ivy-bluefire

[ivy-bluefire]

I've reread this so many times, and it's so good. I'm obsessed with the idea of this poor guy going from so angry to so embarrassed.

All of the other staff are gonna look at reader and be sooooo confused about how they got him to calm down.

WHAT WAS THE ORIGINAL PLAN, THOUGH-- it's so funny how it went from "haha, lemme give this guy a massage" to a handjob lmao. I'm so curious though, cause it would be hilarious if Reader's original plan was "let's touch this guy and give him a massage while he's strapped down"

`♡° kinktober 2024! ---

☆ kink: massage (dubious consent)

☆ pairing: riddler/reader

☆ summary: With the Riddler restrained to a gurney, you test out a new way to get your favourite 'patient' to calm down.

kinktober '24 ☆ main masterlist ☆ ao3

Restrained to the bed with several thick straps digging into his limbs, Edward Nygma was every inch the picture of indignation as he struggled against his bonds. Abandoned to your personal care due to a myriad of reasons which ranged from other staff finding him unbearable to a lack of available personnel, he had only been strapped down to the gurney for around ten minutes but it was ten minutes of a relentless verbal barrage.

“Fools! Cretins! You are all so weak in the presence of such genius that you must keep me held like this? Your stupidity is baffling and the world will not miss your presence when my revenge is had. How dare any of you put your hands on me?”

Spitting the final question with vitriol, the sheer level of irritation in his voice sparks an idea within your mind – one which is bolstered by just how absolutely fed up you are with his goddamn attitude.

“Mr Nygma,” interrupting his rant as you came to stand beside his torso, “I am going to have to ask you to relax.”

“Relax?” Snarling the response, Edward’s green eyes are narrowed at you in such a way that you immediately understand that if his hands were not restrained then they would be wrapped around your neck in a heartbeat. “Untie me now, wench.”

“It’s my job to keep you settled as a patient,” meeting his anger with forced patience, you put your plan into action as you drop your hands to his thin shoulders. Your thumbs instantly go to work, rubbing circles into his tensed muscles as his body goes stock-still at the unexpected sensation.

"What are you- unhand me at once you sour-faced bitch."

"That's not very kind, Mr Nygma. Your muscles are in knots and it would be better to let me rub you down."

Gripping his shoulders, you dig your fingers into the skin there and admire the way his entire body jerks at the touch as he pulls at the restraints with renewed energy. Trapped, he is utterly helpless beneath your hands and the power you hold over him in this instant is heady – your fingers trembling slightly at the smooth out across his shoulder before returning to rub along the base of his neck.

“Stop. Touching. Me.”

Anger giving way to something almost like panic, the shift is what you expected and you take it in stride as you move to stand behind his head, gazing down as his emerald eyes with resolution.

“No.”

Dragging your fingers higher, you rub your digits across his scalp. His auburn hair looks redder than usual against the stark whiteness of the gurney as you disturb the strands. They feel almost damp against your fingers, a mixed result of his sweat-laced struggles and also the natural oils which have built up there between his showers.

You roll your nails against the area just to the side of his ears and you both freeze in place at the low moan which slips free of his lips at the sensation. His eyes, which until now have been stubbornly facing away from your position, tilt up to meet your own and you can see the shame burning fiercely at his own reaction. And yet, his head can’t seem to help itself as it presses firmly into your hands – silently asking for what his pride could never stomach to demand.

Glancing down at his body, a thrill of wickedness lances through your gut as you take in the visible tent which pokes free of the fabric which covers his groin. It catches you by surprise but your plans switch in an instant as arousal joins the cruel delight which is powering your movements and you decide to push your fun to its extremes.

“Mr Nygma!” Feigning shock at the obvious tent, you place your hand on his upper thigh and enjoy the way that the muscles tense beneath your fingers. “I see that you’re feeling more relaxed than I thought.”

His cheeks a wild shade of pink, you can see the shame which is making his features tight as he refuses to look down and meet your eye. All of that earlier bravado is gone, replaced by a woeful embarrassment as his own body betrayed him at your soft touches.

