a concerted effort to look at your hands, then to your legs, a quick look to the left of your face after that in an attempt to avoid eye contact but to provide the illusion of it, and finally back down once more to your hands. It was all an act, though. He could fix his eyes, his whole head, in any direction, never once directly facing what you were revealing, but in his peripheral he could still see you exposed to him. Your sex, hidden for so long but dreamt of so frequently, something he would deny wholeheartedly even to himself. Now, though, it was harder to pretend that he wasn't the least bit keen on seeing so much of you. As he stole glances at your mound, he could feel saliva pooling in his cheeks, his lips parting with a silent breath as he watched you nudge your underwear over by your pants. His fingers tensed, closing into a fist and then relaxing quickly, surreptitiously, as he studied the way you leaned back on your hands outstretched behind you, hips jutting ever so slightly forward and pushing your core towards him.

Trying to swallow the accumulating saliva without his Adam's apple bobbing too violently and giving his hunger away, he was suddenly aware of the fact that he might have been even more into this than he thought he was. There was something in the control of it. You were allowing him to prove himself, yes, that was a mutual understanding. But he was the one who told you to remove your clothing, and you had done so dutifully without question. And now there you were, presenting yourself to him. But he had to remain focused on the task at hand.

With a quick self-chastising, he was back on form. But the lingering knowledge that he was so desperate for you, wanting to taste you, keen to please you, did make him wonder if he might be giving himself even more of an edge than he believed himself to have in the first place. Desperation, after all, could easily win him over. Pleading? Begging? If he was on the receiving end of that kind of pathetic display he would find his ego stroked and his mind swimming. It made sense to assume that you would feel the same to know how keen he was. Not that he intended on giving too much of his desires away, but perhaps a little flavour of how he could woo you might tip the scales even further in his direction.

He'd mused over it long enough now. He had to get on with it. Before the nerves could settle in and he made a fool of himself for his earlier proclamations of expertise.

Taking on the brunt of this experiment finally, now that you had done all you could, Edward finally moved closer to you, settling himself directly in front of your body. From the close proximity where he stood you could feel the warmth of his breath, the stale scent of coffee behind it. The scent of his body was strong, the tang of deodorant used as a replacement for a shower that morning, an attempt to cover up the smell of his sweat rather than get rid of it. And you considered it lucky that the musk of his own odour was still identifiable. And luckier still, when your eyes drifted to his, you could see he was now laser focused. No amount of nerves were going to get in the way of him doing what he had to do. Without even realising it deeper than on a primal, natural level, you knew you could let him take over. And he did so without much more hesitation.

Edward's hands were on your knees first, his palm resting against them for a few seconds as he assumed it was a good idea to let you adjust to the notion of there being physical contact between you. It was an astute assumption for him to make, obviously, as the moment the surprising warmth of his palms touched your body, you twitched. And as much as it was clear on the outside, internally you were freaking out even more. Of course, not for any negative reason. It was only because he genuinely had never touched you in any way before, and certainly not bare skin to bare skin. Pathetically voracious, you felt another surge of hear from your cunt, warm and wet immediately from nothing more than what could have been an accidental graze against you under any other circumstances. That pule of excitement rang through you, and recognised it, knew it so well. Sharp, but dull. Sweet, but stinging. The kind of sensation that flooded your nervous system, every inch of you on high alert resulting in your skin prickling and hairs standing on end in anticipation of more, more, more.

It was so hard to believe this was happening. Months of restless and highly ambitious pining, directly in contrast to his cold, stoic indifference towards you had brought you to the conclusion that to him, you would be nothing more than an irritation that knew how to make his coffee well enough that he kept you around. And while he might only be doing this to prove a point, you would have taken the opportunity under any circumstances, as miserably pitiful as that made you seem.

As you let your mind wander, hoping the distraction would keep you from reaching your climax before he'd even done anything to you, Eddie was centred, immersed entirely in the present. With complete understanding of what the act would do to you, and hoping for a dramatic scene to play out in front of him as a consequence, he pushed your legs apart, forceful and commanding, spreading them slowly. He was keen to get a better angle at you. And, just as he expected you would, you moaned softly in response, a sound you had no intention of making and weren't even aware of until far too long after it had escaped your throat so breathily. You whipped your hand up to cover your mouth, snapping it tight over the offending orifice, embarrassed entirely that you were already so receptive, so sensitive, and so wet. It was desperation, clear and simple. Despite him expecting it, the sound still surprised him. It was sensual, light on his ears and deeply indulgent, and it inspired a rumble of appreciation in his own chest that he suspected was low enough you couldn't hear. Though he wouldn't allow himself to make a sound, not quite yet, he did revel in a wicked smile, mean and teasing, as he looked into your eyes to offer a sincere but light-hearted reprimanding.

"Do not stifle any sounds. I consider them to be important feedback, without which this whole affair could be considered adulterated, debased even. I forbid you to withhold anything from me, as it is a requirement of the performer to know what pleases his audience. As such, I expect to hear every single moan, every whimper, every pleading, howling scream for more. Instructional as they are, they also serve as physical evidence to support my argument. Understood?"

You wanted to speak. He wanted you to speak. It would have brought him so much joy to hear you utter an agreement to his terms, to know you were happy to obey his rules. Perhaps, even, to hear you say his name, exhaling it on a sweet breath.

"Yes, sir, Mister Nigma. Of course, Eddie. Whatever you want."

Unfortunately, all you could conjure up in place of a verbal response was a weak nod of your head, mouth open in a silent gasp of shock at the way he was speaking to you, paralysed by the fact that his eyes had yet to move from yours.

In a sudden shift from his position of hovering over you, Edward moved slowly, carefully, to his knees. It was a thought out manoeuvre that told very little of the care he had to take at his age, but which let you in on it just a little. Now below you, he looked up with keen eyes. He craned his neck forwards, taking a painfully slow start to his process. Eventually, you felt the heat of his breath hitting you, the cured warmth of his lips as they came into contact with your thighs. A soft, surprisingly gentle kiss placed against your skin. And then another, this one pressed just next to the one that came before it. Another, and another, the trajectory of their journey suggesting that soon they would be getting closer and closer, moving temptingly near to your cunt. He was right there, just about to reach it, close enough for your entire body to become prickly with heat, and then he switched to the other thigh. Back down, closer to your knee, placing a kiss there to parallel the other side. Another two minutes of those slow, almost sinfully teasing kisses on your bare, quivering thighs. This time, as he got close once again to your core, he leaned in, loose strands of his greasy and unkempt hair tickling as they brushed against your mound. In response to the surprise stimulus, you let out a hissing breath.

The interruption made him pull back, and you worried for a moment that you might have thrown him off his game. But it seemed in reality to have served as nothing more than a reminder to him. he reached one hand up to the top of his head and pulled off his goggles, tossing them carelessly to the side. He couldn't let anything else get in the way, not again. That same hand pushed his hair back, fingers spreading through ti to make sure it combed itself into place, in his usual messily swept back style. And then, with no hint of the same tenderness he had held before in his previous, slow building of tension, Eddie's head fell forward against you. He pressed his nose to your mound, the first physical contact he'd had with your sex, and breathed in deeply. His inhale offered him your scent, and he could almost taste you in the back of his throat and across his tongue as he took it in, letting out one low and slow groan of satisfaction when he could no longer hold that tantalising breath. You were aching for him so thoroughly now, bravely resisting the urge to push his head into you, to wrap your thighs around his neck and shoulders and keep him there. Before you could act on that impulse, however, he had pulled his head back from you, almost as though he were pre-empting your desperate clawing for his attention.

You wondered how much of this was his regular performance and how much of it was tailored as a sort of punishment, teasing that was dedicated to you specifically. Cloying tension meant to make you grateful for the experience when it did arrive. Surely by now he had realised how badly you wanted, or needed, him. He was The Riddler, after all. There was very little doubt in your mind that forcing you to be in a position of only savouring each moment and letting it build up to astronomical levels of greedy, spoiled want was part of the pleasure for him. But it was a mean spirited approach, one you were certain he was well aware of. It seemed cruel even by his usual standards.

Just a short of a total temper tantrum, ready to demand that he get a move on and start before you decided to fire up the argument again, you were silenced into a choked gasp. Eddie had brought his thumbs to you, a firm pressure held to you in the most delicate of places. You were surprised to feel the touch of his hands against the sensitive skin of your folds, expecting him to only use what he needed to. Mouth, lips, tongue. Using those specific tools and no other to get the job done. Instead, he brought his digits into the mix, using them to spread your folds, opening you up to him. You leaned your head back, trying to avoid letting him see the way your eyes were widening, how your mouth opened in quiet glee, how sweat had begun to form on your brow already. Eddie himself could feel his mouth water in response to this new view.

Then, as if he were exploring you finally now that he had the chance to do so, he pressed a finger into your already wet and more than welcoming cunt. Only up to the first knuckle, a tentative step towards more, making sure that his presence was accepted before he went any further.

"Oh… Ooooh, my…"

If this was just the beginning, then you couldn't imagine how you would be able to last through the whole event that was about to begin unfolding before you. Obviously, you didn't want him to win too easily. But if he kept things going the way they were, the fingers prodding, his thumb reaching to pull back the hood above your clit so he could tap at it with a free finger, his hot, panting breath warming flesh that was already scalding with heat, you weren't sure you would last more than another single second. One firm press against your swollen lips, your twitching bud, and you would be cumming on his fingers before he had even gotten to show off the skills you were supposed to be testing. And you weren't sure how forgiving he would be if you were to succumb to his touch so quickly. You could end up lucky, being offered another orgasm, surprised to find that Eddie was kind enough to keep going in spite of your obvious weakness just to prove the argument in his favour. Or you could be entirely unlucky, as you suspected was more likely. He might call the whole thing off. You couldn't risk that, so you did your best to relax your body, willing it to cool down, focusing on trying to stave off the inevitable.

But, as if he knew you were struggling, Edward suddenly leaned in, pressing the tip of his nose to your clit this time and pushing against it. he was giving himself a better angle from which to press his tongue out against you once he'd achieved the perfect one. He let one long lick of the protruding muscle trace up your slit, then back down halfway where he allowed it to delve further, pressing it deeper between your lips. He pushed his tongue forwards, deeper, as he worked against your folder. Up and down with firm, rigid posture, never quite reaching your clit with the languid laves, until he surprised you by flitting his tongue quickly over the frayed bundle of nerves. He kept this going, back and forth, fast and erratic. The way he worked at you, with seemingly no end in sight to this one particular motion he seemed to have perfected, had you reaching for the edge of the workbench, fingers clenching, painful on your tips and on the joints as you held on with strength you hadn't been aware of having.

Then he stopped, taking the sweet movement away and leaving you with a craving for a fresh, new addiction. To make up for it, and in a somewhat romantic move that stunned you, Eddie placed a soft kiss to your clit. The gesture left you breathless as it moved from closed lips to open ones, his mouth closing around your clit, taking it between his lips to be sucked into his mouth. His tongue was flat against it, moving, writhing, as he consumed your taste in total ecstasy. Flagrantly ignoring all notions of needing to remain somewhat coy or distanced in this, nothing more than a display of his skill, you leaned your head back in a gasping moan and let out exactly how you felt.

"Oh, fuck you, Edward Nigma… Fuck you… You knew…"

And he did. Of course he did. He knew all too well that he was going to win the argument. he knew you wouldn't have stood a chance. And it was your fault for not recognising that, for not seeing the constant pattern in being proved wrong or stupid or thoughtless by him time and time again. You could feel the vibrations of his self-satisfied laugh against your cunt as he bathed in your pleasured irritation. It was gold plated hatred, violent desire and self-flagellation to let yourself be so easily tricked into letting go of your inhibitions, to allow him the satisfaction of not only winning, not only proving, but of knowing now how certain your desires for him were.

The chuckle fell into a constant droning sound as Eddie hummed around your clit, and he let his teeth graze over the stiff ridge, tracing down your hood, only letting go briefly, long enough to offer another kiss as an apology, in sympathy for what he'd done and what he was still intent on doing. The kiss against your bud was followed by another against your heat, wet, swollen lips that were sucked up into his mouth with an eager groan. His jaw dropped enough to take you in entirely, and with his mouth clamped tightly around your core Eddie pushed his tongue forward. It was loaded with saliva, and he let it drip onto you and into you, evidence of the way he was savouring you now coating you completely. He worked at your pussy with exactly the kind of expertise he had claimed before, his tongue wiggling as he breathed heavily against your body. He was growling now as he ate you, devouring you, animal more than human. It was a hunger you'd never seen him exhibit before. Normally, you would never see him eat a full meal, and as you felt him now you wondered if this was actually how he satiated himself. Because no other person had even seemed so feverishly intent on getting deep into you, on inhaling you, ingesting you, tasting you at the back of his throat as he swallowed to greedily and gratefully.

His tongue was pointed, moving quickly against your clit in between bouts of lapping at your insides, deep enough to tickle your core. The muscle was firm, focused and determined, and felt like having a vibrator pressed against you. Better even. Definitely.

"Eddie… I… This is…"

He paused, stopping his ministrations against your sopping wet cunt only to utter a smug response, a tone that was far less affirming and caring than his actions, the kind of sharp and pointed words that didn't seem like they could come out of a mouth that behaved as generously as he'd shown his could.

"I know, my dear. No need to say it. I can already tell."

When he returned to your sex he commenced his acts against your cunt with the same fervour, if not more. No drop in enthusiasm or effort. In fact, he seemed to be getting more erratic, more joyful. Sloppy and careless, as though he's lost all notion of what this was really about and was instead giving into his own desires. It worked all the same, if not to a greater effect. His chin moved up and down, his whole body joining in on the movement eventually, as he let his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, and now his nose and cheeks, drag themselves to and rub themselves against whichever part of you he wanted to feel.

You twitched at the sound of him as he began to moan, louder and louder, a long, droning note that vibrated on your skin and seemed to fill you. The sensation had your whole body trembling, and Eddie managed to remove himself from the fountain of flavour your cunt had become to him, only enough to allow you to catch some of your breath. He'd only left you with a second with which to bring yourself back to the reality of the room before he slipped a finger inside of you. At the very least, you were glad it wasn't his tongue. For all that it spent every day spitting horrid rhetoric and insults at you, working in sarcasm and insults only, it truly was the best you'd ever had. You knew another few seconds of his devilish mouth delivering such contrasting sweetness would have had you cumming, sweat dripping, ace flushing with heat, unable to speak, laying there weak as he delivered a final and self-satisfied 'I told you so.'

But even that one finger, which had felt like such a reprieve, was only him testing the waters, to see how hot and how warm, how adaptable you were. He was seeing how you responded, and given that the response in question was a hip rolling, limbs squirming, breathy moan, he slipped another digit in alongside it. He noticed the way you were holding the table now, your fingernails clawing at the underside, hands shaking, arms not fully capable of supporting you with how limp they now were. He clocked how badly they trembled under the weight of the pleasure he gave you. Your obvious satisfaction brought a lump to his throat, a hunger trying to escape, to push him on. It was a strangled howl that longed to come out.

With a growl, he dove back into you. His fingers remained there, inside, pumping in and out, fucking you in a not-quite-perfect imitation of the want that now danced in his mind. And he took your clit between his teeth once more, hungry for you, desperate. The prize he was chasing was no longer bragging rights, or the satisfactory, egotistical conclusion of being right. Now it was something worth so much more. Now, if he could get this right, he wondered if you would let him show you more. Wondered if you might be willing to return the favour?

It seemed as though his question was answered immediately, as you let one hand free of it's white-knuckle grip on the workbench and instead laced those same tense and tired fingers through his hair. You were taking the reins, trying to claw back a little control over your impending climax, not wanting him to move himself away from the apex of your needs before you were ready for him to. You seemed to be lost in lust, nothing holding you back from demanding what you wanted, and Eddie felt a shiver of anticipation of what might come in the future fall over him. It was enough to have him grunting as he pressed his face into you. And with grated teeth, you expressed the sentiment he was looking for, pushing him deeper, meeting his efforts in the middle.

"I hate to… huff… admit it… But you are a fucking pro…"

Eddie was practically giddy with lust, your praise expected but nonetheless sending him over the edge into the feral nature he'd been attempting to hold back. He drew himself from you, fingers still thrusting, twisting and curling inside of you, his mouth taking a break. He licked his lips, collected his saliva, and spat onto your cunt, following it up with a groan that came through his clenched jaw. he pressed his forehead to your thigh, his free hand on the other, and spread your legs wider. The hand that gripped his hair had loosened, but he looked you in the eye and demanded you resumed your attempt at what he knew was a false sense of control.

"I'll allow you to push me. Show me you want more. Prove me right, by all means. I'll have you showering me in the evidence of your incorrect assumptions soon enough."

You clenched your fist at the root of his dark hair, biting down hard on your lip to stifle the whine that was most definitely working it's way out of your throat. You tried to move him, but he remained still, impervious to your weakened strength, taking the moment of resolve to tease you further.

"Or is that too vague for you? Too wordy? Too flowery? Should I say that I'll have you creaming? It's more visceral, after all. More accurate, I expect. Or cumming? Hard. And wet. And loud. Let's find out how my victory will sound, shall we?"

Edward removed his finger from your body and opened his mouth. He placed it inside with a low hum, dragging it along his tongue and savouring the taste of you, as though he hadn't just dined on your sinfully wet cunt for what felt like hours. Then, once he was finished with that particular display of filth, the act of licking you from his skin certainly feeling like such to you, he wiped the digit along with his palm down the front of his vest and turned the attention of his hands to your thighs once again. That same touch that started it all, your legs still tingling with the memory of where he'd touched you before exactly. Now, they pressed into the meat of your body, far less gentle, as he felt his stomach rumble. He hungrily returned his mouth to your cunt and began slurping, his tongue firm and hard as he started to fuck you with it. The protruding muscle dove in and out of you, enough to have you squirming under him, and he sighed against you. This was it, the final round, the last lap. He was sure he had already done more than enough to prove himself, so now he could let loose and stop focusing only on the win, allow himself to indulge just a little more than he was already permitting.

His nose was practically inside of you as he tried to get closer and deeper. And his chin was wet and dribbling with your juices as he shook his head from side to side like a wild dog, lewd sounds echoing in the room, popping and sucking and wet smacking as he literally munched at your pussy. Your inner thighs and wet, dripping lips were beginning to burn from the friction of his stubble, and his moans were only growing louder, seeming to fill your ears like cotton. You could hear them, only them, despite the fact that your thighs were clenching so tightly around him that they should be muffled. But they were audible, physical. And that spelled out the end. The vibrations. The novelty of hearing him so loud and joyful, not holding back, not forcing composure. It was all over for you. There was literally no chance you could hold it in any longer.

Before you could warn him to pull back from you, it was too late. You were cumming, hard. Slick spread to his lips, in his mouth, and all of it lapped up by his tongue and swallowed down his slender throat. Eddie moved with you, even as you raised yourself off of the table and began to shake uncontrollably. His lips remained firmly suctioned to your dripping cunt as you came back down to rest, orgasm rolling over, slowly but surely dissipating from a quaking hold to a dull pulse, leaving you with only the warmth of satisfaction coursing through your veins. And even then, he kept going, only slowing down and coming to a stop once your body had ceased trembling and he was sure you were completely finished. It was far from what you expected from him. He didn't tease. He didn't laugh. He didn't stop to brag, as much of a terrible winner as he was.

When he eventually pulled away, however, you could see his smile. Even through your blurred vision you could make out how irritatingly smug it was. And possibly, behind that, was a hint of ecstasy of his own. As much as he'd seemed like he was definitely enjoying himself, however, you couldn't quite convince yourself of it. Your mind kept questioning your lust-addled beliefs. It told you that his grin, the enthusiasm, was all part of the show. You wanted so badly to believe that this wasn't just a one-off. That perhaps he might have developed a taste for you, or that he'd satiated a desire he'd been trying to hide so hard for so long. But the thought seemed far too good to ever be true, so instead you basked in the glow of knowing you'd been allowed to experience what was surely better than heaven at least once.