“I’m not cruel like the rest of them, Edward. Can I call you Edward? Eddie?”

Taking it into your palm, a move which draws a sharp inhale from Edward as his fingers visibly scrape against the fabric of the gurney, you stroke along his length with a soft jerking motion. He’s not overly huge but his cock has a slight thickness which feels nice in your hand, as you gently work along his velvety skin.

He says nothing but you can see the twitch in his jaw at the question.

Pulling the waistband of his pants down a few inches, you slowly reveal a healthy patch of auburn pubic hair which curls all the way down to the base of his cock and you unleash a feigned gasp of surprise as his cock springs free – jutting proudly towards his stomach.

Despite the situation, he remains stubbornly silent and you enjoy the peace for what its worth. That said, he can’t hide how much your actions are affecting him. Every stroke of your hand forces a soft gasp from his lips, his mouth forming into a slight ‘o’ as you focus your attention on his strained cockhead – the tip jerking into your palm as it begs for more in a way that its owner cannot.

“You shouldn’t be- this isn’t right.” Panting out the broken words, there is a cuteness to how determined Edward is to continue to try and deny that he is enjoying himself – his throbbing cock making his arousal utterly undeniable as his hips buck into your hand with what little purchase they can manage. “Why are y-”

“I’m giving you what you need, Eddie. You’re too uptight when they try to lock you up in these restraints, so I think a little positive encouragement might help you,” crooning the words, you tighten your hand around the base of his cock and use the fingers of your other hand to polish the head of his cock, spreading his leaking pre-cum to make the movements even smoother.

“No, no,” he pleads, unable to pull away and having to endure every wicked touch you subject him to as he whines, “please, I’m close.” His hair is a mess, the thrashing of his skull against the gurney having knocked most of the coiffed locks free, and you take pity and drop your fingers from his cockhead.

“If you ask me to finish you off I will,” you offer, using your free hand to stroke along his jaw and feel the slight sweat which had developed there. “I’m not that cruel.”

Overworked and overstimulated, Edward can barely wrap his mouth around the words as he shudders against the gurney and cants his hips like a desperate schoolboy.

“Please, nurse. Please let me- let me come.”

Pleased with the request, you glance at him with a smirk, “Okay.”

True to your word, you pick up the pace on your hand and quickly pull him over the edge he’s been dangling on for the last minute. His orgasm hits with surprising violence, his release spurting across your hand hard enough to break free of his cock and splash across the fabric which covers his lower stomach. Unable to control his breathing, the whine which pairs with his release sends a shiver of arousal through your cunt and you can feel the dampness of your panties as they press against your drenched slit.

Knowing that you’ll be replaying that sound in your mind later as you fuck yourself silly on your bed, you settle for rubbing your thighs together gently as you drop his cock from your fingers.

“Now,” wiping your come stained hand off on the inside of your nurse scrubs with a placating smile, you take a moment to pull his pants back up, “are you going to be a good patient for me, Eddie?”

Still attempting to hide how harshly he was breathing; his head moves slowly in an agreeing nod – his gaze refusing to meet your own. You can feel the embarrassment radiating off him, the shame at how easily his own body had betrayed him, how easily he had came with just a little attention to his aching length.

Ruffling his hair with your other hand, a delayed feeling of shock settles in your skin as you realise exactly what just happened, what you just did, but you play it off with a soft exhale and focus on the task of getting Edward back to his cell without incident.

[ivy-bluefire]

*soft, wistful sigh* honestly, same..

I want a mad scientist to do fucked up sexual experiments on me...

[ivy-bluefire]

`♡° kinktober 2024! ---

☆ kink: massage (dubious consent)

☆ pairing: riddler/reader

☆ summary: With the Riddler restrained to a gurney, you test out a new way to get your favourite 'patient' to calm down.

kinktober '24 ☆ main masterlist ☆ ao3

Restrained to the bed with several thick straps digging into his limbs, Edward Nygma was every inch the picture of indignation as he struggled against his bonds. Abandoned to your personal care due to a myriad of reasons which ranged from other staff finding him unbearable to a lack of available personnel, he had only been strapped down to the gurney for around ten minutes but it was ten minutes of a relentless verbal barrage.

“Fools! Cretins! You are all so weak in the presence of such genius that you must keep me held like this? Your stupidity is baffling and the world will not miss your presence when my revenge is had. How dare any of you put your hands on me?”

Spitting the final question with vitriol, the sheer level of irritation in his voice sparks an idea within your mind – one which is bolstered by just how absolutely fed up you are with his goddamn attitude.

“Mr Nygma,” interrupting his rant as you came to stand beside his torso, “I am going to have to ask you to relax.”

“Relax?” Snarling the response, Edward’s green eyes are narrowed at you in such a way that you immediately understand that if his hands were not restrained then they would be wrapped around your neck in a heartbeat. “Untie me now, wench.”

“It’s my job to keep you settled as a patient,” meeting his anger with forced patience, you put your plan into action as you drop your hands to his thin shoulders. Your thumbs instantly go to work, rubbing circles into his tensed muscles as his body goes stock-still at the unexpected sensation.

"What are you- unhand me at once you sour-faced bitch."

"That's not very kind, Mr Nygma. Your muscles are in knots and it would be better to let me rub you down."

Gripping his shoulders, you dig your fingers into the skin there and admire the way his entire body jerks at the touch as he pulls at the restraints with renewed energy. Trapped, he is utterly helpless beneath your hands and the power you hold over him in this instant is heady – your fingers trembling slightly at the smooth out across his shoulder before returning to rub along the base of his neck.

“Stop. Touching. Me.”

Anger giving way to something almost like panic, the shift is what you expected and you take it in stride as you move to stand behind his head, gazing down as his emerald eyes with resolution.

“No.”

Dragging your fingers higher, you rub your digits across his scalp. His auburn hair looks redder than usual against the stark whiteness of the gurney as you disturb the strands. They feel almost damp against your fingers, a mixed result of his sweat-laced struggles and also the natural oils which have built up there between his showers.

You roll your nails against the area just to the side of his ears and you both freeze in place at the low moan which slips free of his lips at the sensation. His eyes, which until now have been stubbornly facing away from your position, tilt up to meet your own and you can see the shame burning fiercely at his own reaction. And yet, his head can’t seem to help itself as it presses firmly into your hands – silently asking for what his pride could never stomach to demand.

Glancing down at his body, a thrill of wickedness lances through your gut as you take in the visible tent which pokes free of the fabric which covers his groin. It catches you by surprise but your plans switch in an instant as arousal joins the cruel delight which is powering your movements and you decide to push your fun to its extremes.

“Mr Nygma!” Feigning shock at the obvious tent, you place your hand on his upper thigh and enjoy the way that the muscles tense beneath your fingers. “I see that you’re feeling more relaxed than I thought.”

His cheeks a wild shade of pink, you can see the shame which is making his features tight as he refuses to look down and meet your eye. All of that earlier bravado is gone, replaced by a woeful embarrassment as his own body betrayed him at your soft touches.

“I’m not cruel like the rest of them, Edward. Can I call you Edward? Eddie?”

Taking it into your palm, a move which draws a sharp inhale from Edward as his fingers visibly scrape against the fabric of the gurney, you stroke along his length with a soft jerking motion. He’s not overly huge but his cock has a slight thickness which feels nice in your hand, as you gently work along his velvety skin.

He says nothing but you can see the twitch in his jaw at the question.

Pulling the waistband of his pants down a few inches, you slowly reveal a healthy patch of auburn pubic hair which curls all the way down to the base of his cock and you unleash a feigned gasp of surprise as his cock springs free – jutting proudly towards his stomach.

Despite the situation, he remains stubbornly silent and you enjoy the peace for what its worth. That said, he can’t hide how much your actions are affecting him. Every stroke of your hand forces a soft gasp from his lips, his mouth forming into a slight ‘o’ as you focus your attention on his strained cockhead – the tip jerking into your palm as it begs for more in a way that its owner cannot.