Eddie finally stood up as you let yourself relax into gratefulness, the rush of painful clarity subsiding as you allowed almost pathetic level of gratitude to sweep it away. Your eyes followed his, staring at him intensely, unable to do anything but watch him. You'd always held a little bit more than just admiration for him, always thought of him as oddly attractive, strangely charismatic, clutching a crush to your chest and never admitting it even to yourself. Now, though, he seemed to different. As though you'd unlocked something new. The inability to view him as anything other than a deeply sexual being. A shrill, piercing realisation that working alongside him would be so much harder now rang through your body. And it would be especially difficult if it were unrequited, as hard as that was to commit to believing given what he'd just done to you.

But as you finally broke your gaze away, not wanting him to be able to see through you into your thoughts in the way he so often did, you happened to catch a glimpse of a slight stain at the front of his pants. That sudden rush of louder groaning on his part made more sense now, and you could finally entertain the thought that he definitely had plenty of fun proving his skills to you. That damp spot was the evidence you required. He was just as weak, just as needy, just as human as you were.

Not realising that you had spotted the mess he'd made of himself, the telltale sign of his own climax spreading and darkening on the front of his pants with each second passing, no doubt warm and sticky against his skin, Eddie attempted to collect himself as casually as he could. He stretched his back until it cracked and then maintained his straightened posture, puffing his chest out in pride. He was smug, pleased with himself beyond reason, even, and satisfied with what he wrongly assumed was his own secret orgasm. His forearm wiped across his mouth and he licked his lips, coughing before he made another sound, trying to regain composure despite the fact that the lingering taste of you on his lips had him twitching and threatening to stiffen again already. He was surprised by that reaction, as much as he'd been surprised at his ability to cum entirely hands-free just from the act of pleasing someone else. At his age, it seemed like another notable skill worth bragging about that he could add to his growing repertoire, though he expected a lot of it had to do with you. The flavour of you, the feeling of you, the way you sounded exactly as he'd imagined you would on the occasions he'd allowed himself to indulge in those fantasies.

Sensing that he was getting carried away again, he focused on the point of this brief change of schedule.

"Ahem… I believe I proved my point effectively. If not timely. But you can hardly fault me for that. I take pride in my work, after all, as any expert would. Now… I would like you to get back to work, although I will allow you ten minutes to go and wash yourself off. You're no doubt sweating and… sticky…"

Eddie's eyes drifted back down to your cunt, to your plush thighs where he'd made his mark, eyes widening, cock thickening.

"Ah! I… I have to go. I have some things that I have to take care of. Elsewhere."

Jonathan Crane

Evening had drifted into those heavy, dim hours that settle deep within a house; the yellow light of the lamp cast lazy shadows across the edges of scattered papers, files, and half-finished mugs on the dining table. Jonathan sat at one end, peering at medical reports through his glasses, his fingers tracing the edges of the pages in an almost ritualistic fashion; his lips parted slightly every now and then, as if he were breathing the words he was reading back to himself. You were at the opposite end, knees tucked under the chair, hunched over your laptop drafting company regulations, but your focus wasn’t on the lines—it was on his face. You were typing slowly on purpose, pausing between words, trying to catch his gaze whenever you looked up. Your stares were a bit long, a bit meaningful; you tapped your pen lightly against the table, bit your lip, and even checked your watch, thinking to yourself, "He has to notice by now." Jonathan, however, slipped right through these small cues, catching none of them.

“You’re very busy today,” you finally said, keeping your voice deliberately soft but tinged with a slight reproach. “Even more than usual.”

Jonathan raised his head, studied you for a brief moment, then returned to his file. “Not busy,” he said in a calm, almost didactic tone. “Just important. If certain results are delayed, the consequences are difficult to rectify.”

“I understand,” you said, leaning back slightly in your chair. “But some days… some things can be more important.”

His brows furrowed slightly—not in anger, but in analysis; he was evaluating you like a case. “You’ve been more sensitive lately,” he said. “I suspect it’s work-related. You’re taking on too much responsibility.”

That sentence tightened something inside you. For a year, you had accepted his strange tastes, his way of controlling things, the way he read you like a book; most of the time, you had even responded willingly. But today, of all days, you had wanted him to remember. A candle, a word, even the tiniest hint would have sufficed. You snapped your laptop shut a bit too hard. “Could you stop analyzing me, Jonathan?” you said. “Sometimes I just… want to be noticed.”

This time, Jonathan turned to you completely. He leaned forward slightly in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. “You think you’re not being noticed?” he asked in a low voice. “That’s an interesting deduction.”

“It’s a frustrating deduction,” you countered, your lips pouting involuntarily. “And yes, that is how I feel right now.”

At that, he closed the files. Even this movement was controlled, as if he had pressed a button. His voice softened as he stood up. “We need to calm down,” he said. “Both of us.” Then, as if nothing had happened, he approached you. He caught your chin gently with his fingers and leaned in to kiss you—a short but intense kiss that started softly and then, for a moment, became more demanding, just enough to warm your chest and cloud your mind. “I’ll make you some chamomile tea,” he whispered. “It’s truly soothing.”

You watched his back as he walked toward the kitchen. He hadn’t said a thing. No smile, no recollection, not even the smallest sign regarding the significance of the day.

The first thing you encountered as you pried your eyes open was the rhythmic, mechanical ticking of massive gears seeping through the blurred veil of fog in your mind; your head throbbed as if under a heavy burden, and the metallic, foreign aftertaste of that tea still lingered in your throat. When you turned your head slightly to discern your surroundings, you realized that the familiar warmth of home had been replaced by the bleak, industrial chill of Gotham; two gargantuan clock faces stood before you, staring out at the dark city like the eyes of a beast, while moonlight filtered through the massive glass panes to create eerie geometric shapes on the floor. Directly across from you, Jonathan sat in a leather armchair touched by the dim light; with his legs crossed and his fingers pressed together in that signature steeple gesture, he watched you as if observing a rare laboratory specimen beginning to wake. The unwavering focus in his gaze and the twisted, possessive expression on his face were proof that he saw you not merely as a partner, but as a property he intended to dominate down to every last cell; it was evident from his motionless shadow alone that he had spent every minute until your awakening simply watching you.

“You’ve finally returned,” Jonathan said, his voice echoing against the stone walls of the clock tower; with his usual monotonous tone—though this time carrying undercurrents of suppressed passion—he leaned slightly toward you without rising from his seat. When you questioned in a trembling voice where you were and why he had brought you to this daunting tower, a faint, shadowed smile appeared on Jonathan’s face; standing up to gesture toward the perfect dinner set illuminated by a single candle on the table, he began to express his love through his dark, morbid brand of romance, saying, “It was your mistake to think I had forgotten the significance of this day, my balanced darling; I never forget, especially not a single detail, a single fear, or a single desire concerning you.” As he spoke, the terrifying reality of your location struck your mind like a blow as your consciousness returned; the tower was so high that it felt as though you were among the clouds, and the howling of the wind outside rang in your ears as a testament to the building's immense height.

When you stood up, supporting yourself by the edge of the table with knees that felt like lead, your eyes briefly caught the infinite void outside the glass, and in that moment, your primal, paralyzing fear of heights collapsed upon you like an avalanche. Your heart began to hammer against your chest as if trying to tear through it, and you felt as though the floor beneath you were sliding away, as if the tower might tip over at any second; the sharp cramp in your stomach and the numbness climbing up from your fingertips pushed you uncontrollably backward, toward the farthest corner from the window. “Get me out of here, Jonathan, please... it’s too high,” you moaned, your breath catching in your throat, but he perceived your terror not as a weakness, but as an invitation, and began to advance toward you with slow steps. With every step you took to escape, Jonathan blocked your path like a shadow, and when he finally caught you by the arms, the trembling of your body resonated against his unyielding chest.

As he began to drag you with a harsh, uncompromising force toward the very front of the glass—toward the edge where that boundless void began—your fear turned into wild panic. “Don’t! Jonathan, stop! I beg you!” you screamed, raining blows with your hands against his chest, against that immovable frame, shouting at the top of your lungs that you hated him; but he wrapped his arms tightly around you from behind as if you were in the safest place in the world, resting his chin on your shoulder and forcing you to look out into the darkness. “Hatred and fear are so close to one another, aren’t they?” he whispered into your ear, his warm breath making you shudder even more as his lips brushed your skin; “This height, this horror... it is all for us. Give your fear to me, my love; your weakness is my strength, and tonight, in this tower, there is only your fear and my hunger for it.” Suspended there in his arms before that massive window, the toxic mixture of your inevitable physical attraction to him and the terror of falling was intense enough to darken your consciousness once more.

After watching your pale face and trembling lips for seconds with that clinical yet hungry gaze, Jonathan crashed his lips onto yours with a sudden, forceful movement, as if the dark passion within him could no longer be restrained. This kiss held a savagery that was the polar opposite of his rational world; as his lips locked harshly onto yours, the pressure of his teeth against your lower lip shattered the fine line between pain and lust. When the hot, wet invasion of his tongue seeped into your mouth, you tasted the sharp hint of coffee mingled with his always-sterile scent; the muffled, wet sounds of your tongues intertwining drowned out the mechanical ticking of the clock, and Jonathan’s breath became trapped in your lungs. You were devastated—on one hand by the horror of the bottomless void beneath you, and on the other by the suffocating desire of his kiss; you dug your nails into the fabric of his arm, hard enough to pierce the skin, while your body shook like a leaf, finding balance only by clinging to his unyielding frame.

When he slowly pulled his lips away, the thin string of saliva stretching between you glistening in the dim light, Jonathan rested his forehead against yours; his eyes looked deep into your panic-widened pupils as if trying to touch your very soul. He wrapped one hand around your neck, his fingers so tight and sensual over your carotid artery that your breath hitched, and you felt the frantic pumping of blood in your veins through every cell. “Tremble, my love; this shaking isn't just from the height—it's from that irrepressible hunger you have for me,” he whispered, his voice like a dark symphony echoing directly inside your mind. As he slowly reached into his pocket, his lips wandered just beside your ear with a heat that scorched your skin: “I told you I would make today unforgettable. Our first anniversary must be crowned with that magnificent union of your fears and my control; we both deserve this destructive passion, this unique surrender. You are my most precious case, my deepest craving, and my never-ending obsession; I can protect you even from yourself, but I will never deprive you of me.”

The moment Jonathan finished these poisonous and mesmerizing words, he brought a small, silvery vial to your face with the precision of an artist; before you could even comprehend what was happening, a single flick of his thumb released a light, sweet scent that took your senses captive. This was not one of his infamous fear toxins, but a special formula that tore down all barriers in your mind, transforming that paralyzing fear in your veins into wild courage and uncontrollable lust. As the cool mist of the gas hit your skin, there was a moment of silence, and Jonathan, with the unwavering calm of someone who had already taken the antidote, began to watch the devastating effect of the gas upon you. Within seconds, the fear of heights that had consumed you just moments ago was replaced by a searing, dark desire climbing up from your core; you were no longer focused on the void beneath, but only on the man holding you tight at the edge of that void—your dark savior.

“Now,” Jonathan said, tightening his fingers further around your neck and pressing you slightly against the cold surface of the glass, “tell me in your own voice what has taken the place of your fear.”

In those first seconds as the sweet scent of the gas filled your lungs and mingled with your blood, the terrifying void outside the tower no longer appeared as a deadly pit pulling you down, but as a magnificent stage proving the power of the man behind you. As your body absorbed the adrenaline of the previous paralyzing fear and transformed it into pure, raw lust, your hands let go of the fabric of Jonathan’s arms and climbed upward, as if severed from your own will, to entangle in the stiff strands of hair at the nape of his neck. When Jonathan felt this sudden and wild change in you, a dark murmur escaped his throat—one he always suppressed but was now releasing; burying his head in your neck, he licked the sensitive pulse point of your carotid artery, reminding you once more that you were his property by grazing his teeth lightly against your skin. Your breaths were now intertwined, and the metallic sounds of the clock’s massive mechanism had turned into a faint whisper beside your uncontrollable moans.

“Tell me,” Jonathan whispered, his lips wandering in the most sensitive hollow of your neck; every word was like a seal scorching your skin. “When that wretched fear recedes, what is the naked truth that remains? Is your little heart beating this fast because you’re afraid of falling, or because of the irrepressible desire for what I am about to do to you? Speak to me; you are in the most fascinating stage of my case.” As your hands tried to unbutton his shirt with enough force to tear them off, you brought your lips close to his ear and, with the daring intoxication of the gas, moaned, “The fear is gone, Jonathan... now there is only you. You dragged me to the edge of this glass, now finish it.” At these words, Jonathan gripped you by the waist, lifted you, and slammed your hips onto the table, right next to the elegant anniversary dinner and the overturned candle.

As Jonathan’s hands climbed up between your legs with an unapologetic possessiveness, his eyes looked into yours with a love so deep and obsessed that it was impossible not to be crushed under their weight. “My little lab rat, how brave you’ve become,” he said, his voice thickened with lust and a dangerous tone. “It only took a small chemical touch to awaken this darkness within you; so this was the suppressed craving you couldn’t even admit to yourself. I want to tear you apart here at the top of this tower, with Gotham’s cold breath on our necks; I must break you down first to rebuild every cell of your soul with my own hands.” When your legs wrapped around his waist, the searing friction between you and his unyielding frame wiped away all remnants of logic in your mind; when your tongues tangled again, it wasn't just a kiss this time—it was the struggle of two predators wanting to rip the soul out of one another.

Pressing against you with a hardness felt even through clothing, Jonathan grabbed your chin with one hand, pushing your head back and forcing you to look at that boundless view. “Look! Those people living like ants outside will never taste this destructive passion we feel,” he roared, his voice echoing through the stone walls of the tower like a cry of victory.

As the first seconds of the sweet-smelling gas infused your blood with an artificial but searing courage, the terrifying void outside the tower no longer seemed a deadly pit but a stage for your own dominance; you shoved Jonathan’s firm chest back with unexpected strength, sending the silver candelabras sliding toward the edge of the table. Even as his back hit the cold stone wall, Jonathan maintained his calculated composure, watching your transformation into an unbridled predator with that signature analytical fascination. Out of breath, your chest heaving, you stepped toward him; wrapping your hands around his tie and jerking him forward, your voice rang out like a dark command: “Not here, not at this table, Jonathan... I want to be at the very top, where the wind cuts the skin; take me there and possess my soul at the summit of Gotham.”

The distorted, dark smile on Jonathan’s lips was proof of how your proposal fed his god-complex; wrapping one arm around your waist to seal you to him, he gripped your chin and whispered: “Leaving the lap of fear to challenge death itself... This is exactly what my masterpiece looks like.” As you dragged him toward the narrow, spiral stone staircase, every step became a front where your sexual tension turned into a physical war. Rising through the damp, dark hollow of the stairs, you stopped every few steps; Jonathan would slam you hard against the rough stone wall. His hands gripped your hips through your clothes, lifting you up as your legs locked around his waist, both of you swaying for a moment as if losing balance into the abyss.

Somewhere in the middle of the stairs, with a growl that signaled his patience had snapped, Jonathan clawed at the collar of your shirt and tore it open; the sound of the fabric ripping cracked like a whip in the silence. His fingers dug into your exposed shoulder like talons while his tongue traced a wet, searing path from your neck to your collarbone. You held the hair at the nape of his neck in your fists, throwing your head back against the stone wall with every harsh touch, moaning with the intoxication of pain and lust. Wedged between his hard frame and the wall, the narrowness of the stairs restricted your movements, but this restriction only made the friction more savage. As Jonathan’s hands tugged at the fabric at your waist as if to shred it, your breaths became a storm climbing the spiral void.

“Higher?” Jonathan growled, his lips millimeters from yours, “Your skin will be like ice, but your blood will boil in my hands.” As he used one hand to part your legs and pressed you against the stair railing, the massive void behind your back and his oppressive presence in front made you feel like the sole ruler of the world. In this ascent where clothes loosened one by one and your tongues sought each other hungrily at every pause, you were in a dark ritual that transcended human limits. You moved toward the dirty lights of Gotham with a wild appetite, leaving teeth marks and nail scratches on each other's skin until you reached that windy platform at the very top.

As the pitch-black night and the sharp, foul wind of Gotham whipped against your face at the top of the tower, you walked to the very edge—the boundary where the endless void began—empowered by the wild surge the gas created in your veins. As the city lights flickered below like the eyes of a dying, wounded beast, you threw your arms wide and screamed against the entirety of Gotham, your voice mingling with the howl of the wind as those daring words mocking Batman spilled from your lips: “Watch us, Bat! See how I unite with the Master of Fear, and tonight, be content with only watching!” This outcry pushed Jonathan’s dark possessiveness to its ultimate limit; he caught you from behind, sealing you to him and forcing you into a true surrender at the threshold of the abyss, right before Gotham’s grimy glow.

When Jonathan’s hands, with a hunger that knew no bounds, slipped beneath your torn blouse to cup your breasts—chilled by the wind but firm—you moaned against his shoulder as the burning trails left by his fingertips seared your skin. He stroked your breasts with a possessive hardness, his thumbs stimulating the peaks, carving his signature into your soul with every touch; gasping for air, you leaned back and slid your hands down to his hips, squeezing those firm, powerful muscles in your palms. The massive tension felt even through his trousers caused a muffled, animalistic growl to escape Jonathan’s throat as your fingers drifted to his penis; as your hand gripped that hardness, stroking it with rhythmic pressure, Jonathan’s lips roamed your neck like a hungry predator, his tongue and teeth growing more savage by the second.

As his hand climbed up between your legs to find your wetness and heat, the oppressive and expert caresses against your vulva swept away the last remnants of logic in your mind; the wet sounds as his fingers explored you were the darkest melody mingling with Gotham’s roar. While you felt every vein of his penis through your fingers, Jonathan pulled you even closer, whispering into your ear in that icy, lustful voice: “While this city burns under our witness, you will melt only at the tips of my fingers; every moan of yours will be etched into Gotham’s darkness.” Despite the wind freezing your skin, you were scorched by the hellfire created by Jonathan’s touch; the deep, wet wound you opened in each other’s bodies had reached the peak of that dark, irreversible ritual.

As the icy wind of Gotham howled at the very summit of the tower, Jonathan pushed you toward the narrow and perilous boundary of the railings; the artificial courage created by the gas had completely seized your soul, and now the void was no longer a threat, but an invitation.

His hands were on your waist, his fingers digging into your skin so tightly that blue bruises would surely remain by tomorrow morning. But you didn't even care. Would there even be a tomorrow? Right now, in this minute, it felt difficult to believe in the existence of anything beyond this single breath.

“Lean over further,” Jonathan whispered, his lips brushing the edge of your ear. His breath was hot, but his voice was stone-cold. “Let’s see how much you can endure.”

You obeyed. You stretched your body forward, your breasts pressing against the iron bars, the cold metal hardening your nipples. As he hoisted you onto the railing, to the very threshold of that fatal void, and laid you across the iron, you knew a single wrong move would send you into eternity; yet you only smirked. Beneath you, hundreds of meters down, the city lights slithered like snakeskin. As the wind whipped your hair, creating a chill on the back of your neck, Jonathan’s fingers gripped your hips, his nails sinking into your flesh.

“Are you not afraid?” he asked, a mocking curiosity in his voice. “One wrong move, one slip… and you become nothing more than a stain upon these stones.” With a crude possessiveness, Jonathan’s fingers hitched your skirt upward, bunching the fabric at your waist and leaving your hips completely vulnerable and bare.

You smiled. “Then at least I’ll die doing my favorite thing.”

Jonathan’s breath hitched. For a moment, there was silence, save for the rhythmic clicking of the tower’s massive mechanism and the frantic beating of your heart. Then, he reached for his belt; the sound of the leather unbuckling mingled with the mechanical clicks as he slowly lowered his zipper. Freed from the fabric, his hard, veined penis was a warm, heavy piece of flesh with swollen veins, a translucent fluid seeping from its tip. He must have felt your wetness, because his fingers slid to your inner thigh. “God, are you always this wet?” he asked, his voice thickening. “Or is it just this height that draws it out of you?”

Then, he grunted like an animal and shoved you against the railing. As your breasts were crushed against the iron, your hips were in the air, your legs spread, exposing your wet vulva to the moonlight. You felt Jonathan’s length, pressing the tip against your wet lips. “Now,” he said, his voice hushed, almost like a prayer. “Now let’s see—are you truly fearless?”