“You shouldn’t be- this isn’t right.” Panting out the broken words, there is a cuteness to how determined Edward is to continue to try and deny that he is enjoying himself – his throbbing cock making his arousal utterly undeniable as his hips buck into your hand with what little purchase they can manage. “Why are y-”

“I’m giving you what you need, Eddie. You’re too uptight when they try to lock you up in these restraints, so I think a little positive encouragement might help you,” crooning the words, you tighten your hand around the base of his cock and use the fingers of your other hand to polish the head of his cock, spreading his leaking pre-cum to make the movements even smoother.

“No, no,” he pleads, unable to pull away and having to endure every wicked touch you subject him to as he whines, “please, I’m close.” His hair is a mess, the thrashing of his skull against the gurney having knocked most of the coiffed locks free, and you take pity and drop your fingers from his cockhead.

“If you ask me to finish you off I will,” you offer, using your free hand to stroke along his jaw and feel the slight sweat which had developed there. “I’m not that cruel.”

Overworked and overstimulated, Edward can barely wrap his mouth around the words as he shudders against the gurney and cants his hips like a desperate schoolboy.

“Please, nurse. Please let me- let me come.”

Pleased with the request, you glance at him with a smirk, “Okay.”

True to your word, you pick up the pace on your hand and quickly pull him over the edge he’s been dangling on for the last minute. His orgasm hits with surprising violence, his release spurting across your hand hard enough to break free of his cock and splash across the fabric which covers his lower stomach. Unable to control his breathing, the whine which pairs with his release sends a shiver of arousal through your cunt and you can feel the dampness of your panties as they press against your drenched slit.

Knowing that you’ll be replaying that sound in your mind later as you fuck yourself silly on your bed, you settle for rubbing your thighs together gently as you drop his cock from your fingers.

“Now,” wiping your come stained hand off on the inside of your nurse scrubs with a placating smile, you take a moment to pull his pants back up, “are you going to be a good patient for me, Eddie?”

Still attempting to hide how harshly he was breathing; his head moves slowly in an agreeing nod – his gaze refusing to meet your own. You can feel the embarrassment radiating off him, the shame at how easily his own body had betrayed him, how easily he had came with just a little attention to his aching length.

Ruffling his hair with your other hand, a delayed feeling of shock settles in your skin as you realise exactly what just happened, what you just did, but you play it off with a soft exhale and focus on the task of getting Edward back to his cell without incident.

[ivy-bluefire]

I'm crying, I feel so called out right now- One of my favorite OC's is an evil doctor who consistently tortures and murders people. At some point it went from, "ooooo he's running medical experiments~~" to "he's in it for the love of the game."

(I may or may not have also made him super hot.)

me in real life: torture and murder are horrible and you shouldn't do them.

me in fiction: torture and murder are literally the two sexiest and most fun things you could possibly do and you should do them all the time.

[ivy-bluefire]

Hi! Hihihi! big fan here!

I am fiending for something mouth watering, torturing, jaw dropping smutty fun with our boy from Assault on Arkham. Female reader please. Maybe she's a nurse working a shift at Arkham or a therapist or care tech? I'm just seeing total domination, daddydom/zaddy type vibes. But feel free to do whatever you feel.

Thank you for your time and consideration!!

Tata~!

Corrupting the young with your uncivil tongue

Summary: While on shift at Arkham Asylum, what should be a routine check on an injured inmate turns into something a whole lot more.

Warnings: 18+ smut, fem reader (no use of y/n), Assault on Arkham!Eddie, dom/sub dynamics, praise and degradation, choking, rough sex, fingering, face fucking

Words: 4.4k

Notes: Thank you so much sweetheart, you're too kind! This gave me an excuse to rewatch his scenes on yt (mgg really is one of the perfect voice actors for him, even with his sometimes dodgy vocal deliveries)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being a nurse meant seeing the truly ugly side of Arkham Asylum; the dangerous patients always being one movement away from lashing out at times. You didn't mind your job, in fact it was rather rewarding at times to help those you could, being able to feel as if you were making a difference in this cesspool of a city.