With the first thrust, your breath caught. His penis was too large for you, as it always was, but this time gravity was aiding him. With every thrust, your body slid against the railing, the coldness of the iron biting into your breasts and stomach. Jonathan’s hands gripped your hips, his fingers tight enough to nearly draw blood. “Oh, God,” he moaned, his voice like breaking glass. “I feel you, you’re squeezing me everywhere, as if you want to swallow me whole.”

Your only answer was a moan. His length dived deep, further with every stroke, as if pushing a new boundary within you. The wind carried the wet sounds of your union down to the dark streets of the city. Somewhere, far off, a dog howled, but no one could hinder you. No one could stop you. Jonathan’s breath was on your neck, hot and fast. “Look down,” he commanded, his voice like a whip. “Look and tell me, are you afraid?”

You looked down. The city was a labyrinth of lights and shadows, people moving like ants, none of them knowing you were here, at these heights, in this danger. Jonathan’s penis entered you again, deeper this time, more mercilessly. “No,” you whispered, your voice trembling but full of conviction. “I am not afraid.”

Then, Jonathan tangled his hand into your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck. He buried his teeth into your shoulder; as he bit down, his length swelled even further inside you. “Then it is so,” he said, his voice a mixture of blood and desire. “Then you are mine. Completely.”

Everything accelerated after that. As Jonathan’s hips collided with yours, the stone frame of the tower seemed to tremble. With every thrust, your body slid further against the railing; your toes clung to the iron while your heels dangled in the air. Jonathan’s hands gripped your breasts, his fingers squeezing your nipples until pain and pleasure became indistinguishable. “I love you,” you whispered, but your voice was lost to the wind. “I love you, I love you—”

When Jonathan’s penis reached your absolute depths, your body arched like a bow. Your orgasm shattered you, your contractions pulling him in as he came with one final thrust, pouring his warmth deep inside you. For a moment, both of you did nothing but breathe, your bodies glistening with sweat and moonlight. Then, Jonathan pulled you back into his arms, holding you as if you were fragile for the very first time.

You looked down at the city lights. Everything was still there—the streets, the people, life. But you were different now. Jonathan’s lips were at your ear, his breath warm. “Now,” he said, his voice soft, almost gentle. “Now I know that you truly aren't afraid.”

And you smiled. Because in that moment, at those heights, in that danger, you felt the immense freedom of being only with him. There was no fear. There was only him. And you. And this infinite moment.

Jerome Valeska

As the pale lights of Gotham faded behind you, the moment you stepped through the rusted gates of the abandoned amusement park, even the wind brushing against your skin felt like a sinister whisper; as if the air itself seeped in not just to pull you inside, but to pull you inward, toward something nameless and wrong.

Weeds had sprouted between the broken stones beneath your feet, and some of the stones were splattered with a deep red paint that looked disturbingly like blood. Each step you took echoed against the metallic skeleton of the park, making it feel as though an invisible crowd was watching, applauding your arrival.

The first thing that greeted you was a clown. But not the kind you'd find at a child’s birthday party, its face paint was peeling, one eye drowned in smudged black mascara, the other painted with the tremble of a laugh that never fully formed. Its yellowed, sharpened teeth gleamed as it approached, voice rasping through a grin:

"The princess has arrived. Looking for dinner... or dessert, maybe?"

It dropped a box of popcorn into the crook of your arm, just as a larger man followed behind, his absurdly polished shoes clicking as he stepped closer, placing a cotton candy into your other hand, but this cotton candy was dyed a toxic shade of lavender, speckled with tiny red dots that looked more like blood splatter than strawberry syrup. Tilting his head, he hissed through his teeth:

"Nothing like sweet blood, is there, sweetheart?"

Another figure gently caught you by the arm, offering you a box of fried mini sausages in gold-embossed cardboard. Scrawled in messy handwriting on the lid were the words: Contents: Unknown.

Then came a woman with hair adorned in colorful threads and fingernails filed to sharp metallic points. She handed you a glass jar filled with what looked like soda, only inside, translucent jellyfish-like creatures floated, writhing.

"Shake it three times before you drink," she said with a manic laugh, tossing her head back. The laughter echoed off the empty Ferris wheel, climbing toward the sky.

With both of your arms now full of bizarre treats threatening to spill, your steps carried you to the mouth of the haunted tunnel. The entrance yawned open through the gaping mouth of a massive clown face, metal and rust forming its twisted lips. Its eyes flickered with electric light, fog seeping out like tears, and inside the smoky tunnel, a silhouette waited for you.

Jerome Valeska.

He looked as if he'd been drawn, or clipped out of a film reel. He wore a velvet coat in shades of black and purple, trailing behind him like a cape; the green shirt underneath looked as though it had been brushed with blood. His hair was wild but perfectly styled, and that same meaningless, endless, and dark smile he had the first time you saw him stretched across his face.

His hands were tucked into his pockets, but his eyes were fixed on you, on the food weighed down in your arms, the specks of lavender sugar, the drop of jelly clinging to your lip.

He took a slow step toward you, the tunnel lights casting shadows that made his face shift like a series of masks.

"Look at me and tell me," he said, voice both flirtatious and deadly, "has any girl ever come to an amusement park looking this poisonous before? Because... I’m seriously holding myself back from eating you right now."

He tilted his head, a childlike hunger in his gaze mixed with sadistic romance.

"Did you bring me treats? Popcorn, sausages... tears, too? A little fear? A little heartbeat? Because tonight, I want to make you laugh and cry."

Another step closer. He began taking each item from your arms — one cotton candy, one box of sausages, one jar of soda... He turned each one over in his hands like it was treasure.

When he took the last item, your fingers touched. A deep silence settled between you.

Then, in a low voice, he spoke.

"Let’s go inside, sweetheart. I’m not here to scare you tonight… I’m here to drive you mad by making you fall in love with me."

And he reached out his hand to you, toward the haunted tunnel, or perhaps, toward a gateway that led straight into the twisted center of his heart.

From the outside, the inside of the tunnel looked like nothing more than a flickering illusion of rusted metal and neon lights, but the moment you stepped inside, it felt like time had curled in on itself, like reality had cracked open like a rotting fruit. You could’ve sworn the tiny, two-seater cart meant to carry you — that old amusement park ride, trembled in sync with your own twisted heartbeat. Covered in purple and green satin, its sides lined with rusted iron bars, the thing looked like something between a teacup ride and a coffin; it promised to carry you, but it also looked built to consume you.

Jerome didn’t sit across from you, he sat right next to you, so close your leg nearly brushed his. When your knees touched, he leaned in and whispered into your ear:

“Hands up, princess. This isn’t a robbery, but stealing your mind is only seconds away.”

As the cart creaked forward, the fog rising from the tracks ahead carried a sharp, metallic tang, and the air inside the tunnel wasn’t just humid, it carried with it the steam of blood that hadn’t fully cooled. At the first turn, Jerome burst into laughter; as his laugh echoed through the tunnel, the lights began to flicker, and the first scene revealed itself.

To your left, at the base of the wall, stood a man hunched like a puppet. His face was wrapped in bandages, hands tied behind his back, but his eyes were open, fixed on you.

"Y/N... This is your fault," he said, his voice shrill and trembling like something torn from your childhood nightmares.

"I was there. Why did you shut the door?!"

His head suddenly snapped back as a massive hammer descended from above, smashing him into the ground. What burst forth wasn’t blood, or at least, at first, you thought it was paint. But the smell was enough to churn your stomach.

As you struggled to stifle your scream, Jerome rested his cheek on your shoulder and giggled like a child.

"Surprise! First scene… origin of trauma!"

The tracks twisted again. The lights suddenly turned red. The tunnel widened, and you arrived at the second scene.

This time, there were two people, one woman mimicking your mother’s voice, and a man trembling with a kitchen knife in hand. The woman crouched on the floor, clapping her hands as she whispered your name in a tone that was both sweet and devastating.

“Come here, sweetheart... Daddy’s gone now. It’s just me. It was always me. Me…”

The man let out a scream and plunged the knife into her chest. But this wasn’t some staged performance, the heat of the blood felt close enough to spatter across your face. Her eyes bulged in horror as she shuddered out a final breath. Behind them, a message painted in blood appeared on the wall:

EVERY MOMENT CAN BE REAL.

Jerome clutched his stomach with laughter, nearly falling out of the cart. Then he steadied himself, leaned in, and brought his face closer to yours.

“It’s all theater, sure... but how many of these actors were volunteers, even I don’t know. Maybe we went a little... improv, huh?”

As the tracks curved again, the cart plunged into darkness. You couldn’t see a thing, but before your eyes could adjust, the stench of rotting flesh filled your nostrils, threatening to burst the fear balloon pounding in your chest. A bell rang from deep within, and the third scene began.

A man wearing a puppet’s head dangled from the ceiling by strings tied to his arms. He called your name as if he knew it by heart, beckoning you.

“I came to teach you how to play,” he said.

Then, from the shadows, a "doctor" figure emerged, their face unrecognizable, carrying a syringe covered in long, sharp needles. They injected the man, who immediately began screaming, thrashing to break free. But with each struggle, he was pulled higher, until, finally, he vanished somewhere into the ceiling.

Jerome was silent during this scene. He just watched you. In his eyes, there was the gaze of a hungry god witnessing the little girl inside you tremble, watching every memory surface one by one.

You tried to take a deep breath, but the air was thick, damp, suffocating.

“These aren’t real,” you said, but you couldn’t even convince yourself.

Jerome tilted his head slightly, his eyes glittering.

“Darling,” he whispered,

“Reality is so boring. I built you a new one. Say hello to your traumas… and then, say goodbye.”

You were approaching the final scene. In front of you stood a figure that looked exactly like you, same clothes, same hair, a mask mimicking your face. Across from her stood a mirrored version of Jerome, hollow eyes, mouth sewn shut. These two slowly walked toward each other. The theater fell silent. The cart stopped.

And then a gunshot echoed.

Your double collapsed.

Jerome’s twin turned and walked away without looking back.

The real Jerome took your hand, warm, firm.

“You chose me,” he said simply.

“What doesn’t kill you… binds you to me.”

The moment you stepped out through the tunnel’s rusted exit gate, it wasn’t Gotham’s humid air that hit you first, it was the fire blazing in Jerome’s eyes. A dim blue light seeped from behind the cart, mist still crawled at your ankles, and the twisted sound of a distant music box pierced the night’s silence like a sly blade. Though a tremble from the tunnel’s filthy air still lingered in your body, your heart was filled with a strange peace, because this uncontrolled plunge into madness didn’t feel like falling... it felt almost like rising.

And then something happened when your eyes met and you saw that slow-spreading dark grin across Jerome’s face. The crazy girl inside you that thing so long repressed, sparkling like a knife wrapped in candy paper, began to climb up your arms, spread to your fingers, your throat, all the way to your mouth.

And you couldn’t resist anymore. You leaned toward him, your lips nearly brushing his chin, but Jerome pulled his head back slightly.

“T-t-t! You think it starts like this?”

He pressed his thumb to your lips, then tilted his head, his eyes full of the impatient glee of a child on their birthday morning, mixed with the careful precision of a killer on his wedding night.

“Even hell has stairs, sweetheart. No love scene without a proper costume rehearsal, hmm?”

Suddenly, his arm wrapped around your waist, and he spun you toward the darkest, most ruined, grotesque corner of the amusement park. Between overturned carts, shattered mirrors, and half-destroyed toy dolls, he brought you to an old puppet stage, but now, it was stained with blood. The puppets were gone. In their place were bodies.

Dressed in colorful clothes, lying still with frozen manic smiles, they looked like victims torn from Arkham’s forgotten past.

Jerome pulled you to the center of the stage.

“The stage... is yours!” he cried, spinning with arms open wide — then suddenly stopped, turning to you with a serious expression.

“But first… a costume change, hm?”

He reached for your dress, not violently, but with such firm intent that the fabric tore like a scream. It wasn’t just your dress he was ripping, but the illusion of "being normal" you’d been trapped inside.

“This isn’t you,” he said,

“You’re a queen hiding behind a mask. And I... I undressed you from it. I’m the one dressing you now.”

He bent down over the corpses, pulling a red tulle clown ruffle from one of them and tying it around your neck. Then he took a sequined jacket soaked in blood from another — too big for you, which Jerome liked even more because of it.

“Oh, how lovely… how funny… how tragic!”

In his eyes shone the admiration of a true artist, mixed with unshed tears.

Then he pulled from his pocket a small, bloodstained brush. Without breaking eye contact, he dipped it in the fresh blood dripping from a victim’s chin, and slowly brought it to your lips.

“Now smile. But... really smile,” he said.

And with that blood-soaked brush, he painted the corners of your mouth into that iconic, crooked, theatrical "Joker" grin.

Once the brush had done its work, he leaned back to examine you, then rested his chin against your cheek.

“I don’t know if my blood’s in your mouth… but in your heart? Ah. Your heart is on fire.”

And then he kissed you. But this wasn’t just any kiss.

Jerome Valeska didn’t kiss like torture, but it wasn’t a celebration either. His kiss was a kind of ritual, a ceremony of ownership.

When he pressed his lips to yours, it wasn’t to give you breath, it was like he wanted to carve scratches into your lungs.

At first, it was hard, angry, like he meant to silence your mouth. But then his hands slid to the back of your neck and pulled you in so close, there was no space left between his breath and your heartbeat.

He didn’t close his eyes as he kissed, he watched you.

He read your every twitch, every breath, every recoil, and drank it all down with a smile.

Then, suddenly, he bit your lip. When his teeth grazed the edge of your upper lip, the air between you sparked like a live wire. It wasn’t exactly pain, nor just desire, the perverse beauty of Jerome’s kiss didn’t lie in the touch itself, but in the way he controlled it. As his teeth bit into your lip, his fingers pressed into the base of your neck, pulling you to him with such force that you could hardly breathe.

But a second later, he pulled back with a childlike giggle.

“Aaah... you bled! This... is perfect! Can I paint you with your own blood?”

He dipped a finger into the thin red line trickling from your lip, then lifted your chin with his thumb.

“Well… you look a bit gothic now, but who cares. The scene is much more... erotic,” he said, eyes fixed on your lips though his gaze had already pierced through your soul.

The kiss didn’t end there. No, for someone like Jerome, a kiss was never a finale, it was always the beginning.

He leaned back into you, this time his body fully pressed against yours, his breath winding around your throat, his hands trailing your back, not randomly, but as if he were trying to memorize your spine.

And then, with a kiss so deep it felt like your feet had left the ground, he consumed your mouth.

Jerome’s kiss was like a swallowing, slowly pulling you in, erasing boundaries, blending his soul with yours until there was no clear edge between the two.

When his tongue met yours, he didn’t play, he explored.

He exhaled through his nose, then spoke into your mouth in a breathy murmur,

“Mmmh... this is dangerous, sweetheart. If you kiss me like that again, I won’t be able to stop myself from dying.”

He cupped your cheeks in his hands and kissed you again, over and over. Not just your lips — your nose, your forehead, under your chin, the side of your neck. Each kiss felt like worship.

But between each kiss came a laugh, not quiet, not restrained, but the wild, unhinged laugh you knew all too well.

Then, when he kissed your neck and ran his tongue down it like a drawn line, he whispered into your ear:

“I could burn down a city with you… but first, we have to set each other on fire.”

In that moment, he didn’t lay you down, no.

He opened you like a stage curtain, but didn’t place you on the floor.

Because to him, you weren’t a bed, you were a stage.

His kisses trailed from lips to throat, throat to chest, down to your waist, every part of you felt like a note in a song. Jerome didn’t play your body like an instrument, he was rigging it like a bomb.

And with every touch, he grew more insane, more intense, more... in love.

Finally, he lifted his head and locked eyes with you.

“Now tell me,” he said in a low, hoarse voice,

“Did I burn you, or did you blow me up?”

And then he kissed you again.

Calm.

Deep.

Insanely slow.

And now, blood, spit, painted smiles, love, and madness were tangled all together.

“You’re ready now,” he said, wiping the blood from your lips with his thumb.

“Before Gotham burns... we burned. We burned, because this was the right fire tonight.”

And you stood there, the new queen of a city not yet aware it had already been claimed.

Your hair soaked in blood, your lips painted with a fake smile, but everything inside you was real, raw, wild, and burning with love.

Oswald Copplebot

The interior of the luxury car moved through Gotham’s night-drenched streets, filled with the tense silence of a deep navy evening. The sharp, heavy scent of the perfume Oswald had sprayed the moment he entered the car clung to the inside of the cabin.

You had spent hours getting ready, convinced you would be dining at some high-end restaurant; you’d styled your hair into those soft waves he liked on you. The thin satin fabric of your black dress whispered quietly every time you shifted in your seat, only heightening the anticipation knotting in your chest.

Sitting beside Oswald always brought a subtle, underlying tension; even when he acted polite, he was a man who carried storms beneath his ribs. Even now, the almost childlike excitement on his face shimmered alongside a darkness flickering in the corners of his eyes, urging you to believe tonight was special.

He had crossed one leg over the other to better hide his limp, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the silver-inlaid head of his cane. “Be patient, my love,” he had said without looking at you, watching the city lights fracture across his glasses. “Tonight… you won’t forget.” The trembling pride in his voice made your heart leap faster than you intended. You assumed he meant a dinner at a newly opened skyscraper restaurant, or a private tasting menu prepared just for him. But Oswald seemed to savor your misconception; the subtle curve of his lips couldn’t conceal the weight of a secret, and his fingers tapped an excited rhythm on his cane.

When the car left Gotham’s center and slipped into emptier, darker streets, your brows had drawn together. You were certain there were no luxury restaurants or hotels in this direction. But Oswald’s lack of reaction—his silent observation of the windows, his occasional deep breaths—kept you from speaking. You wanted to ask him something, but every word you imagined saying felt as though it would shatter the heavy atmosphere inside the car.

When the road veered onto a path lined by towering gravestones leaning into the darkness, a cold shock rippled through you. “Oswald… this is—” you were about to say, but he turned toward you with a firm smile, tapping the windshield with his cane. “Do you know where we are?” His eyes gleamed with a joy interwoven with a dark resolve. You tried to reassure yourself—perhaps there was a historic hotel nearby, or a themed restaurant… something. But Oswald’s silence only tightened the air around you.

When the car finally stopped before the cemetery’s wrought-iron gate, your heart seemed to freeze for a beat before it raced wildly in your chest. You had high expectations for tonight, but the sight of the misty, black-rose-adorned gothic gate shattered every one of them in an instant. “Oswald… really?” you whispered, keeping your voice controlled enough not to reveal your disappointment.

Oswald stepped out of the car with his cane, moving with his uneven gait, and gestured for you to follow—gentle, yet insistent. Your gaze was level with his; he was a few centimeters shorter than you, but the authority in his eyes made that fact disappear entirely. “I wanted to bring the three most important people together tonight,” he said. The trembling pride in his voice made you pause. You didn’t understand at first… but as you walked through the corridor of black roses, candles flickering in the wind, Oswald’s breath grew heavier, his face more solemn.

The cemetery looked like a gothic sanctuary; the sharp cries of crows echoed between arched stone pillars, the scent of black roses hung thick in the air, and the candlelight bounced off cold marble tombstones. It was clear Oswald had prepared this place. Still, you paused, drawing in a deep breath to steady the mixture of surprise and faint disappointment swelling in your chest. He was too lost in his own excitement, his own private world, to notice your feelings. From time to time he would turn back to flash you a small smile, then continue limping ahead. “Come,” he whispered, almost tenderly. “I can’t wait to show you to them.”

At last, you reached a small enclosed area lined with tall marble reliefs. Oswald approached a grave draped in black roses, walking with slow, heavy steps. When the candle flames flickered across his face, you saw him look more vulnerable than ever before. His lips parted slightly; his voice was soft enough to dissolve into the night:

“Mother… I brought someone to you.”

He turned to you then. The darkness you were used to seeing in him was gone—replaced by a trembling, almost childlike hope.

“This is Y/N. My beloved.”

And in that moment, despite the chill of the tombstone, you sensed that Oswald’s heart was laid bare more completely than you had ever seen. You had expected a romantic dinner; but for Oswald, this… this was his greatest intimacy. His deepest confession.

And as you realized that, your disappointment melted into something heavy, warm, and deeply tender.

Oswald drew in a deep breath, his chest trembling as the cold air filled him. He slowly rested his cane on the ground beside him and moved toward you with a slight limp. It was as if with every uneven step, a layer of him fell away—his darkness pulled back, revealing only that soft, private version of Oswald he allowed no one else to see. His fingers reached for your hand with a timid yet determined longing; when you placed your fingers over his, his eyelids fluttered, and an unfamiliar fragility appeared at the edge of his lower lip. Normally he spoke like a man accustomed to power, victory, domination—but now his voice was surprisingly gentle, almost like someone whispering a prayer.

“There’s something I… need to talk to you about,” he said. The nervousness in his voice was too raw to hide. “Something that’s been eating away at me for years… something I never had the courage to tell anyone.” When his eyes locked with yours, the heart of a man dangerous enough to threaten an entire city beat nakedly in front of you. His narrow shoulders trembled; his lips parted, breath fogging in the cold night, and the sharpness in his expression melted into pure tenderness. When he leaned in, the slight brush of his nose against your cheek, the signature tilt of his face illuminated by candlelight, the way he seemed to lower his head as if wanting to rest it against you—each gesture exposed a vulnerability he tried so hard to conceal.

“I… I’m in love with you,” he finally said. He swallowed under the weight of the words, closing his eyes as if a knot that had eaten at him for years had finally come undone. “You… are my greatest weakness.” His voice cracked, breath hitching; he couldn’t have spoken this confession to anyone but you. He had always been a man who displayed strength in front of you—yet now he stood as if stripped of all of it. His slight chest rose and fell rapidly, and the way he had to tilt his gaze upward because of his shorter height gave his vulnerability an even more aching softness.

When he wrapped both hands around yours, the warmth of his touch felt almost like a burn. “I know,” he murmured, his voice swelling like a wave of tenderness, “I’m dangerous… reckless… and sometimes I can’t stop myself. But when it comes to you… when it comes to you… my shell cracks, Y/N.” His fingers trembled. “With you… I’m not afraid to be myself. Because you see me… the real me.”

Then, with another small limping step, he moved even closer, lowering his head as if he wanted to rest his face against your chest. When the edge of his nose brushed the fabric of your dress, he held his breath—as though your scent had momentarily undone him. “I’m in love with you,” he repeated, this time with more resolve, more weight, with a power that suited him. “And that… doesn’t frighten me. Because nothing is as terrifying as losing you.”

In that moment, you knew: Gotham’s most ambitious, most shadowed man had abandoned all his strength, all his harshness, all his darkness in the face of this confession—standing before you simply as Oswald, completely and utterly bare.

As the scent of black roses drifted into the air and scattered with the wind, the small Victorian-style table Oswald had arranged glowed in the middle of the cemetery like a fragment of a dinner scene torn out of time. Your meal was finished, the plates had been carefully cleared away, leaving only the sweetly spiced aroma of dessert and the soft fizz of champagne behind. You could see that the serious expression on Oswald’s face actually concealed an indescribable pride; even the faint scraping sound he made as he pulled his slightly limping leg back under the table seemed to blend seamlessly into the rhythm of the night.

When a large silhouette — someone who looked like a waiter but much more like one of Oswald’s men — appeared with crystal flutes filled with golden, honey-colored champagne, the clink of thin glass echoed sharply through the cemetery’s silence. Oswald took his glass with elegant fingers, his distinctive hooked nose coming so close to the rim it almost touched; after inhaling the drink with a reverent breath, he glanced at you with a subtle smile. “It will go perfectly with the dessert,” he said, a hint of excitement warming his tone.

The dessert placed on the table had stunned you the moment you saw it: thin shards of dark chocolate arranged like petals, ruby-red raspberry sauce pooled between them, and on top, a wisp of steaming vanilla cream… even the most expensive restaurants in Gotham couldn’t serve anything that looked this exquisite.

As you lifted the first bite to your lips, Oswald raised his glass toward the tombstone rising beside him. “Mother,” he said, and for a moment you were frozen, unsure of how to respond to a man toasting champagne in a graveyard, trying to keep the polite smile on your face, “our bride is quite elegant, isn’t she?” He stared at the faded inscription on the tombstone as if his mother were truly sitting across from him. “You know, she chose this dress especially. You can see how carefully she prepared to meet me.” The pride in his voice was immeasurable; you, still stunned, managed a slow smile and kept your eyes on your dessert, softly stirring it with your spoon. If you tried to speak, you weren’t sure where your words would land, so you simply bowed your head a little and responded with a gentle, polite smile.

Suddenly, Oswald straightened and called into the darkness with that familiar, commanding tone:

“Bring it!”

As if some shadow lurking in the cemetery had been waiting for the order, a man appeared within seconds, carrying a small box wrapped in black velvet. When Oswald took the box, that childlike excitement returned instantly; the way his slender fingers stroked the velvet surface, the slight tremble in his weakened knee, the way he stretched just a little despite his short height to hold the box out to you… all of it revealed how eager he was. “This,” he said, extending the box toward you, “is the finest piece I could find for someone worthy of it.”

When you opened the box, your breath caught. The necklace inside wasn’t just a valuable antique — it was a fragment of a story ripped from another era. The filigree patterns engraved into the silver wrapped around a breathtaking red gemstone at the center; Oswald murmured that it once belonged to a queen in the 1800s. Of course, according to Gotham’s laws, something like this leaving its country of origin was absolutely impossible… which is why that mischievous glint never left his eyes as he told you.

Your heart raced as you stared at the necklace; a stolen royal heirloom… absurd, dangerous, decadent, and utterly Oswald. You couldn’t hide the rush of joy that spread across your face. Oswald lifted his narrow chin slightly, leaning closer to you, his voice softening:

“It will suit you… because you are now my history.”

And in that strange, gothic, slightly unsettling yet deeply romantic night, the shine of the gift seemed to soften even the cold of the tombstones.

The moment Oswald placed the necklace around your neck, the weight of the stone resting on your collarbones felt almost like a sacred seal. While fastening it behind your neck, his fingertips lingered — intentionally or not — two seconds longer than necessary; when his breath touched the back of your neck, every shadow in the misty cemetery seemed to tremble. For an instant you forgot how to breathe, while Oswald’s short but solid frame moved closer, close enough for you to hear the rhythm of his heartbeat. His grip on his cane loosened, and he didn’t bother to hide the flood of emotion spreading across the lines of his forehead; it was as if he wanted to rest his face against your chest.

After fastening the necklace, he didn’t look at the silver gleam falling against your skin — he looked at you. A dangerous smile curved at the corner of his lips; even in the dark, that smile said everything about what the rest of the night would become. He stepped back, lifted his cane, and with a sharp command that sliced through the silence of the graveyard, he called out:

“Leave. All of you.”

That single word sent the shadows scattered around the cemetery into motion; the men in black suits withdrew silently, as though they were part of some invisible ritual. Without exchanging a word, without even making a sound with their footsteps, they disappeared into the darkness between the marble columns. When the last man vanished, Oswald set his cane on the ground; the metal tip clicked softly against the stone, and then the entire cemetery sank once again into its deep, ancient silence.

Now you were alone.

All of Gotham seemed swallowed by stillness.

The whole world felt as if it were holding its breath.

“I can’t help it…” he murmured, his voice low and trembling like a dark incantation. “Every time I look at you… I feel as if I’m standing in the middle of a ritual, Y/N.” The candle flames flickered in his eyes. “And tonight… I want to make this union sacred.”

His fingers rose to your cheek. As his thumb traced the edge of your jaw, Oswald leaned toward you; his short height forcing him to lift his face to meet yours, making him appear even more vulnerable, even more sincere. When his slender body brushed lightly against yours, his breath echoed just beneath your lips.

Then, standing right before you, he pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn’t a rushed kiss.

It wasn’t a demand.

It wasn’t a claim.

It was — a silent ritual.

As if some ancient vow, some old bond, some dark enchantment was binding two souls together in the heart of the cemetery.

Oswald’s lips were warm like fire; his kiss carried an unexpected softness, and beneath that softness lay a storming passion. When he placed his hand on your waist, his thin fingers pulled you closer; the way he lifted his face to yours — because of his height — revealed a man who could no longer hide how much he needed the kiss. His heart beat rapidly against your chest, and his breath escaped between your lips in a dark, trembling sigh.

Candlelight formed a ring around you.

The black roses swayed in the night breeze.

The crows seemed to accompany your rite.

This was more than a kiss.

It was a ritual in which Oswald sealed his darkness with you.

And in that moment, you realized:

This man was not merely declaring his love…

He was consecrating it.

As the kiss deepened, Oswald pushed you toward the table. You were sprawled across it, your skirt hiked up to your waist, your legs slightly parted, as if waiting for Oswald to devour you.

Oswald's tongue danced against yours as he continued to kiss you. His cold porcelain skin, in the candlelight, resembled a marble statue; his beak-like nose quivered gently with each breath. The necklace on your neck, part of a stolen fortune, clung to your sweaty chest, shimmering and coming to life with each breath. And the fabric of his trousers tightened. He looked at you, his eyes deep as blue poison, his lips slightly parted, the way the wine had left its mark.

“You look so beautiful, love,” he said, his voice velvety, but with a stinging knife beneath. “Like a sacrifice offered for them, among my parents’ graves.” He caressed your neck with his fingers... where your pulse beat, then placed his palm on the table, his little finger brushing the inside of your thigh. It was cold, but it felt like a fire burning beneath your skin. “They should be happy too. Perhaps my father’s soul, my mother’s bones, are at peace now that I’ve found the woman I love.”

You gasped. Oswald’s touch slowly crept up, under your kneecap, down your thigh, dragging the fabric of your skirt. Crows fluttered their black wings and cawed, their shadows dancing across the table. Oswald’s fingers brushed the hem of your underwear, warming it, then retreating. It was torture for you—giving, but not taking completely. “Open,” he whispered, his voice intoxicating like wine vapor. “Show me how wet you are.”

When you bit your lip, Oswald smiled, his teeth glinting with a vague threat. He finished his own wine in one gulp. Then her fingers moved to his belt, unbuckled the black leather strap, and pulled slowly. The button on his trousers was undone, and there was a metallic click as the zipper came down. His cock sprang out, hard, veiny, a clear drop hanging from its tip—burning like fire despite the night's chill. "Look," he said, shaking it with his hand, "how ready I am for you. I'll take you here. And you, silently, obediently, will take every drop."

His hands wrapped around your hips, pulling you onto the table. The hard wood pressed against your back, but more than the pain, it was the feeling of helplessness under Oswald's control that dominated. You spread your legs wider, your skirt now completely off, your underwear damp and sticky. Oswald's fingers pulled them aside, the cool air brushing against your wet skin, making you even more sensitive. "As the first ritual of our wedding, I'm going to fuck you, baby," he growled, his cock grazing the entrance to your pussy, rubbing slowly, torturously. "And you'll have a screaming orgasm."

With his first thrust, you gasped. His cock filled you, stretching you, each inch opening you wider. The gravestones trembled, and you felt something stir beneath the earth—perhaps spirits, perhaps just the rhythm of Oswald's body. The diamonds on your necklace swayed, sparkling with every movement, as if trying to penetrate the darkness of the cemetery. Oswald's hips slammed into you, the table legs creaking, the wood groaning. "Oh, God," you moaned, your nails digging into the edge of the table, your body tensing with each thrust. "More... deeper, please."

Oswald smiled, his teeth glinting in the light, then leaned down and pressed his lips to your neck. He bit, lightly, then dragged his tongue over the wound. "That's it, baby," he whispered, his breath hot and cold against your earlobe. "They made you mine. Every drop of cum is mine, every moan is mine, every hole is mine." His hand gripped your hips, his nails digging into your flesh, pulling you closer as his cock dug deeper. The hard, relentless rhythm made your moans a continuous melody. The crows cawed louder, the beat of their wings melting into the darkness.

"I'm gonna come," Oswald warned, his voice strained, on the edge of control. "Inside, deep inside. I'm going to fill you with my parents watching." The final thrusts came harder, deeper, then his heat flowed into you in waves, driving you to orgasm. Your vagina tightened, clenching around him as he released his last drops. Panting, Oswald pulled back, his cock still hard, but now wet and glistening. His eyes were on you, triumphant. "Good girl," he said, fingers spreading your pussy, watching the semen flow mingled. "But we're not done yet."

He lowered you from the table and made you turn around. You leaned forward. Your chest almost touched the tabletop, your hands gripping the edge. The skirt of your dress was bunched at your waist, exposing your ass.

Oswald's fingers moved down, stretching your ass cheeks and touching your rear entrance, pressing gently. Your body tensed, but Oswald said soothingly, "Shh." “Relax, baby. I’m going to take you right here, in every hole.” His finger slowly slid into your vagina, lubricating his fingers with the juices flowing from your soaking pussy, preparing you as he caressed your clit with his other hand, rubbing soft circles. “Round two,” he murmured as his cock grew erect again. “And this time, I’m going in through the back door.”

Edward Nygma

The only light in your room was the half-dim yellow glow from the bedside lamp; it cast a warm shadow on the walls, over your pillows, and along the lines of your bare legs. Your hair was messy, you weren’t wearing pajamas— the heat of the room made it easier for you to twist and turn on the bed with nothing but your skin.

You were just about to fall asleep when your phone buzzed.

Britney was calling.

Of course she was.

You answered.

“Ugh girl, pick uuup!!” Britney yelled, pop music blaring behind her. She was definitely crashing someone’s house party again.

“I did answer,” you said, your voice a little sleepy but with a faintly bratty tone. “What’s up?”

“You have your date tomorrow, right? Edward or whatever his name was? Yeah! Edward. So what happened? What are you two planning to do? Where’s he taking you? What are you gonna wear?!”

You rolled your eyes. You lifted your legs toward the ceiling, tracing a little circle in the air.

“I dunno,” you said. “He still hasn’t replied to my texts.”

“What? He hasn’t replied?!”

“Nope,” you repeated, the corner of your mouth curling with a mildly annoyed smile. “No place, no time, no plan. Nothing.”

Britney sucked in a determined breath.

“Maybe he’s planning a surprise! You know… like those mysterious guys… He’s definitely thinking up something huge!”

The romantic, overly-excited tremble in her voice pulled a smile onto your face.

“Hmm,” you said. “Could be.”

Britney immediately spiraled.

“Think about it: maybe he reserved some private place! Maybe candles or something! Maybe he can’t wait to see you!”

“Britney…”

“Maybe he’s prepping something all night long. Like—his brain is just spinning with all these ideas. Something super smart!”

Inside your head, a quiet truth slipped between your lips without sound:

Sure… unless Batman dragged him back to Arkham tonight. But you couldn’t tell Britney that. She didn’t know Edward was the Riddler. As far as she knew, Edward was just some lab technician—quiet, smart, a little creepy, but definitely not in the “danger” category.

So you just said, “You’re right. Maybe he is planning something special.”

“He totally is!” Britney shrieked, now fully hyped. “Y/N, this is sooo sexy! Mysterious guys… I know they’re your thing. And that guy? He’s literally a brain. Brains are sexy. Especially for crazies like you.”

You laughed. She wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t going to tell her that.

“We’ll see,” you said. “Maybe he’ll just show up tomorrow out of nowhere.”

“Oh he will!” Britney was speeding up; if she were in your room right now, she’d tackle you into your own bed. “I’m excited! Girl someone is planning a surprise for you… how does that make you feel?”

You sank into your pillow, lips curving.

“A little…”

Britney cut in immediately.

“Turned on!”

You burst out laughing.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you felt it.”

“Maybe,” you said, closing your eyes and biting your lip.

Britney exhaled happily.

“Tomorrow you’re telling me everything. Every. Single. Detail.”

“We’ll see,” you said.

But inside, another thought flickered through your mind:

Assuming Edward actually has time to plan a surprise… assuming he’s not being hunted across Gotham right now.

Britney yawned.

“Okay okay, I’ll let you sleep. Call me tomorrow. I’m too excited about your love life to function right now!”

“Night, Brit.”

“Night, you sexy thing.”

The call ended.

Your room fell silent again.

Only your breathing and the distant wail of Gotham’s sirens remained.

When you turned onto your pillow and closed your eyes, Edward’s smile flashed in your mind for a moment—smart, dangerous, amusingly unpredictable.

And you thought:

Do you really think I won’t track you down just because you’re not texting me, Edward Nygma?

When the morning light slipped through your curtains and spread across the pale wooden floor, you felt a heavy dizziness—as if you had woken from a gray dream; you had slept deeply but restlessly, unaware of who might have been watching you through the night. With your eyelids half-closed, trying to sink back into your pillow, you noticed the green card on your nightstand—so distinct, so out of place, it seemed to pull all the light in the room toward itself.

You froze for a moment.

Riddler’s thin, long, wickedly curling calligraphy was etched on the front of the card, and the moment you saw it, a cold shiver slid down your spine.

So he had come in.

He had stood right by your bed and left this paper. While you slept. You hadn’t even heard the door. That constant alertness that came with living in Gotham had shifted into something else this morning: an invasive closeness, dark and strangely thrilling.

Your fingers trembled involuntarily as you picked up the card. Riddler had slipped into your room without disturbing your sleeping body. Maybe he had stood over you, watching. Maybe he had leaned close enough for his breath to brush your hair—you wouldn’t put any of that past him.

When you opened the card, the curling letters looked like a pair of sly eyes staring straight into yours.

“You wake, yet still dream.

You search for the first page of a locked story.

Truth is silent, but the answer is always in the eyes of the one who watches you.

To find me, go first to the heart of the place ‘filled with quiet.’

A single breath of empty space below it, then Riddler’s confident signature note:

“Solve it before your morning coffee, Y/N.

You think… more clearly.” — E.N.

The first thing that washed over you wasn’t anger; on the contrary, it was an excitement you couldn’t explain. This was proof that one of Gotham’s most dangerous criminals had taken your little game to a new level.

And still… something deep inside you accepted it.

Maybe it was curiosity.

Maybe it was that strange pull.

The riddle didn’t take long to solve; “the place filled with quiet” pointed straight to Gotham’s old Public Library, closed years ago. And “the first page of a locked story” went nowhere but the dusty shelves of that building. It had been abandoned for decades, standing in the middle of the city like one of Gotham’s forgotten ghosts.

But the last line stayed in your mind a while longer: “The answer is always in the eyes of the one who watches you.”

A clear reference to mirrors. Absolutely.

You grabbed your coat and left the house quickly. As Gotham’s misty morning fog rose between the streets, your footsteps echoed on the cold concrete; your thoughts tangled into a darkening maze built from Riddler’s words.

Gotham’s abandoned old Public Library looked like it was on the verge of collapsing. Most windows were broken, others boarded up; the copper plaque above the door still carried its faded inscription: Gotham Public Archives.

The moment you stepped inside, the sharp scent of dampness hit you; the dust of books unopened for years mixed with the bitter smell of rotting wood. In the dim light, as you walked between the shelves, dust floated lazily through the air, and with each step the shadows of the shelves stretched into one another, forming a labyrinth.

You searched for a clue Riddler might’ve left—your eyes darting from shelves to the floor, then to the cracks in the walls. Could he have left something? A note? A mark? A symbol?

But you found nothing…

Until you spotted a small mirror with a silver frame lying on the ground, as if dropped.

When you bent down and lifted it, the first thing you saw in the reflection was your own face.

Then—you noticed a darkness in the upper right corner of the mirror.

When you tilted it higher, you realized that darkness was actually the faint outline of a hidden door drawn onto the back wall.

A line invisible to the naked eye appeared clearly in the mirror. Just like the note said: “The answer is always in the eyes of the one who watches you.”

When you brought the mirror closer to the wall, the line sharpened; the frame of a concealed door revealed itself beneath the dust. When your fingers touched the wall, it sank inward slightly, followed by the heavy groan of an old mechanism.

The door opened.

And the darkness inside was deep enough to swallow all the morning light.

One of the broken bulbs hanging from the ceiling flickered for a moment, then died completely, leaving you alone in the darkness. Just when you considered stepping back, a neon-green glow slowly emerged from the depths of the gloom, filling one corner of the room—one sign, one symbol, one signature: Riddler’s glowing question mark.

That eerie light fell across one of the untouched armchairs in the secret room of the old library. And on the very chair you loved—the one you had always imagined as the perfect reading nook—a green envelope lay waiting for you, placed like a trap meant only for you.

Your name was written across it in a thin, elegant line:

“Y/N — If you’ve come this far, my intention today is to read you from top to bottom.”