But many of the inmates you knew you couldn't trust, dangerous criminal masterminds who were constantly using Gotham City as a battleground for their many wars with the batman. And you knew deep down that The Riddler was one of those men. But still, he'd been nothing but...kind.

Well, maybe kind is a little bit too strong of a word. But he'd always been one of your better patients, never giving you too much trouble. And you couldn't deny the tiny part of you that lit up when you saw his name on your rota, no matter how much you pushed the feeling down in the crevices of your mind. His snarky smile would always be waiting for you when you administered the pills that he most likely just hid under his tongue, or to patch him up whenever his big mouth got him into trouble.

It seems today was one of those days, as you made your way to the rather empty infirmary and saw Edward laying in bed, flicking through a book without a care with one hand, the other handcuffed to the side. The doctor that saw to him had been rushed off his feet, rumblings of a mass riot causing all of the staff to be more overworked that usual, if that was even possible for a place like this. Still, you stood by his bed and closed the privacy curtain.

"There you are sweetheart, I was beginning to believe i'd been forgotten about. A distressing thought, i'll have you know."

You can't help but laugh softly at his dramatics, as he lowers the book to his side to give you a look at his face. A cut was across his cheek, not overly deep.

"Ah yes, this. Well that'll teach me not to display my mental superiority at dinner time, lest i'm slashed again. I really should have enacted some sort of revenge before one of the idiotic guards blundered in."

"Does it hurt?"

"Nothing more than a scratch, my dear."

There's that smile again, self-satisfied and smug, but with a hint of something else. He adjusts himself so he's sat more upright, watching with sharp eyes as you look through his medical chart, not missing the slight confusion on your features.

"Does anywhere else hurt?"

"If i say my chest, will I get to remove this horrid jumpsuit?"

You flush in spite of yourself, laughing softly at his insinuation which delights him greatly. Placing the chart down, you look back at him as he adjusts himself yet again.

"I see no reason why you'd need to stay, I can call for you to be escorted back to your cell now."

"Yes about that," he starts, looking around in a dramatic manner, "why is there no guard here anyway? Don't tell me they hardly see me as a threat? I'll have you know I-"

Shaking your head, you interrupt him. "No no, there's rumors of a riot starting. Everyone is on high alert. And it seems that there's a mistake on your chart...it says you have a broken leg. I doubt they thought you'd get very far."

The momentary annoyance of being interrupted dissipated when he heard your words, and he lets out a bark of a laugh.

"Oh the ineptitude of these fools truly never fails to amuse me." With a smirk, he tilts his head as he looks at you before continuing. "But i'm sure a girl like you wouldn't have made a mistake like that."

At his praise, you can't help the flush of pride that swirls in your chest despite who he is, as you smile softly. Pleased with the way you respond, he reaches up and gently tugs you closer to the bed by your arm.

"Does it take truly so little to flatter you?" he asks, causing you to look away for a moment before he squeezes your arm. "No. Look at me."

You do as he says, looking at his eyes through his glasses, before nodding a little. "I guess not..."

"Pity." he murmurs, looking at your chest unashamedly. "I'd have thought you'd be used to compliments, looking like that."

You feel the embarrassment and excitement bubble up in you at his words, despite your better judgement, despite the fact that a criminal mastermind is flirting with you and you like it. Forcing yourself to clear your head, you glance away yet again.

"Thank you."

"No problem darling."

Before turning to leave, he coughs slightly to get your attention.

"Hold on a moment. You really think it's a good idea to go out there? You said it yourself, a riot could break out at any moment." he declares, his eyes firmly fixed on yours.

"Well...yes. I could always go with the guards, they'd protect me."

"I could protect you." he says without missing a beat, without blinking. The look of shock must be evident on your face as you look at him.

"Why would you do that?"

"Why do I do anything?" he challenges, the rattle of the handcuff cutting through the room.