You knew Riddler’s desire to read you wasn’t innocent curiosity; you sensed his obsessive interest in the twists of your mind, his passion for analyzing your every behavior, his tendency to catch you off guard from angles you never expected—always in control, always watching.

When you opened the envelope, even the faint perfume-like scent along the paper’s edges belonged to Riddler; he loved leaving traces of himself on everything.

“Every mind is a labyrinth

Every labyrinth has a center

And every center, a desire.

Which desire will you accept today?

1. Follow the words,

you will lose your shadow.

2. Follow the sound,

you will lose control.

3. Bow to the image,

you will lose yourself.

Below it, a short paragraph was drawn with meticulous precision:

“There is no right answer.

Only… where you want to call me.” — E.N.

It didn’t take you long to realize that each of the three paths Riddler had crafted for you was a trap; each choice would lead you to one of his carefully prepared spaces, each with its own darkness, its own ritual.

But the phrase “you will lose yourself” in the third option told you far more than it seemed. Since Riddler was someone who played with images, reflections, and the act of looking, the words “bow to the image” stirred several meanings at once.

And still… knowing the answer and choosing it weren’t the same thing.

Going somewhere and accepting the invitation weren’t the same thing.

You were playing this game.

You took out your phone and paused for a moment.

Your fingertips hovered over the screen, words forming slowly in your mind.

“I bow to the image.”

Five seconds after sending the message, your phone buzzed, its screen glowing like the only light source in the dark room.

📩 Message from Riddler

“Perfect choice, my beloved labyrinth.

If you are ready to lose yourself…

Come to XXX.

The door is not open.

But I’ll be watching you.”

You knew the message said much more than it appeared to—“The door is not open” was not just a physical detail; it was Riddler’s usual reminder that the control would remain entirely in his hands. “I’ll be watching you” wasn’t a threat; it was a promise, perhaps even the declaration of a darker intimacy.

Your decision was made. You would play this game by his rules. With every step you took into Gotham’s darkness, a voice whispered inside: You’re entering Riddler’s labyrinth, Y/N… And there’s no turning back now.

The moment you stepped into the storage room, the first thing that greeted you was that familiar metal–ozone mixture hidden beneath the smell of old wood; everything Riddler touched—every surface, every object, every space—felt as though it had been chemically reshaped by him.

The corridor was lit by neon-green question marks, each curl casting trembling shadows on the walls as if they were following you with every step.

You hadn’t even reached the mirror room when the speakers crackled alive one by one.

Each let out a low hum, like a creature inhaling, before Edward’s voice filled the entire place—calm, but with a stirring vibration underneath:

“Welcome… girl who competes with her own reflection.”

You paused.

His voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once—your sense of direction scattered, as if Edward had plucked it apart with his fingertips.

“Keep walking.

The mirrors are calling you… but I’m calling louder.”

His words carried that thin, mathematical arrogance he always had; even desire sounded like a logical problem coming from his mouth.

The deep corridor slowly pulled you into a bending tunnel.

Along the walls, antique glass cases displayed old mechanical toys, broken puppets, porcelain doll heads with floral designs, and gilded frames—each stolen from Gotham’s wealthy families, now part of Edward’s labyrinth.

And finally… when you reached the threshold of the mirror room, the air itself changed.

The ceiling was almost invisible; hundreds of large mirrors in Victorian frames surrounded you from floor to ceiling.

There was no ordinary light—only neon green and white lamps positioned at the tops of the mirrors, multiplying, stretching, and distorting your image into countless versions… each angle exposed, each reflection watchful.

And then… you saw him.

Edward stood leaning against an antique single-seat chair in the very center of the room. Its legs were gilt; its fabric a deep emerald that, when mixed with the poisonous tones of the room, made it look almost alive.

On the tall, thin-legged side table beside him sat a collection that was anything but innocent: whip, harness, vibrator, jeweled butt plug and metal handcuff

Edward stood amidst all that chaos like he was analyzing you—not the room, you.

The intelligence in his eyes illuminated not the mirrors, but your entire being.

He tilted his head slightly; his voice dipped into something almost like an admission:

“You said you would bow to the image.”

When you took a step closer, the mirror-light slid over your face.

Edward smiled—not kindly, but with the restrained satisfaction of a puzzle being solved.

“This room shows me a thousand versions of you.”

He tapped the arm of the chair with one finger.

“But the angle I want to see the most… is the one walking toward me right now.”

As you approached, you could hear not the echo of his breath but the warmth of his body itself. And he watched you with that obsessive delight he had for prolonging every second—holding your gaze within the trap he’d so intelligently crafted.

He fell silent for a moment.

Then lowered his voice:

“Today, I intend to experience you, Y/N.”

Edward’s eyes didn’t leave you for even a heartbeat.

Every look was a code, every breath a command, every moment of silence a touch on your skin. And the mirrors in the deepest part of the room… reflected not just you, but your intent, your desire, your fear. And Edward Nygma was enjoying every second of it.

You stood in the center of the spacious room. The dim lights shimmered in shades of green and white, the massive mirrored walls reflecting every detail twice as clearly. As Edward slowly unbuttoned your black dress, you watched his every move. Your eyes saw how his fingers carefully parted the fabric, eager to reach your skin. Your breathing quickened as Edward moved closer to you, the hem of his green jacket brushing against the fabric of your dress. Every touch ignited a fire in your skin, as if your skin ached to feel his presence.

"Keep your eyes on me," he commanded, his voice a whisper that pierced the silence of the room. You watched, transfixed by his every word, as he pulled down the sleeves of your dress. With each stroke, the fabric dipped, he revealed a piece of skin, your smooth skin reflected in the mirrored walls. When Edward's hands dropped to your waist, he slid your dress down your hips, every curve of your body amplified in the mirrors. Your nakedness evoked a look of triumph in his eyes, as if exploring you was one of his greatest pleasures.

You stood before him in your underwear and black stockings. Edward dropped to his knees. He hooked his long, slender fingers into your black stockings and ripped them off in one swift motion. He pulled the rest of the stockings off your body and tossed them aside. Your black lace panties were now lying right in front of him. As he pulled them down with his fingertips, Edward's eyes fixated on every detail of your body. Your breathing quickened as he watched, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

This was only the beginning.

Edward reached over to the side table next to the couch and picked up a vibrator with an egg-shaped tip and a long tail. It was green, and the belt connecting the shaft and tail was metallic. He slid his leather-gloved hands between your legs and applied pressure. So you spread your legs wide.

You knew what he was going to do. He would insert it into your vagina and not remove it until he wanted it. He would give you as much pleasure as he wanted, and you could have it as long as he let you. He made you feel like he was in control at all times.

A satisfied laugh escaped Edward's lips when he parted your legs. The fact that you were so ready for him... She was already wet.

"See how needy you are? You naughty girl."

You stiffened when Edward pushed the vibrator into your vagina. Your knees trembled.

He stood up. After smoothing your clothing, he brought his black leather-gloved fingers to your chin and squeezed. A destructive fire burned in his eyes. When he commanded you to kneel, you knew you had no choice but to do as he said. Edward sank into the green velvet fabric of his chair. He forced you to your knees, making you feel his dominance. As he removed his jacket, the lenses of his glasses reflected the dim light, as if the lenses were watching you, not his eyes.

When he reached back to the coffee table, his fingers found the riding crop. Your eyes widened in surprise for a moment. But you didn't want to defy him. You weren't sure what would happen when you confronted him in his lair.

"Are you ready?" his voice a command.

You simply nodded, the words stuck in your throat. Still, you longed to feel the warmth of his touch.

You moaned at the sudden stimulation of your G-spot as he pulled out the remote control for a vibrator and slowly pressed the button. Edward watched your reactions as the vibrations coursed through your body, savoring the control. Your eyes fixated on the taut fabric of his pants as he grabbed your hair with his hands, pulling you closer.

"I love playing with you," his voice echoing in your ears.

You couldn't respond to his words, only surrendered to his touch. As he increased the vibrator's rhythm, every cell in your body trembled, as if each vibration connected you even more to him. Edward unbuttoned his own pants, his eyes never leaving your gaze on the lust on your face. At the sight of him, you opened your mouth, wanting to taste his hardness with your tongue.

Edward leaned forward and grabbed your arm tightly. He forced you to your knees. He grabbed his cock with his free hand, waving his hardening shaft before your eyes.

"Do you want this, Y/N?" he asked, a greedy expression on his face. "Do you want a taste of my lollipop?"

You looked down into his eyes like an innocent girl. Then you opened your mouth and took his hardening cock into your mouth.

It wasn't very long, but it was thick.

It was warm.

Edward's breathing quickened as you slowly stroked the tip with your tongue.

"A little faster," he commanded.

You did as he said, but with his thick cock barely fitting in your mouth, it was difficult to keep up the pace. Your teeth accidentally dug into his skin. He picked up the riding crop and slammed the tip against your ass cheek.

You winced at the sudden pain. Edward slapped you on the other cheek this time. You groaned.

You did as he said, continuing to lick more carefully but quickly.

Edward held your hair tightly as you licked the shaft, starting at the base, his fingers tangling in the strings.

He picked up the vibrator remote with his other hand. He pressed a button and increased the speed. It was hard to moan with his massive shaft in your mouth. A strangled sound escaped your throat.

"Oh, baby," he whispered, "so ready."

The vibrations of the vibrator shook your body, your moans echoing throughout the room. The mirrors amplified every movement, every touch; it felt like you were being watched from every angle.

Edward caressed your hair and cheek, like he would a pet: "Being with you will always be my greatest pleasure."

These words filled you with a satisfaction that filled your body and soul. Everything was under his control and your submission.

"Suck it, little witch," Edward said, taking your hair in his hands.

You took his hardness into your mouth, exploring every inch with your tongue. With every touch, her moans echoed in the room. Edward used the whip in his hand to control your rhythm, changing the tempo with each stroke. The whip's sound echoed throughout the room, your moans ringing in Edward's ears.

You felt him climax in your mouth, every cell in your body tense. Edward brought the whip down one last time, making your body tremble. When he came into your mouth, his semen filled your mouth, and you tasted him. Edward waited until your breathing had evened out, stroking your hair.

Finally, he slid his hand under your arms and lifted you. He sat you on his lap and removed the vibrator. You watched the images reflected on the mirrored walls as he wrapped your body around him. As your breathing steadied in Edward's arms, under the dim lights of the room, the images of you reflected on the mirrored walls immortalized the unforgettable moments of this night.

Edward shifted positions—moving you across his lap. Your back was against his arm. His hand was on your waist. One of your legs was placed on the gilded armrest of the chair. The other was placed atop Edward's long legs.

He reached out to you and commanded you to remove the leather glove. You obeyed. Then, as he slowly inserted his fingers into your vagina, he asked, "You know how I love this hole, don't you?" His voice was both soft and commanding. Your body tensed as he stretched, but you felt pleasure too.

The mirrors showed Edward leaning over you— sucking on your perky breasts. The saliva on your areolas, combined with the chill of the room, made you shiver.

As he removed his fingers from your vagina, he said, "Now here it is," and he grabbed his cock and began rubbing it against it.

He slapped your clit—jerking and flicking his cock. You writhed in Edward's lap, begging for his entrance—couldn't hold on any longer. And as you writhed in his embrace, moaning against his ear, Edward Nygma became even more aroused.

Finally, he thrust into your wet pussy.

As your body welcomed him, Edward pushed deeper. He pulled out his cock and thrust it back in suddenly—slapping flesh against flesh. As he repeated this over and over, your body couldn't take it anymore, and your head fell back onto his shoulder. You were now cheek to cheek. His lips were right next to your ear, his warm breath brushing against your skin. "Are you ready, baby?" he whispered, his voice echoing in your ears.

"Yes," you moaned breathlessly.

Edward thrust in hard. "I'm going to tear this hole apart, you know that, don't you?" he said, his voice even more dominant.

As your moans echoed through the room, Edward pressed his finger against your clit. As his fingers rubbed, you were driven to a double orgasm. Your body trembled, your breathing quickened. As Edward delivered the final thrusts—he bathed your vagina in his semen. The mirrors reflected this wild and passionate scene from every angle. Every movement, every moan, every touch was amplified.

Edward released you and embraced you. "Every moment with you is perfect, baby," he said, his voice filled with satisfaction. Your body still trembling, you felt safe in his arms. The mirrors reflected this moment forever, as if time had stood still.

The air in the room was filled with passion and submission. You, however, were ready for his every command.

"You are mine," Edward whispered as he stroked your hair. The pride and possessiveness in his voice connected you even more to him. The mirrors reflected this moment from every angle, as if the world were just the two of you.

Jervis Tech

Where, only hours ago, ballet figures had twirled beneath crystal chandeliers — scattering like snowflakes — there was now a heavy, adhesive silence… like the strange, inward breath a theater takes at night. The Kingdom of Sweets set still stood; giant peppermint-stick columns, caramel-gold arches, a floor that shimmered as if dusted with powdered sugar…

But with the lights off, none of it looked magical. It looked like the remains of a rotting dream. And you…

You stood at the very center of the stage, placed upright inside a massive toy box.

The lid was half open; the interior lined with ivory velvet… like a jewelry case. But what it held was not a jewel — it was something prepared for display. A porcelain doll. And that doll was you.

Your arms were bound with delicate ribbons; your wrists lifted slightly above your head, your shoulders fixed back. Your feet were secured to the base of the box, your body perfectly upright… The Clara costume had been dressed onto you — layers of white tulle rising to your neck, a wide bell skirt, crystal embellishments, a corset cinched tight around your waist…

When consciousness slowly rose to the surface, the first thing you felt was the inability to move.

When your lashes trembled open, the first thing you saw was a silhouette that standing very close to you.

Head slightly tilted, watching you… And then the voice came. Soft… But soft in an unbalanced way.

“Ah…” It slipped from his lips like a breath. “So you’ve finally awakened, little Alice…?”

Your mind was still fogged; words did not settle into place. But that name — that wrong name — sank beneath your skin like instinctive unease.

The man stepped closer.

When the light struck his face, you saw him clearly.

The eyes of Jervis Tetch — bright, feverish, trembling on that thin line between reason and delusion — studied you with such intensity that your breath knotted in your throat.

“You kept me waiting…” he whispered, his voice like a silk blade echoing through the hollow stage.

He flipped the watch open.

Click.

“Tea time has long passed… The White Rabbit circled the stage three times looking for you… The Queen is impatient… But I…” He stepped closer still. “…I can wait.”

His cold fingers touched your chin. Your body flinched on reflex.

With two fingers he lifted your chin — slowly, possessively… aligning your face to his gaze whether you wished it or not.

“Delicate…” he murmured. “As delicate as porcelain…”

When your eyes opened fully, reality struck like a slap.

The first sound that tore from your throat was a scream.

“No—! Help! Someone—”

Jervis recoiled instantly. He truly recoiled. As if a loud sound had physically wounded him — his shoulders tensed, his eyes widened.

“Shh—! Shh, no, no, no…” he whispered frantically, rushing closer.

He did not clamp a hand over your mouth — but he came close enough that his breath brushed your lips.

“Don’t scream… Don’t scream, little Alice, please…” His voice trembled between panic and pleading. “No one will come… This stage is closed now… Tonight belongs only to us…”

You were still struggling; the ribbons cut into your wrists. “Let me go! I’m not Alice! You’re insane—!”

Jervis froze. His eyes moved across your face. His expression softened. A sorrowful smile settled on his lips.

“Ah…” he exhaled. “How rude of me…”

He lifted a hand to your hair. His fingers slipped slowly between the strands, stroking with unsettling gentleness… as if afraid you might shatter. “I’m sorry… You’re right…You’re not Alice...You’re Clara.”

The word left his mouth with near reverence.

“Of course… Of course Clara…” he continued, relieved to have corrected himself. “Guest of the Kingdom of Sweets… Savior of the Nutcracker Prince…”

He took your chin again.

This time his thumb rested beneath your lower lip, his fingers along your jaw — lifting your face to study your eyes.

“But your eyes…” he whispered. “Your eyes are still Alice’s eyes… Ready to get lost… Ready to fall down a hole…”

You could not stop crying. Your breathing was uneven; your shoulders trembled.

“Please…” you whispered. “Please let me go…”

For a moment his expression darkened — something like discomfort, guilt, even sadness crossed his face. “Of course you’re afraid…” he said softly. His hand moved to your bound wrist. “Your heartbeat is so fast… Poor little heart…” he murmured. Then he leaned in suddenly.

His face neared your neck — not touching, but his breath sank deep against your skin.

His free hand settled at the back of your neck, steadying your head in a possessive hold…

“Shh…” he whispered beside your ear. “Don’t cry… No one can hurt you here…”

But you kept crying.

When Jervis pulled back, there was a strained helplessness on his face. As if your inability to calm down truly unsettled him.

He lifted your chin again — tighter this time. “Look at me,” he whispered. When you tried to avert your gaze, the hand at your neck increased its pressure. You were forced into eye contact.

What you saw in his eyes in that moment was obsession.

Your breathing was still uneven; mascara had run from the corners of your eyes, drawing thin black paths down your cheeks. Every time you blinked, your lashes stuck together, salty tears reaching your lips.

His thumb wiped a tear from your cheek. But never setting you free.

When you tried to pull your head back, you didn’t just cry — you spoke. “You’re… sick…” you rasped at first, breath hitching, then your voice rose. “You kidnapped me… you tied me up— you’re disgusting… Do you understand!”

And Jervis… At first, he didn’t move at all. But then his pupils narrowed — and for the first time, behind that bright, storybook madness, a dark, sharp fracture appeared.

He moved toward you. Suddenly. Fast. His fingers gripped your cheeks, his thumb pushing your chin upward. So close his breath struck your lips. As if he might kiss you…

“No…” he whispered through his teeth. “No… you don’t speak like that…”, his gaze pinned inside yours.“Those words don’t belong to you, little Alice…”

His fingers tightened against your face; your tears pressed beneath his grip.

“Someone must have whispered into your ear…” he continued. “Perhaps the Cheshire Cat… Yes… with that sly smile, he must have clouded your mind… Told you the world was frightening… That you shouldn’t trust me…”

He shook his head faintly. Then suddenly stopped. “Ah… no…” he murmured. “This isn’t that tale…” His eyes dropped to your costume. His fingers slid from your chin to your neck — pressing lightly where your pulse beat. “…It’s the Kingdom of Sweets…” His breath was still close enough to touch your lips. “Then…” he whispered. “It was the Mouse King who poisoned you, wasn’t it…? With his crooked teeth he whispered fears into your ear… Told you not to trust the Prince…”

Your eyes were red from crying, bruised beneath. “Let… me go…” you whispered through your teeth. “I hate you…”

Jervis’s face hardened for a moment. As if another persona inside him had taken control, he softened. “You’ve cried so much…” he whispered. His voice had returned to that sick tenderness. “Of course you cry… A poisoned mind always fears…”

His hand went to your hair. His fingers slipped slowly between the strands — stroking again and again with patient repetition.

His fingers trailed along the edge of your corset — under the pretense of fixing the costume, but with a touch that lasted too long…

He continued with the same gentle expression. “Clara shouldn’t be afraid…” he murmured. “The Prince protects her…”

Then…He stepped away from you. When he retreated several steps into the center of the stage, the pale backlight turned him into a silhouette.

He raised his hand into the air. His fingers opened gracefully. And he snapped them.

The sound echoed across the stage. At the same moment… The music began.

As the Pas de Deux melody filled the emptiness, the trembling violins seemed to seep from inside the set itself.

When the first to move were the toy soldiers. They turned their heads toward you. Then came the steps… Mechanical, but rhythmic. Then the other ballerinas entered the stage — wearing the same costume as you, snowflake roles, sugar fairies… All moving slowly, synchronized, eyes empty but bodies flowing in flawless choreography.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“No…” you whispered, trembling. “No… this isn’t real…”

But when the first ballerina stopped directly in front of you, she tilted her head — and her lips parted.

“You are his Alice…”

Another spoke.

“The Alice the Mad Hatter waited for…”

Another stepped forward.

“The owner of the empty chair at the tea table…”

The voices multiplied.

Each one looking at you — but there was no consciousness in their gaze, only an echoed, directed devotion.