"...you do things when they benefit you." you say softly, trying to match his gaze.

"Exactly. Or maybe I want to protect the pretty nurse who always turns a blind eye when I don't swallow my pills."

"I-I don't-"

"Don't lie sweetheart, it doesn't suit you."

Hesitating, you glance down to where his hand is cuffed to the bed. This is a bad idea, an awful idea and you know it. But your apprehension is delicious to him, and he leans in as best he can.

"And you like the idea, don't you? Of The Riddler's protection?"

You swallow audibly, not denying his accusation. "I can't...i'm not Harley Quinn or anything, i'm not gonna go running off with a psycho-"

"Don't call me that." he snaps harshly, his tone serious and even making you flinch a little. Upon realising, he clears his throat a little in an attempt to calm down. "I'm not trying to dump you in a vat of acid to prove your devotion darling. I'm simply saying I could protect you."

Upon being under your gaze yet again, he puts on a smirk. "Besides, I'm not blind. The way you look at me is quite different than the way the other dimwitted orderlies do. It's...refreshing."

You release a breath, shaky and slow as you weigh up your options here. If a riot does break out...he probably could protect you. And it's not like he has any reason to harm you, right? Nodding slightly, you try and come up with some pathetic excuse before he interrupts you.

"What time is it?"

Slightly bewildered by the question, you glance at your small watch and reply, "About 7."

He hums, rolling his neck. "Might be a good idea to get me out of these handcuffs sweetheart."

Frowning, you go to ask him why before the power goes out. The room is plunged into darkness, causing you to jump at the sharp noise of the lights going. Frantically you stumble to try and head backwards before you feel a hand grasp at your waist, and suddenly you're pressed against a man's broad chest.

"Okay, I may have lied about needing your help to get out of the cuffs." Edward murmurs, before laughing smugly.

Panic sets in as you scramble to get away from him, but he only laughs harder and uses both hands to hold you still.

"Oh please stop struggling. You know I could overpower you. But I meant what I said darling, I'll protect you." he coos into your ear, and you can feel the satisfaction radiating from his smile in waves as he lets go of your arm.

"Now, be a good girl and barricade the door when the lights come back on."

"How do you know the light's will-"

With a bang, the lights come back on, and on instinct you follow his instructions. Regardless of the morally dubious actions of the serial killer you've found yourself with, you know how bloody Arkham riots can get, so self preservation wins out as you take a chair and push it against the door. Barricading yourself in with The Riddler.

He watches you carefully, half expecting you to make a run for it, but being slightly relieved when you trail back to him. "Good."

"How did you know when the lights would go off?"

"You're a smart girl darling, figure it out."

He must have known about the riot, hell he might have planned it. But what you couldn't understand was...

"You planned the riot, or at least knew. But why aren't..." you pause, as he steps closer, too close, "why aren't you trying to escape?"

He chuckles, lifting his hand to cup your chin. "Oh you naive girl. You think I orchestrated this just to escape? Perhaps I was wrong about you, or perhaps you're just too modest."

Observing the look of realisation on your face, he strokes his thumb along your cheekbone. "You can't taste it until you undress it, what am I?"

You can't deny the hitch in your breath at his, albeit cheesy riddle, which causes him to laugh more. "The answer isn't what you're probably thinking, but it's still an apt description of what I want to do to you."

What he wants to do to you. That's all you can hear rattling away in your brain as you let him stroke your cheek, down to the side of your neck.

"And trust me my dear, I want to do a lot of things to you."

"Like what?" you ask, the words spitting out without processing, but he smirks anyway.

"You want me to tell you? Tell you how much I want to dominate you completely? Have you completely at my mercy, as this whole asylum tears itself apart from the inside on my orders?"

You couldn't suppress the small whimper that escapes your lips even if you tried, as you nod your head. Instead, he moves his hand to wrap around your throat, slender fingers gently squeezing.