“You are the Prince’s Clara…”

“The one he saved…”

“The one he chose…”

“The one he keeps…”

You shook your head side to side, ribbons cutting into your wrists. “Stop!” you screamed. “Stop! This is nonsense—”

But this time they all spoke at once.

Synchronized.

One voice.

“You are the Mad Hatter’s Alice.”

“You are the Nutcracker Prince’s Clara.”

“You belong to him.”

“You are his fairytale.”

“You are the one he chose.”

The voices struck the dome of the stage and came back — multiplying, thickening, turning into a pressure that filled your ears.

And then…

Jervis’s voice joined them.

But unlike the others, it wasn’t hollow — it came warm, trembling, possessive.

“Do you see…?”

He stepped out from the shadows.

“Everyone sees you the same way…” Jervis’s voice dropped to a whisper. “One person can be mistaken…” He took another step. “But all of them…?”

“No…” you breathed, shaking. But your voice was weak.

The music continued to settle over the stage like a drifting fog.

When Jervis stepped out from the shadows toward you once more, he lifted his hand slightly — graceful, yet carrying absolute authority.

He lowered his fingers. It was a command. The toy soldiers moved at once.

As the metallic echo of their steps filled the hollow stage, two soldiers approached the box; their painted faces were rigid, their gazes frozen…

But beneath those painted masks were features you recognized. Your fellow ballerinas.

For a brief second, your heart clenched with hope.

“Please…” you whispered, trembling. “Hear me… Wake up… This isn’t real…”

One of the soldiers began untying the ribbon; as your wrists came free, you drew in a deep breath. But the moment they freed you, they seized your wrists again. Tighter this time.

With a thick silk binding that wrapped from behind, fixing your arms in front of you — not immobilizing, but leaving no chance to escape.

“No— no, please—!” you struggled, but they didn’t hear you.

The two soldiers lifted you out. They guided you forward slowly. Toward Jervis. Then stepped away.

Jervis looked at you. “Ah…” he whispered in admiration. “Now this is more correct…”

He stepped closer. He reached his hand toward you — he held your bound hands between his own. You could feel the warmth of his skin even through the ribbons.

“Only a dance is missing…” he said softly. And he pulled you.

Your body tensed on reflex. But he forced you into the figure.

You had no strength left to struggle. Your eyes burned from crying, your throat ached… And for the first time, you didn’t scream. You only looked at him. With an exhausted, depleted, breathless gaze…

That look stopped Jervis. It truly stopped him. His eyes widened — within that madness, a pure, childlike joy flickered.

“There…” he whispered, trembling. “Now you’re looking at me…” His hand returned to your waist — this time firmer, more possessive. “Alice was afraid at first too…” he went on as he danced. “When she fell down the rabbit hole, she cried… But then she loved Wonderland…” He pulled you closer. “Clara was afraid too…” he continued. “But when she danced with the Prince… she understood his world belonged to her…”

His fingers tightened around your bound hands. “You will learn too…” The music rose. The set revolved. And he whispered: “You will love me.”

While one hand remained at your waist, he slowly slipped the other into his pocket.

The moment you saw that movement, your heart began racing again — because you knew what he was about to take out.

The pocket watch.

Ornate, silver-cased, its chain thin but catching the light… He flipped the lid open with his thumb.

Click.

“Shh…” he whispered near your ear. “Your mind gets very loud when you dance… Let’s quiet it…”

He began swinging the watch chain between two fingers. Light bounced off the metal surface into your eyes. You looked without meaning to. Your gaze focused.

“Good girl…” he murmured, his voice almost caressing. “Just look… Don’t think…”

The watch swayed side to side. In rhythm with the melody.

“This isn’t a stage…” he whispered. “This is where you fell… The end of the rabbit hole… Do you remember…?”

You tried to resist, but your eyelids grew heavy.

“You got lost…” he continued. “ And when you woke, you found yourself in the Kingdom of Sweets… Because Alices are always swept into other fairytales…”

The watch chain left streaks of light across your vision. The edges of your thoughts blurred.

He clasped your bound hands in his own, pressing over the ribbons to guide your movements.

“I’ll teach you…” he whispered. “How to dance with a Prince…”

He spun you. Your skirt caught the light.

His hand settled at your waist — this time more naturally, as if it had always belonged there… “See…” he murmured, leaning to your ear. “Steps are like trust… Once you learn them, the body never forgets…”

Your breathing began to fall into the same rhythm as his.

Unwillingly.

“Love is the same…” he continued. “First you fear it… Then you grow used to it… Then you begin to wait for it…” He drew you closer. “Then you can’t live without it…”

The dance slowed. But it didn’t stop.

He began speaking again — like telling a fairytale, yet each word spun a web pulling you deeper inside… “When Alice fell, she was alone…” he said. “No one understood her… But the Mad Hatter saw her… Chose her…”

His fingers tightened slightly around your bound wrists. “Clara was alone too… But the Prince saved her… Took her onto his stage…”

He lowered his head to your eye level.

“I saw you too…”

Your breath caught.

“In the crowd… Beneath the lights… Everyone was dancing, but you…” His thumb lifted your chin gently. “…you were falling.”

He looked into your eyes — with that romantic conviction inside his madness.

“I didn’t kidnap you…” he whispered.

He stepped closer. “You came to me.”

The rhythm of the dance blended with your heartbeat.

“Fairytales don’t believe in coincidence…” he said. “Alice knows where she will fall… Clara knows which Prince will save her…”

He placed your bound hands over his heart — pressing them there.

“And you…” he murmured. “…you chose me.”

And his voice was still at your ear:

“Love is learned, Clara… By dancing… By listening… By looking at me…”

Something trembled inside your mind at that moment.The rhythm of the watch.The looping music. His voice. All converging in the same point. You looked at the stage. Candy columns. Caramel arches. Cotton-sugar lights…Memories of the real world felt pushed to the back of your mind — blurred, distant, almost unimportant…

He placed his hand over his heart — pressing your bound hands against it as well. “Your pulse still remembers the world above… But it will slow…” He leaned closer. “Because Alices always awaken in other fairytales…”

Your breathing deepened. You tried to resist…But the resistance was no longer sharp — it had become tired, fogged, slippery. He noticed.His eyes lit up. “Tell me…” he whispered. “Where are you now…?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. His fingers slid into your hair — stroking slowly, rhythmically, soothingly.

“You’re in the Kingdom of Sweets…” he suggested. “On the Prince’s stage…”

Your head moved faintly — a weak, involuntary nod. He took it as victory. “Of course…” he murmured. “Because you are the fallen Alice… But you’re trapped here…and I…” he whispered at your ear.“…am the Mad Hatter who found you.”

This time, you didn’t look away.Your whisper was weak, but audible. “…I…” you began.You breathed in. “…fell…”

Jervis’s fingers froze in your hair — in excitement. “Yes…” he whispered immediately. “You fell…”

“…and…” you continued, “…I woke up here…”

His smile slowly grew. “Yes…”

Your eyes returned to his — still tearful, still reddened, but no longer filled with only fear. “…In the Kingdom of Sweets…” Your breath trembled. “…I’m trapped…”

At that moment, Jervis’s eyes shone — with the brightest form of that sick romanticism. “And who found you…?” he whispered.

Your lips parted. The answer came almost on its own.“…The Mad Hatter…”

His smile trembled. He lowered his head toward you.“…who saved you…?” he asked more softly.

You held his gaze. “…You…”, whispered. “…You are my savior…”

At that moment, the music swelled.The stage lights flared.And Jervis’s fingers slowly closed within your hair — as if he would never release what he had found.

The stage was completely silent now. The music had ended, yet its vibration still seemed to hang in the air.

Your bound wrists had been untied — you didn’t even remember when it had happened. The ribbons had fallen onto the stage floor, your arms free for the first time…

Jervis hadn’t moved — as if he were afraid the slightest motion might startle you. But his gaze… that gaze was still the same.

But you hadn’t run. You hadn’t even thought about running.

Obsessive.

Adoring.

“Alice…” he said softly. “…aren’t you afraid of me anymore…?”

Your eyes drifted to his lips — then returned to his eyes. You took a step toward him. Close enough that your breaths began to mingle. “You found me…” you said, never breaking eye contact. Your fingers slowly reached for the collar of his coat.

Jervis’s breath caught at that moment.

“…you said you would protect me…” you whispered.

He tilted his head slightly — his eyes moving across your face as though he could hardly believe this was real. “Always…” he murmured. “I will always protect you…”

Your fingers slid upward from his collar — to his neck, his jaw. Your touch was light, but deliberate. You drew him a little closer.

“Alice won’t be alone…” you whispered. “…right… Mad Hatter…?”

The moment that title left your lips, an expression spread across Jervis’s face — a devotion so intense it looked almost sanctified by madness, like reverence… like worship.

“Of course she won’t…” he breathed.

You paused for one last second — holding his gaze.

And then…

You kissed him.

The first contact was slow.

Not shy — but intentional in its slowness, as if you wanted to feel the weight of that moment.

When your lips touched his, Jervis froze completely; he forgot to breathe, remaining motionless for several seconds, as though unsure where to place his hands.

Then…

He slowly set his hands at your waist. Not rough — but firm enough that he wouldn’t let go.

When he returned the kiss, his lips trembled; cautious at first, as if afraid of frightening you… But you didn’t pull back.

On the contrary…

Your fingers slid to the back of his neck. You drew him closer.

That movement seemed to snap the last restraint inside him. The kiss deepened — still not harsh, still not uncontrolled… but intense, hungry, filled with the impatience of a contact that had been waited for, for years.

Your breaths mingled. The stage lights dissolved into bursts of color behind your closed eyelids.

Jervis’s fingers tightened slightly at your waist — as if he wanted to feel you closer, more his.

When his lips finally parted from yours, his breathing was uneven. He rested his forehead against yours. His eyes were closed. “…Alice…” he whispered into his breath.

He opened his eyes. “…you’re mine.”

The words didn’t sound like a threat — they left his lips like a prayer.

You were breathless too. But you didn’t pull away. Instead… You lifted your head again. “…and you are my savior…” you whispered.

<left the camera on for batman to see>

oral sex, fem giving

<ArkhamOrigins Eddie taking a break with you>

desk sex, PnV, slapping

<has a thing for cosplay>

title says it all, ignore the tags

<"you base gutter-minded savage!">

backshots, slapping

<he likes it when you take over>

domfem, oral sex

You’ve always hated how cold Gotham became in the winter. It was the type of cold that not even several layers of thick blankets and the heat your landlord would charge you way too much for could solve, but it wasn’t usually this cold. With a yawn, you blinked open your eyes, shifting your gaze over to the alarm clock on the nearby nightstand, squinting in the dark to read the time better, to see that it had just turned midnight. You let out another yawn, sitting up and looking down beside you to find your boyfriend missing. You frowned, already knowing what had happened. 

“We’re out of melatonin already, Eddie.” You mumbled tiredly, finding yourself in the bathroom down the hall after a short walk from your shared bedroom. Edward turned to look at you with sleepy, apologetic eyes, pausing from rummaging through the medicine cabinet on the wall. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He replied softly, shutting the cabinet. “I just couldn’t fall asleep, I’m sorry.” He added, voice laden with guilt, a twinge of shame, almost like he was embarrassed by his ongoing insomnia, no matter how many times you reassured him it didn’t bother you, or make you think less of him, worries he had voiced to you in the past, especially during the beginning of your relationship. 

You smiled, rubbing the last bits of sleep out of your eyes. “It’s okay, Eddie, don’t apologize.” You approached him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I know how hard it is for you sometimes. Do you want me to maybe go down to the corner store and see if they have anything?” He shook his head at your question, pulling you closer.

“No, you know how this city can get at night.” He murmured, “I don’t want you getting hurt. I’ll tough it out for tonight and get something after work tomorrow.” Despite his words, you could see just how much he was dreading staying awake through another sleepless night while every horrible thought he could ever imagine raced through his head, all to get up and work throughout the day at a job he hated. 

“What if I stay up with you? I don’t want you to have to go through this alone.” You suggested, absentmindedly running your fingers through his hair. Usually, it’d soothe him even just a little bit, but it didn’t seem to be working tonight. 

“No, don’t do that.” He pulled away from you. “You have work in the morning, too. Please, don’t do that to yourself just for me.” He moved past you, heading to the living room, probably planning to spend the night on his laptop, having a go at another useless attempt at lessening the hell in his mind with any type of puzzle he could find. You caught his wrist, pulling him towards the bedroom. 

“What’re you doing?” He questioned, filled with confusion, as you led him back down the hall of your apartment. “Please, honey, I’m just going to end up waking you again if I go—” 

You shushed him, entering your shared room. “I think I have an idea of what could get us both to sleep, it’s something I think you’ll like.” You purred, sitting him down on the bed, placing yourself in his lap. He took a deep breath, hands settling on your hips as you leaned in. “Is that okay, Edward?” You murmured, lips ghosting his. He didn’t say another word; instead, he leaned in eagerly, pressing his lips to yours, and you met him with just as much excitement. He leaned backwards, propping himself up on his shoulders as you came down with him, your hands moving to pull off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor. 

“It’s been so long since we’ve been able to do this.” You moved to his pajama pants, pulling them down in one swift motion, Edward helping you to get them off, leaving him in his boxers. The sight in front of you had your heart racing in your chest; desperation-filled green eyes, cheeks tinged a beautiful shade of red, hardening cock pressing against his boxers, just waiting to be touched; it was all so intoxicating. You couldn’t believe that you both let your work get in the way of doing this again and again until neither of you had any more left to give.

“I’ve missed you.” Edward’s fingers slipped up to your shoulder, slowly pulling the strap of your nightgown down, then he did the same to the next, letting the soft garment fall just enough to show the soft apex of your breasts, letting them peak out just enough to send another surge of arousal to his cock. “You’ve always looked so great in this color.” He smiled, hands tracing over the dark green fabric, his favorite color, and something he picked out just for you after he worked a few extra overtime hours at his job. You looked stunning in it, but you always looked so much more divine without anything on.

You pulled off your nightgown, leaving you only in a pair of lace underwear, leaving you both with a thin layer separating you from what you needed.

You grabbed at the elastic waistband on his boxers, pulling them off and letting his cock spring out, hard and leak pre-cum at the tip. God, he must’ve been so pent up, you could tell just by how hard he was. You wrapped a hand around him, earning a whiny moan from him, pushing up into your touch as you began to stroke him. A soft whimper of your name left his lips as he lay back against the bed, letting you straddle him as you moved your hand up and down his cock, struggling to fit all of it in your fingers. 

“F-Fuck hold on—” His grip moved back to your hips, your hand stilling as you looked down at him with wide eyes, worried you somehow managed to hurt him or make him uncomfortable. He kissed you quickly, soothing any fears after he saw the look on your face. “I need you. Now.” He whispered, tugging at your underwear, pulling them down your thighs, and letting them drop to the floor along with the rest. 

“I need you too, you have no clue how much I needed this.” You settled your hands on his chest, sinking down onto him with a moan of your own, high-pitched and needy, something you’d always expected more from him than you. No matter how many times you had sex with him, that first stretch of his cock inside of you always felt euphoric, better than any drug anyone in Gotham could ever offer you. His mouth fell open, eyes closing in pure ecstasy as you began to move, slowly bouncing up and down on his cock. How could you have ever gone so long without this? Without him inside of you? You lived it, and yet you couldn’t understand how you survived.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled, fingers tightening around the soft skin of your hips, helping guide your movements. “Clever girl, this was your plan, huh? Gonna ride my cock until we’re both too fucked out to stay awake. I love how smart you are.” You cried out at his words, coming down on his cock just right to hit that special spot inside of you. He was right; it didn’t matter if, at this point, both of you had to call out of work tomorrow, it’d be worth every single ounce of pleasure you’d draw from each other. It all felt too good to stop. 

“You got me, Eddie.” You purred, kissing him before you sped up your pace, “but how could I resist? Do you know what you do to me?” He whined at your confession, thrusting up to meet your movements, sending jolts of ecstasy throughout your body. You moaned loudly, letting your head fall against his chest as you let him thrust upwards into you. 

“I’m close, Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum so hard!”

He groaned at your warning, rubbing at your clit, your thighs beginning to shake at his touch, and the feeling of him splitting you open as he fucked you. He loved this, the way you’d sound just for him, the way you shook, how your pussy fluttered around him and choked his cock whenever you came. He’d do whatever it took, kill whoever you wanted, if it meant he’d always have this with you. 

“Fuck! Yes!” You shouted, rocking against him desperately, the beginning of your orgasm coursing through you. “I’m cumming! Edward!” You buried your face in the crook of his neck as you came, fluttering around him as he chased his own climax after yours. Thick ropes of cum shot deep inside of you, filling you to the brim until it leaked out at the sides. 

You slumped against him, both of you breathing heavily as you came down from your shared high. You whined in protest as he slipped out of you, unhappy with the sudden loss of warmth, cum spilling out of you and onto the sheets below. You pressed chaste kisses to his skin, moving up towards his lips after only a few, shaky breaths between each one as the racing of your hearts slowed. You two sat in a comfortable silence, Edward absentmindedly playing with your hair.

“You’re sleepier than me now.” He murmured, kissing your cheek. You chuckled sleepily, cuddling up to him. You smiled as you saw his face, eyes drooping with a shared pleasant exhaustion. 

“We’re taking a day off tomorrow, you and I.” You smiled. “Call out of work, and spend the whole day relaxing, doesn’t it sound nice?” He nodded, closing his eyes. 

His hands ran all over every part of you he could reach, his fingers digging into the softest parts and kneading eagerly, clumsily, desperately. Where he had earlier in the evening used words to praise every inch of you, now he only used his touch, but it was just as effective.

"Shh, yes you can," he insisted in a mumble, interrupting himself to pant with exhaustion. "Just one more, please..."

But you were exhausted too, though for an entirely different reason. You had no way to know how long this had been going on but you knew just from the dampness beneath you on the sheets-- sweat, tears, and a mix of come from both of you-- that it had been quite a while. You clung to those same sheets as he continued his thrusts into you: he'd slowed down his pace but somehow maintained the same intensity, and you literally thought you were going to go numb inside from the constant sticky friction.

"Jus' need to feel it," he begged, "c'mon, just need to feel it-- need to make you come again."

Why he wasn't satisfied by the last dozen or so orgasms, you couldn't say. He's already promised you rest once only to start back up again after just a few moments, slurring out some apologies and saying he couldn't help it with how badly he needed you.

You whined through your teeth, reaching up and trying to grab onto him but finding your hands too weak and shaky, so you let them collapse at your sides limply. "That's it," he encouraged, lifting himself up to look down proudly at your face through glassy eyes. He knew you were close, in fact he could tell better than you could since he had, somehow, more mental faculties to notice the signs. His hands moved to hook under your knees, keeping your legs spread and lifted exactly how he wanted-- which is to say, exactly how he knew would keep your spot where he wanted it in line with his movements.

As you whimpered, eyes rolling back, you heard his smile in the way it shaped his voice.

"Oh I know, I know," he cooed-- a little pitying, it made you shiver slightly. That was the cycle of this, he kept begging for you only to end up proving you were actually the desperate one. "You're so perfect, look at you..."

He kissed up your legs, apparently unfazed by the layer of sweat, as they started to shake.

"So fucking perfect," he repeated. "Let me feel it, c'mon, that's it--"

The sound you made was... if you had any energy left to be embarrassed you might call it embarrassing. You certainly wouldn't call it attractive, considering it was so broken and unrestrained that it sounded kind of like a dying animal, but apparently Edward loved it.

"Fuck!" he groaned suddenly, mumbling a couple praises before suddenly stopping and falling over you.

You were still kind of 'in it' at that point so you barely noticed, and yet you still lifted your arms to drape them around his back as he nuzzled into your neck once again. He must have been barely holding himself back to come so suddenly when you did; he'd kept his composure a lot better than you, but now both of you were just a heaving pile together.

"You're perfect," you heard him say again, though it was so soft under his breath that you barely made it out past the ringing in your ears. You wanted to return the compliment but your mouth was dry and you felt like you couldn't afford to take a break from the heavy breathing to say even a word.

His hands started to move again, releasing your legs and sliding up your sides, tickling your arms, one beginning to gently grope at your chest until you felt goosebumps start to rise.

Adrenaline thrumming through your veins and making your hands shake as you hold them tight against your side, you hold Bruce's eye as he scans the nearby rooftops for the easiest potential exit. Not quite exhausted yet, despite the long events of the patrol, Bruce was all business as usual.

"There's been a Clayface sighting at the Sionis dock. I'll need to investigate Karlo’s links to the recent shipments of weapons which Sionis has signed off his name to so I’ll leave you to clean up here and haul him down to the GCPD."

The 'him' in question scowled as he was spoken about as though he weren't there.

Edward Nygma.

Calling himself ‘The Riddler’, his recent spree of organised robberies had caught Gotham’s attention due to the very public nature of the various clues he had left pointing to both his identity and his next target. His genius-level intellect had left Bruce in a fouler mood than usual as he was forced to play a game of cat-and-mouse which had eventually ended with this ‘Riddler’ being apprehended after a very limited, honestly pathetic, physical fight.

Eyeing Bruce with a staunch nod, you agree to his decision and refrain from an eyeroll as he takes the opportunity to disappear in an instant and without any further need for discussion. Typical behaviour, one which always irritated in how unnecessary it was.

In the silence which follows, heavy in the warm air of the approaching night, Edward is the one to finally break it.

“I think I hate him.” Edward confesses, slightly nasally in his delivery as his nose remained slightly bloodied from an earlier elbow which had landed squarely on the sensitive flesh.

“You wound him up.” Tilting your head down at Edward, his hands very tightly bound against his chest, you feel a slight moment of pity for him as he lays there like a snapped marionette doll. “Why bother trying to take on Batman when you can’t handle the consequences? Or at least fight?”

“This city is packed with fools and ingrates, people whose appreciation would be better if they actually had to think for once in their miserable little lives.”

You didn’t necessarily disagree but it would be bad form to give any criminal an inch and so you shrug your shoulders without any commitment.

“Say what you want, but you’re just a thief with flair. Is that really so impressive? Can you say you’re better than any of us?”

“Brutes and philistines,” Edward sniffs, his disdain clear, “I would expect better from a pretty little bird who seems to have something rattling in her head but only follows her masters’ orders like a well-oiled machine.”

Surprised by the comment, you can’t help but blink at the open compliment.

“Pretty?”

As though not realising what he had said, a flush creeps across Edward’s youthful face as he remains splayed across the rooftop – his sharp gaze conveniently finding something interesting in the darkening sky rather than meeting your own gaze.

The suit which hugs his frame is a tasteful, if somewhat eccentric, shade of green but it is paired nicely with black accessories and a tie which sports a question mark design. His features are almost elven, sharp and mischievous and sporting the most brilliant green eyes. He’s young, only a few years older than yourself, but he carries himself with an older man’s weight – something heavy sitting in his eyes as he darts his attention anywhere but your face.

“In a very base way. Nothing special. Just a pretty face following orders.”

“Hmm, is that so?” Sensing an opportunity for a little fun with the admittedly handsome thief, and never one to turn down some fun, you stand over him and slowly tease your hands across your chest and down your sides. “Do you like my costume, Edward? I made it myself.”

He adjusts his body in a very subtle and deliberate manner, one which absolutely hides his crotch from your sight and you can barely restrain a smile at how easily he flushes. He really is quite handsome, having a nerdy vibe which you always liked in men. And he hadn’t technically hurt anyone. Well, aside from really putting the fear of god into some bankers who probably deserved worse.

“I do think you’re very handsome,” offering him a little bit of flattery, you crouch on your haunches before him as you begin tracing nonsensical shapes on his knee with a single finger, “and, if you want, I think we could maybe get to know each other a little better before I have to ship you off to Blackgate.”

His body stiffening at the contact, open suspicion plays on Edward’s expression as he surveys you with his intense gaze. The flush which sits on his cheeks seems unable to leave the skin and you don’t miss the way his throat swallows around nothing as he listens to your offer.

“You’re trying to trick me.” He accuses.

Shaking your head, you squeeze his leg invitingly to show your sincerity.

“No tricks. Just a little fun if you’re up for it.”

Silence holds in the air for a solid minute, his eyes darting across your face before dropping to cast across your costume and how tightly it hugged your body. His expression is just as unsettled, flicking between uncertainty, arousal, and obvious temptation as his fingers tap a tuneless rhythm against the rooftop.

“What do you want from me?” His voice is heated, almost angry as he settles on disbelief once more, and you meet his eye without flinching as you deliver your offer.

“I want you to lie back and let me sit on your face.”

The speed at which his mouth drops open is impressive and you fight back a giggle at the obvious shock which straightens his body out like a physical blow.

“Wha-you-that’s insan-are you serious?”

“As the grave. I’ve been listening to that big mouth of yours for two days now so I think it’ll be fun to see if you’re all bark and no bite. You’re proud of that silver tongue, I can tell. So, let’s see it.”

Spreading your knees slightly as you remain balancing on your feet, a smirk crawls across your lips as you watch his gaze flutter between your legs before snapping back up – a fresh flush breaking across his freckle-marked skin. He’s lost for words and you give him the time he needs to find them as you tilt your head down at him.

“I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want. I just thoug-”

“Okay.”

Frowning at the casualness of his response and hoping for a little more, you slide your hand up his leg and cup at his cock. He’s hard and he groans at the light contact, his groin moving shakily from the ground as it pushes up to meet your touch, pressing you harder against his clothed shaft.

“Are you sure?” You check, realising that you were committing to something questionable and needed that assurance.

“Untie me.” Edward demands suddenly, pressing his bound hands towards you with insistence.

Having forgotten about that, you quickly undo the knots and release his hands. It’s a risky choice but leaving him bound doesn’t feel right given the circumstances. He brings his hands to his chest for a moment, rubbing the wrists before placing them back on his upper chest as he taps the black shirt there with an inviting rhythm.

Slipping free of the lower half of your costume with little shame, you drop the lightweight fabric to the floor by the side of his body and lower yourself until you are straddling his chest. The light colour of your panties sits prettily atop his darker shirt and you splay your hands on the ground atop his head as you lean down for a final confirmation.

“Just between us, yeah? Me and you, Edward? Do a good job and I’ll even see about returning the favour.” You bring one hand to his face, running your fingers along the side of his cheek and feeling the very early stages of stubble grazing across your fingertips.

“And you have the gall to say that I talk too much.” Edward replies, his eyes sharp and slightly darkened by arousal as he stares up at you. “The agreement is set, little bird.”

Not happy with that particular nickname but too horny to really deal with it at the moment, you shuffle forward until you can feel the heat of his breath against your panties and you can’t hold back the groan of satisfaction which slips free of you as his hands pull the scant fabric to the side as he tilts his head up to take an experimental lick at your cunt.

His tongue is warm and slick, and you can feel the shift in his determination as he presses his mouth roughly to your folds, suckling at the skin between snaking his tongue across your slit – his hands coming to rest on your thighs to open you up to him. From nothing to such intense attention is enough to make your head swim and you press your palms hard against the ground to centre yourself.

Edward doesn’t seem to mind, his hums of consideration vibrating against your flesh as his mouth finds your clit, hidden away below its hood and there is no holding back the soft ‘fuck’ which slips free of your lips as he wraps his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks at it gently.

“Edward, oh my god- don’t- don’t stop.” You grunt out the words, rocking your hips and rolling your cunt against his face, his nose grinding against your pubic bone as you rob him of the physical ability to reply. Legs clenching, every swipe of his tongue is a bolt of lightning up your spine.

His focus is intense and you can’t help but pull one hand from the ground to instead wrap it up in his reddened hair, tugging at the strands as a slew of muttered compliments drip from your lips. Breathy encouragements, heated gasps of his name, his tongue pulls more noise from you than you would like but you can’t bring yourself to care as you allow him to devour you.

Slick with arousal, you can feel how painfully wet you are against his mouth and chin as you grind down on his face. The pressure in your lower stomach, tight and hot, builds steadily until your fingernails are scratching at his scalp as your back arches into nothing. Chasing release, you buck your hips and focus on the heat of him – every sordid tease, lick and nibble at your cunt almost too much.

It only takes one particularly hard suck at your clit, the pressure borderline uncomfortable for you to come apart atop his mouth. Your mouth unable to make more than stuttering grunts and pathetic whines, the pleasure rolls through your body in waves and you ride it out for as long as your knees can manage. Below, Edward eats up everything you have to offer, his tongue swallowing down your arousal as your thighs clench around his ears.

Before too long, the intensity of your orgasm ebbs away and you make the effort to shuffle back down to his chest – allowing him the chance to take in some proper air for the first time since you had taken your original place. Cum-soaked and looking far too pleased with himself, Edward’s face is a mess; reddened by friction and visibly wet, his chin and mouth are soaked but his tongue is quick to swipe across his lips and catch what remains.

“Mmm, I enjoyed that.” You mutter, dipping down to place a soft kiss on the edge of Edward’s mouth, tasting the tang of your own arousal on the skin. Dropping your hand lower to his groin, you quickly free his fly and slip your hand inside his pants.

Instantly you can feel the telltale dampness there and you’re surprised to find that he’s already come, his release still warm and wet against your fingers as you pull them free and quickly re-do his fly. That was unexpected and the fact of it makes your cunt clench with fresh greed as you realise what kind of man he is.

“I’m glad you liked that as much as I did. That’s hot as hell, by the way. I like a man who knows how to have a good time.” Placing your face over his for a moment as you stand to your feet, you ignore that little voice which chips away at your psyche, reminding you of exactly what the hell you had just done. “This was fun, Eddie.”

Snatching up the lower half of your costume from the rooftop, you quickly start to pull the fabric back up your legs.

“Edward.” Edward counters in an instant, all of his cockiness coming back in record time as he stares at you with an unreadable expression – one laced with a heat that makes you regret not also taking some time to fuck him properly. Now able to move, he positions himself awkwardly with his body sitting upright as one leg is pulled close to his chest, the other flat against the roof. Despite it, he gazes up to meet your eye. “My name is Edward.”

“Okay, Edward. But like I said, this was fun. Keep playing by the rules and maybe we’ll see what happens if we meet each other again. And remember, I don’t think the big boss man needs to know about this little encounter. I’ll just tell him that you caught me off guard and got away.” Fairly certain of his ability to keep this quiet and not too sure why, you give him the reminder regardless.

“You would lie to him?” Edward seems genuinely caught-off guard by that and you shrug in response.

“Yeah. He won’t be too pissed as long as you toe the line. We recovered the stolen diamonds and no one was hurt. Just play by the rules or I’ll have to find you again.”

It wasn’t a threat, wasn’t a promise, but it was something which lived in the tricky space between both concepts and that was something you would have to examine later, when left with the privacy of your own thoughts.

“I was never one to follow rules, sweetheart.” Replying with a smirk, Edward pushed himself a little higher as he sat up straighter.

Sweetheart.

Maybe he was still a little too cocky.

Snatching his hair up in your hand, you pull his head as high as possible to meet your own. There, deep in his emerald gaze, lay the blossoming seeds of something dangerous and it sparks fresh arousal in your chest as you wonder how far it can be pushed without going too far.

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad if he broke the rules again.

“Edward?” you call out, before you hear him inside your bedroom. You really should give him a key at this point, but he probably finds picking your lock a bit of added mental stimulation. Entering, you glance down, confused as your lover was on his knees, looking under your bed.

“Look what I’ve found.”

At your boyfriends’ almost sing-song tone, you feel the blush rise on your cheeks as he holds up the playboy bunny outfit he’d retrieved from the scrappy box beneath your bed, even fiddling with the bunny ear headband in the other hand. Suddenly, memories come flooding back, of being on your knees for two of Gotham’s most wanted while dressed in such a revealing outfit, being referred to as nothing more than a pet while they took turns using your mouth. You quickly go to grab the outfit, but Edward stands to his full height and lifts it above his head, smirking.

“C’mon Eddie, give it back.”

“You kept it?”

You hesitate, feeling the heat of your skin rise. “Of course I kept it…you bought it for me.”

“I did, but I’ve bought you a lot of things doll.”

“…it fits nice. I guess I figured I’d…or you’d…”

He laughs, dropping his arm and letting you snatch the fabric. “You thought I’d want you to wear it again for me? Well…it is tempting.”

You quickly bend down to stuff it back in its box under the bed, having to swat his hand away when he playfully tries to spank you. Standing back up, you teasingly glare at him.

“What were you even doing looking under my bed in the first place?”

“You know I store some things here I don’t want people to find.” He explains, digging into his pocket to pull out a lockbox key. “But it seems I found a bonus.”

You nod softly, before giggling and trying to grab the key. Edward scoffs, and moves his hand, dangling it over your head and forcing you to try and reach it. He smirks a little when you can’t, and it widens when you playfully pout at him.

“You really think that’ll work on me? Try a little harder, won’t you?” he says, before scoffing louder at your attempt to jump up to grab it. It’s almost like he’s having fun before his phone rings. A flash of annoyance shows on his features, before he excuses himself and steps outside your bedroom. You glance underneath the bed, thinking about that night. It made you feel good, feel powerful, to be seen as so desirable by two men like that. You can’t deny the encounter left quite the impression; you’d slept with both of them at the same time a few times before that night, each time thinking it would be the last. At first you were surprised, since Edward had the tendency to be possessive, but the last time…well. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but it was like Edward enjoyed the fact it was Jonathan that was there with the both of you. After all, he’s never suggested sharing you with anyone else.

“Sorry doll, something came up.” Edward says as he steps back in the room, noticing how lost in thought you seem. The cogs in his brain start to turn, as he cups your jaw. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Make sure you’re free.”

“Yeah, I will.”

He pats your jaw a little and goes to walk away, before you make a soft noise and follow him. Rolling his eyes, he leans in to give you a kiss, but you don’t miss the hint of a smile before he does. You know he adores this, feeling needed by you.

“So needy.” He chastises lowly against your lips, before pulling away completely. “Tomorrow night.”

You hum your confirmation, before he leaves. Trying to go about your day as normal, your thoughts are constantly straying to the idea of you being in that outfit again for him, of serving him. Perhaps even serving both of them again. That night, laying in your bed alone, the thoughts seem more and more tempting, the memories causing the ache between your thighs to worsen. You attempt to squeeze your thighs together, forcing your eyes closed in an attempt to sleep, but your brain keeps replaying the encounter like a video tape stuck on replay. Feeling yourself get wet, you slip a hand down to relieve the tension, before a better idea pops up.

You reach over your bed and grab the box, quickly stripping yourself and squeezing your curves into the tight outfit. God you forgot how revealing it really was, as you turn the lights on in your bedroom to have a better look at yourself. As you turn in front of the mirror, you know what you’re about to do  is something that’ll certainly land you in hot water, but you can’t resist grabbing your phone from the bedside table and opening up the camera. Hesitating for a moment, you decide to get on your knees, straightening your back before snapping a picture, making sure to push your chest together so it looks extra obscene. Grinning at your little stunt, you send the picture to Edward with the text ‘I don’t know how I’m going to wait until tomorrow ;)’. You know it’ll most likely be a while before he sees it, so you grab your vibrator from your dresser and settle into bed, ripping off the crotch of your bodysuit and preparing for a good night.

Just before you go to sleep, you see a message from Edward. Opening it, it reads ‘you naughty minx, just wait until I get my hands on you. You’ll pay for that.’

Tomorrow night turns into tonight, as you get home to your apartment. Since he was vague about the time, you figured he wouldn’t be in as you open the door and see a gift box in a beautiful shade of emerald green sat on your coffee table. You go over and read the note, that gives you express instructions to not open it until 8pm sharp. Laughing softly at Edward’s theatrics, you obey the note’s instructions and wait, making dinner for yourself instead. However the time rolls around eventually, and using your phone’s time to be extra sure, as soon as it strikes 8pm you unwrap the box. Pulling out the fabric you see, your eyes widen. A…maid outfit? You’ve got to be kidding.

Just then, your phone buzzes with a notification. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, I expect you wearing that when I come through the door.’

You’re pretty shocked at that, looking back at the maid outfit. You figured he’d simply make you wear the bunny suit again…until you remember. You remember the conversation Edward had with Jonathan after they’d had their way with you.

“What was it between?” Jonathan pipes up.

“This, or a maid outfit.” He explains, looking at your form with a smirk. “I went with something classy.”

You realise he simply got you the other choice he considered, the other outfit he wanted to see you in. But you momentarily forgot you were on the clock, so you quickly get changed into the maid dress. How he managed to get one that fits you so perfectly in such a short space of time is beyond you…unless he bought both this and the bunny suit at the same time. Bastard.

You go to the bedroom to look in your full-length mirror, analysing the ensemble for the first time. It’s short, which was to be expected, with white lace trimmings along the skirt and the edge of the sleeves. It has a white apron that ties neatly in a bow at the back, as well as lace that goes around your wrists and neck. A lacy pair of white panties had been included, which you hurriedly pulled up. Finally, a headband sits on your hair, completing the uniform of a maid that would certainly be fired for violating a dress code. Still, it was very flattering to your figure, and you exemplified the look by applying some red lipstick, before anxiously pacing around your apartment until you hear a knock at the door. At least he knocked this time.

Opening it, you’re greeted to Edward’s smug grin as he looks you up and down. He looked good tonight, hair styled back with only a few rogue red strands falling out of place, green suit ironed and form fitting as he steps inside and shuts the door.

“What a fine-looking maid I’ve hired.” He teases, before you giggle and playfully swat his arm.

“When did you buy this?”

“Does it matter? I knew you’d look ravishing in it.” He says, and he revels in how you so obviously bask in his praise. Leaning down, he gives you a teasing peck on the junction between your neck and shoulder. “Come on, I’m a busy man. Aren’t you going to offer to take my jacket?”

You roll your eyes but walk around him regardless, helping him take his jacket off before hanging it up. When you return he’s settled on your sofa, legs spread as he gets comfortable. You go to sit on his lap before he stops you, tutting.

“No no doll. You see I have something…special planned for tonight.” You tilt your head, as he checks his watch. “Should have known the bastard would be late.”

He watches in satisfaction as realisation dawns on you. “Wait…is Jonathan-“

“Is there a problem?” he asks, his smile still adorning his features, but his eyes are clearly searching yours for any sign of discomfort. When you shake your head, he continues. “It’s been a while since our last escapade. I was feeling generous.”

You giggle softly, both in excitement and embarrassment. It’s true you hadn’t seen Jonathan since you’d dressed as the playboy bunny for them both, so it was a little mortifying to know he’d be coming and seeing you in yet another slutty outfit. You perch on the arm of the sofa as you ask Edward about what he’s been busy with, listening to his plans on how to humiliate his next targets: this time the employees of a company advertising a new chess set that’s designed to be easier to play than normal chess, not hard to see why your boyfriend would have such a petty intellectual objection to such a thing. Before long though, there’s a firm knock at the door, to which Edward gestures with his head.

“Well go on then, maid.”

You flush and glare at him, before getting up and walking to the door, seeing the always dishevelled appearance of Jonathan Crane. He gives a wolf whistle as he eyes you up, southern accent as charming as ever. “Well well well, looks like ol’ Eddie got ya in the outfit after all.”

Smiling a little shyly, you step aside and let him enter. Jonathan glances around your apartment idly, before nodding at Edward when he comes into view.

“Doesn’t she just look ravishing Jon?”

“That she does, gotta admit this is mighty fine payback.”

You frown a little in confusion. “Payback?”

You observe as Edward’s jaw clenches, while Jonathan lets out a throaty laugh. “Oh he didn’t tell ya? Can’t say I’m surprised. He never is fond of admitting when he’s screwed up.”

“Oh shut it Crane.” Edward says petulantly, but he clearly isn’t about to explain the situation, so Jonathan continues.

“Well me and Edward here were workin’ together on a little payback of our own for Mister Dent for meddlin’ where he wasn’t supposed to. And Edward was supposed to be in charge of procuring some product I needed, but he had to go runnin’ his big mouth to the supplier. Nearly got us both caught.”

“How was I supposed to know that buffoon would object so severely to being called out for having as much brain matter as a turkey in a coma, that he’d rat us out to the cops?”

You can’t help but laugh softly as Jonathan rolls his eyes before looking at you. “See what I mean? Big. Mouth.”

Edward grumbles, before you speak up again. “So Edward offered…”

“You? Well yesterday, he implied you might be interested in um, how should I put it? Being shared again? So I said if you were willin’, I’d be more than susceptible to forgivin’ Eddie’s little mishap.”

“And now you’re eyeing my girlfriend in a stunning outfit I paid for. Any man would be a fool not to be grateful for this opportunity. Let alone twice.”

You flush more at the comment, but you can’t deny the arousal that blossoms between your legs at the feeling of being desirable once again. Glancing between the two men, Edward smirks a little as he asserts himself as once again being in control of this situation.

“I figured you’d be interested in giving a bit of…disciplinary action. After all, my maid was a little whore last night when she attempted to tease me over text.”

Feeling your breath catch, you glance at Jonathan who steps closer. “Is that right?”

Knowing there’s no point in denying it, you nod shamefully. “I sent him a picture of myself in the playboy bunny costume.”

Jonathan lets out another throaty laugh. “Oh naughty girl. I bet that got him all riled up.”

You giggle softly, as Jonathan tilts your chin up. Looking up at him, you always get a little nervous when you’re at the centre of Jonathan’s intense gaze, dark eyes looking at you like you’re prey.

Edward seems to be enjoying the show, adjusting himself on the sofa as he speaks. “You can do as you wish, within reason. Just make sure she learns her lesson.”

Jonathan seemingly ponders Edward’s words, tilting your chin side to side as if he were inspecting you. You swallow, the feeling of embarrassment curling inside you once more as he smirks. “Edward, would you mind if we took this naughty maid to her bedroom?”

“Not at all.”

You follow the two men obediently before Jonathan pulls you onto his lap, straddling him. Hesitantly, you hold his shoulders as he runs his hands almost experimentally along your waist, feeling the material. “Gotta admit, I think I prefer this one to the bunny suit. Big fan of the details.”

He punctuates his words by tracing under the skirt, feeling your ass shamelessly, and causing you to arch into him a little. “Y’know, it’s a real shame I can’t see you with a little of my fear toxin in y’system. I bet you look beautiful when you’re afraid.”

“Crane.” Edward says darkly. A warning.

He hums, tracing your neck with one of his long fingers. “Pulse racin’, the way your chest would heave with your breaths, the way y’pretty eyes would look at me with tears in ‘em”

Glancing at Edward, Jonathan sees the death glare the other man is giving him as he leans against your dresser. So he seemingly takes the hint, deciding to lean in and kiss along your neck as you sigh and tilt your head. Little do you know he’s lulling you into a false sense of security before he smacks your ass hard. You jolt, gripping his shoulders tighter.

“Y’know, maybe a good old-fashioned punishment would help a little whore like you.” Jonathan murmurs in your ear, before pushing you off him. “Over my lap. Now.”

You scramble to do as he says, presenting your ass to him as you glance at your boyfriend, who’s now sitting next to where your head is on the bed. He looks at you with an expression unreadable to you, but you don’t have time to ponder it before Jonathan pulls the white panties so your ass is fully exposed before striking you once again. You let out a pitiful yelp at the sting, before he spanks you again. And again. And again.

Edward strokes your cheek in a mock display of comfort, but his greedy eyes betray his intentions as he speaks. “Oh darling, does that hurt?”

“Damn right she’s hurtin’.” Jonathan states, smacking your ass again hard to punctuate his words, “Need to make sure she’s taught a lesson, right?”

You let out a soft moan, nodding obediently at the statement, even if it wasn’t necessarily directed at you. Still, Edward chuckles softly and taps your cheek a few times absentmindedly. Jonathan gropes the tender flesh he’s struck, feeling you against his stinging palm as he uses his other hand to feel the material of your dress again. After a few more spanks, he notices the slight tears forming in your eyes and revels in it. Revels in the fear and painful pleasure he’s caused you, revels in the fact Edward is letting him defile you like this.

“Hm, how about y’apologise to Eddie here, for bein’ such an insolent brat. Say ‘I’m sorry sir, I will not be a naughty tease again’.”

Flushing at his words, you glance up at Edward shyly and start to speak. “I’m sorry sir, I won’t be a tease again.”

Edward smirks, like he knows a cruel inside joke that you don’t, as he glances at the man still groping you. Jonathan returns the smirk, before he grips your hair tight and pulls. “Really are a dumb one, huh? Don’t tell me a couple of spanks have rendered you incapable of rememberin’ a simple sentence. Guess I expected more from The Riddler’s girl.”

You whimper in slight pain at the hair pull, as he spanks you harshly twice in quick succession. “I said, say ‘I’m sorry sir, I will not be a naughty tease again.” He says slowly, sounding out each word to make you feel more stupid. You’re much more used to this type of condescension from Edward, so you can’t deny the thrill of Jonathan also getting off to you making mistakes like this.

“I’m sorry sir, I will not be a naughty tease again.” This time you repeat it perfectly, looking up at Edward through fluttering eyelashes for added effect, which he seems to appreciate.

“I suppose that’ll do.” Edward says, feigning indifference.

You just about have time to breathe a sigh of relief before Jonathan’s long fingers are tracing against where your clit is over your panties, feeling how soaked the material is. “Filthy girl. You got off on me spankin’ your bratty ass.”

Choking back a needy moan, you do your best to stay still in order to hopefully escape any more punishment. He keeps gently circling, the material acting as a barrier to stop any true pleasure, but being so needy meant you enjoyed the attention regardless.

“Such a depraved little maid. I simply don’t know where I found you.” Edward remarks, tapping your lower lip with his fingers before pushing two inside. You whine softly around the digits, sucking gently as Jonathan removes your ruined underwear. Though just as Jonathan pushes two fingers inside your cunt, Edward shoves his further into your mouth, causing you to choke and moan at the same time.

The lewdness of what’s being done to you causes you to clench around the doctor’s fingers, closing your eyes to retain whatever scrap of dignity remains. Still, you keep sucking obediently as Jonathan fingers you. It’s technical and precise; almost cold in its simplicity and determination. Your g spot is stroked and prodded as you lay there, trying not to splutter and gag around your lover’s digits that seem desperate to reach the back of your throat.

“Does it feel good I wonder, to be this depraved? This wanton?” Jonathan speaks, like he’s diagnosing you. “Or do you feel the hint of fear up y’spine as you realise there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.”

You moan around Edward’s fingers, the words just adding to your near constantly increasing arousal. Jonathan has your dress skirt bunched up in his fist while his other works you, allowing him to see every part of you that he wishes. Although when your eyes look up to Edward’s, his gaze seems stuck between Jonathan’s fingers slipping in and out of your wet cunt messily, or the scarecrow himself.

A particularly audible gag from the back of your throat snaps him out of his trance though, as he quickly looks down at you and removes his fingers, realising he became absentminded and went that bit too far. He doesn’t apologise however, far from it, instead wiping his spit coated fingers on the shoulder of your dress, before smirking down at you.

“I bet you like it, don’t you doll? You like feeling so dirty.”

You nod at him, panting as Jonathan speeds up his fingering. You couldn’t really deny his words, the feeling was exhilarating after all.

“You’re lucky to have a girl like this Edward, so eager to debase herself f’your entertainment.” Jonathan laughs, curling his fingers just right.

“Oh, you should hear her on a day-to-day basis. She has a mouth on her, I can tell you that.”

The friction from Jonathan’s trouser material rubbing against your clit whirls in your mind to form a symphony of pleasure in your core, threatening to tip you over the edge, so you vocalise it as to not warrant more punishment from the two men.

“Oh look at that, the slutty maid wants to cum.” Edward says with a grin.

“But should she?” Jonathan asks, pretending to think about it as he doesn’t slow down.

“Well as much as I believe my opinion holds the most weight here, since she’s my lover, I suppose you can decide, so I can really demonstrate my repentance for the whole supplier business.” His tone is smarmy, almost rolling his eyes at the fact he’s hinging your chance at orgasm on the whims of a sadist.

“Gotta admit, I would like to see what she looks like if she’s edged. Bet she’s a fuckin’ sight.”

“Please,” You stutter out, hand that was laying limp by your face now gripping Edward’s thigh, which luckily he doesn’t seem to object at, “can’t hold it.”

With a fake hum, Jonathan pulls his fingers out, watching with glee as your pussy clenches around nothing. You can’t help the desperate whine of being denied, but the doctor simply smacks your ass once again to shut you up, gleefully observing the tears forming in your eyes.

“So, I get to fuck her? Or does your pride dictate you go first?” Jonathan snipes at Edward, smirking.

This time Edward really does roll his eyes, but waves his hand in a dismissive fashion. “Yes you can fuck her, she’s clearly desperate for something.”

He hides it with his words, but the truth is Edward wants to see his criminal partner fuck you more than anything, the visual image always turning him on so much he almost feels dizzy. While he wouldn’t dream of divulging to Jonathan how on many lonely nights away from you, he’s pumped himself to completion at the thought of seeing you fucked mercilessly by him, Edward definitely won’t pass up the opportunity to see it unfold now.

So he helps manoeuvre you into position, your back against your boyfriend’s chest as Jonathan quickly rids himself of the necessary items of clothing before settling between your parted thighs. Reaching back slightly, you relax immediately at the feeling of Edward’s hand on your own, thumb rubbing circles. Whether it was to comfort you, or to once again display ownership of you, it didn’t really matter in your hazy headspace.

“Gonna say please?” Jonathan remarks, dragging his cock up and down your wetness.

“Please sir.” You reply instantly, the denial making you horny beyond belief.

Jonathan laughs at your quick response, saying “Wow, really takin’ the whole maid thing to heart. Here I was thinkin’ you’ll only call Edward that.”

Before Edward can fit a smartass comment in, Jonathan pushes forward, filling you at a steady pace until he’s deep inside your cunt. A pathetic but pleasured cry echoes from your throat, head falling back against Edward’s body. Even Jonathan lets out a small grunt of satisfaction, feeling your walls around him like a vice as he drags himself out slowly before pushing back in.

“That feel nice?” Edward asks, knowing the answer already but chuckling at your whimpered confirmation. “How about you Jon? Gonna cum already?”

“Shut up Nygma.” He grits out, gripping your thighs tightly as he sets his pace. Lewd noises emit from your pussy, you truly are drenched as he fucks you, pussy eager to have something after being denied. With each thrust, you let out a soft moan, feeling completely enclosed by the two criminals. You were all so close…too close. “God, y’just had to sit so fuckin’ close.”

Edward laughs sharply. “Oh, are you complaining? I’m holding her up for you, and besides, I wouldn’t be able to do this otherwise.” He punctuates his words by grabbing your tits firmly under the fabric of your dress, massaging them and making you moan louder and more wantonly.

“I could do that.” Jonathan snaps back, and you can’t believe you’re being railed out of your mind and these two are bickering like an old married couple, cunt throbbing as Jonathan fucks you.

“Well I’m doing it. Be grateful I let you fuck her, or did you forget she’s my girlfriend.”

“How can I forget when you keep remindin' me of it every goddamn second.”

Your eyes roll back after a particularly delicious thrust, letting out a choked cry that causes Edward’s gaze to snap back to you.

“That’s it doll, just feel how much pleasure he’s giving you. Then remember how much better it’ll feel when I finally get inside of you.”

“God do you ever shut up, even when you’re a cuck you’re still fuckin’ whining.”

You feel Edward tense behind you, clearly taking umbrage at Jonathan’s choice of words.

“You really are a fool Crane, as if I’d ever let myself be a cuck. This is called a threesome; would you like me to pull up a definition for you?”

Both men were getting more and more annoyed at each-other, and that manifested in their rougher treatment of you. Jonathan was slamming into you with conviction now, having a point to prove. His cock stretching you out so completely, the intensity causing you to almost shake. And Edward was pinching your nipples roughly between his thumb and forefinger, needing to assert himself.

“Y’just so-“

“Fine, you really need more of an elaboration Jonathan? Then I’ll oblige you.” Edward snaps, before doing something you truly weren’t expecting. He quickly leans forward, almost folding you in the process, and captures the scarecrow’s lips in a fierce kiss.

Jonathan is clearly stunned, not moving for a second as his brain catches up. You half expect him to push Edward away; to yell or stop…but you watch with wide eyes as he matches Edward’s intensity. The kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongues mashing together, but you can’t deny it’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen. Edward bites Jonathan’s lower lip sharply, drawing blood that is quickly swapped between the two men in their exchange.

When they pull away, you observe the frenzied looks in both of their eyes, as Edward snakes his hand down to rub at your clit roughly. You cry out, clenching around Jonathan as he chases his own pleasure. Each thrust makes your ass rub against the obvious bulge straining in Edward’s suit trousers, causing your pussy to throb.

“Please…” you beg, hoping the endorphin rush from their kiss will make them take pity on you.

“Yeah, we’ll get y’there.” Jonathan says, voice a lower pitch that usual as he fucks you. Over and over he thrusts into you, until you’re sure that your brain is mush currently leaking out your ears. But with your lover’s nimble fingers tracing practiced circles on your clit, it doesn’t take long for you to announce your impending orgasm for the second time that night.

“C’mon darlin’, want to see you cum.” Jonathan remarks, to which Edward nods.

“I should have known the kiss would excite you that much, dirty whore. Make a mess for him.”

At their permission, you cum around Jonathan with a loud gasp, twitching in Edward’s hold. But Jonathan doesn’t slow down, too busy chasing his own climax. Sounds of overstimulation escape your parted lips, as Edward kisses your exposed neck and collarbone.

“Fuck, gonna cum deep inside ya.” Jonathan states, no room for argument, as you whimper and nod. A few seconds later, he’s buried to the hilt inside you, cumming with a loud groan you’ve hardly ever heard from him. His grip is bruising on your thighs, as you feel his release fill you up completely. Clearly he doesn’t do this often.

As he pulls out slowly, you hiss as his cum drips out of you. Edward looks over your shoulder, collecting the cum on his finger before rubbing it messily all over your pussy, making you look even more used. “Good girl sweetheart.”

You sigh happily at the praise, before you feel Edward grin and continues speaking. “But I hope you don’t think this is over. After all, I need to fuck my maid, don’t I.”

Biting your lip softly, you nod in agreement as Edward straightens you up, before bending you over so you fall unceremoniously into Jonathan. Luckily the doctor seems to have recovered from one of the best orgasms of his life, as he steadies you and helps Edward get you into position. Your dress is pulled over your head quickly, ‘roleplay’ long since discarded. Hearing a belt being unbuckled, you glance up at Jonathan as he smirks and rubs his thumb along your bottom lip.

“Well don’t you look happy to be used some more.” Jonathan says, wanting to see you embarrassed as you feel Edward press against your cunt, teasingly pushing the head of his cock in and out of you.

“Beg for me doll, just like you did for Jonathan.”

Gripping Jonathan’s forearms that are keeping you steady and upright on your knees, you turn your head and start to beg quietly. Too quiet for Edward’s liking, so he wraps his hands around your neck. “Come now, you know that isn’t going to cut it. Don’t make me punish you more.”

“Please sir,” you say louder, trying your hardest not to push back for extra stimulation, “please I need you, I need you to fuck me sir.”

After a few more pathetic sounding pleas, Edward pushes in quickly, causing you to lurch forward against Jonathan’s frame. Your gasp echoes around the room, as Edward groans at the sensation. Running his hands over your ass, neck now unrestricted, he savours the moment before starting his steady pace. He was gentler than Jonathan, but no less precise as you feel the pleasure run through you.

“Always feel so good around me.” Edward praises quietly, and you smile happily at the words and accidentally dig your nails in, causing Jonathan to hiss softly.

“Careful darlin’, can still punish you y’know.” He mutters gruffly, moving his hands up to pinch your nipples, giving you a taste of your own medicine.

“Fuck, she got tight at that.” Edward states, “Really are a little masochist aren’t you.”

You giggle softly at his words, turning as best you can to look at him. As he looks over your face, he can’t help but capture your lips in a kiss, swallowing your moans. His hand cups your cheek, moving your mouths together as he keeps snapping his hips against your own.

After you both pull away, your head rights itself to face forward, as Jonathan stares at your spit coated lips. You take initiative and kiss him too, which he quickly dominates by holding your neck firmly, controlling the pace. Hearing Edward make an uncharacteristically soft moan behind you only served to make your kiss more desperate, a tongue invading your mouth roughly. Gasping and whining, Jonathan pulls away to hear you, attacking your jawline and neck with his lips.

“Not gonna kiss me too?” Edward taunts towards the other man with a smirk, sounding slightly winded from his thrusts.

“Knew I was gonna regret that.”

“Oh please, as if you-“

Jonathan grabs your jaw, holding you in place as he leans over and kisses Edward once again, shutting the narcissist up. With his grip, you can’t quite turn your head to get a better view but you enjoy the show regardless. As they kiss, Edward speeds up, groaning into Jonathan’s mouth at the dual sensation.

When they pull away again, you swear all three of you moan in sync, the experience by far the most intense you’ve shared. Jonathan mentally curses his age that he can’t get hard again, wanting nothing more than to take your mouth as Edward fucks you from behind. Still, getting the show was a good second option, groping your chest.

You arch your back a little, pleasing both of them as you’re railed mercilessly. At your cries of pleasure, Jonathan starts to rub your clit messily, watching closely at where Edward’s cock is pushing into your cunt. The wet slaps are all you can hear, making your brain feel fuzzy before your boyfriend speaks into your ear.

“Such a good girl for me, for us.”

His words make you involuntarily clench around him, causing Edward’s moans to get louder, gripping your hips tightly. You feel overwhelmed, eyes blurry with pleasured tears as you get closer to your second orgasm. Scrambling, you hold the top of Jonathan’s arms tightly, causing him to laugh under his breath.

“Gettin’ closer ain’t ya?” Jonathan says lowly, keeping up the pressure on your clit. You nod, causing Edward to change his rhythm; clearly trying to last long enough for you to orgasm.

“Need you to cum around me sweetheart.” Edward gets out, his breath catching as he tries his best not to finish.

Nodding, you feel yourself reaching the edge, just as Jonathan wraps his other hand around your neck, applying pressure. “Cum, and maybe I’ll let ya breathe.”

His threat, and the added stimulation, cause you to twitch before cumming hard around your boyfriend, eyes closing. A couple of rough thrusts later, and you’re filled up for the second time, Edward’s release pumping inside of you. Both of you are moaning and gasping for air, before Edward pulls out slowly, watching the mess that drips out of your thoroughly used cunt. If it wasn’t for Jonathan, you’d have completely collapsed on the bed, him holding you up as Edward shuffles around your body to hold your face, turning you towards him.

“Still with me doll?” he asks with a smug smile, but his eyes betray the fact he’s checking on you as his gaze darts over your features. At your nod and weak but giddy grin, he laughs and kisses your cheek, pulling you against him. Jonathan looks as awkward as ever, never quite knowing what to do afterwards. He observes silently as Edward soothingly touches you, before your boyfriend glances up.

“Are you going to sit there like a ghoul, or are you going to make yourself useful and grab a towel.”

Jonathan clicks his jaw in annoyance but does as instructed, making his way into your bathroom and rifling around for a small towel, coming back and cleaning you himself. His way of showing gratitude.

Once you’re suitably cleaned up, you cling to Edward like you always do, as he basks in the afterglow and your attention solely on him. Jonathan clears his throat, the weight of the encounter really settling on him now. Not only did he partake in sharing you again, but now he’s kissed his criminal partner, this’ll certainly…complicate things in his mind. Mainly because he’s already reminiscing about it.

“Well, guess this does make up f’you bein’ an ass Nygma.” Jonathan says, maintaining his aloof nature.

“Yes I thought so.” Edward says with a cheeky grin, “I suppose I have my own personal get out of jail free card.”

You slap him playfully at that comment, causing him to mock pout at you and theatrically rub his arm, before Jonathan scoffs. “Yeah right, as if that’ll work with anyone but me. Why don’t you suggest it to the bat next time he bruises y’pretty face.”

“I am pretty Jon, thank you for finally noticing.” Edward retorts, causing Jonathan to roll his eyes. “And obviously that wouldn’t work, Selina has him on a tight leash I’m sure.”

In a strange sort of way, their bickering is almost comforting to you as you continue to relax in Edward’s embrace. His arms hold you, almost instinctively reassuring himself that you’re still his, despite your…well, you aren’t sure what to call the nights like these anymore. But as you look between them both, and how Jonathan has made no attempt to leave the bed again, and seems to have actually sat closer, you can’t deny how excited this new prospect makes you.