"How about I show you?" he rasps out, before slamming his lips against yours. It's all consuming, the way he keeps you still with his grip as his tongue forces it's way into your mouth. He explores every inch, reveling in the small moans he swallows as he uses his other hand to grab your hips, pulling you against him so you can feel the bulge straining against the garish orange jumpsuit.

"Get on your knees." he growls out against your lips, and you drop obediently. "Good girl, you're learning your place."

Not deterred by his condescending words, you gaze up at him as his fingers fiddle with the zipper of his jumpsuit, freeing himself after a moment. Your eyes immediately dart to his hard cock, watching as he pumps himself a few times and gently rests it on your cheek.

"A man can get certain...urges in a place like this. A lesser man would have probably resorted to his own hand to achieve momentary gratification, but I knew...I knew if I waited, victory would be all the more sweet."

He taps his cock on your lips, and you open and let your tongue gently run along the head. Gritting his teeth, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls, keeping you still and not allowing you the privilege of tasting him just yet.

"Ask me nicely. Tell me you've wanted me the same way." he demands.

"I've wanted you." you reply, staring up and giving him the most pleading expression you can muster. "I've always been attracted to you, I've always wanted you Edward."

He groans quietly, running his cock along your lips once again, humming appreciatively as you seem to have learnt your lesson in keeping your tongue to yourself.

"I do love you saying my name. But I think a different word is in order, after all, i'm here protecting you."

You know he's desperate for validation, desperate to feel superior and in control, but god you want to give it to him so badly.

"I've always wanted you sir." you ammend.

"That or 'master' will do." he smirks down at you, before tapping his dick against your lips deliberately. Getting the hint, you open up and let him push your head. Luckily he gives you the grace to not shove his whole length down your throat, pushing you halfway before letting you set the pace. You get to work immediately, bobbing your head as you suck, blinking up at him to observe his reactions.

You can't deny he looks stunning, his frown and brow lines relaxing as he lets you service him, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment to truly indulge in your wet mouth. He'd been in Arkham a few weeks now, and if what he said about relieving himself was true, it really had been a while since he felt such carnal pleasure.

As he opens his eyes again, he looks down at you once more, stroking your hair as you moan softly around his cock. While he certainly isn't going to admit it, he's relieved you were so eager to get on your knees for him, happy he got the signals right, happy he wouldn't have to admit that his lust was unrequited, what's he thinking, he's the riddler! Any woman would be lucky to have him, he's a specimen -

His thoughts are stopped when you push further, taking him deeper into your throat before pulling away for breath, taking him in your soft hand and jerking him. He let's out a slightly higher pitched noise, before growling and gripping your hair with both hands.

"Arms behind your back dear, let's see if I was right to choose you."

You do what he instructs, taking a deep breath before he pushes his cock into your willing mouth. This time he doesn't hold back, holding you in place as he thrusts shallowly into your mouth, before pushing deeper. Suppressing the urge to gag, you moan brokenly around him as your fingernails dig into your own arms, willing against your body's natural instinct to put your hands on his thighs and push against him. Instead you behave, letting him fuck your mouth and take his pleasure from you.

The look on your face has him getting close rather quick for his liking, but he's way too desperate to care. Glazed eyes, spit covered lips and chin from where his cock is pushing out your saliva, he thinks you look gorgeous. His one hand remains in your hair as his other grips your jaw.

"So good for me...fuck, almost makes me wish I hadn't had those idiots cut power to the cameras in here. Seeing my favourite nurse choking on my cock..."

He moans softly, cock pulsing as he gets nearer his climax. Rhythm faltering, he desperately ruts into your throat, wanting to cum so badly it almost hurts. All the while he's mumbling and muttering how slutty you are, how much this is usually beneath him, how good your mouth feels until-

"I'm gonna cum, you're gonna, shit, swallow it...swallow it all." he demands, before his hips still as he pumps his cum down your throat. Choking, you do your best to swallow all he gives you before he releases the death grip on your hair. You pull away and gasp shallowly for oxygen.

"What do you say?" he says condescendingly, although you don't miss the laboured breathing that betrays his excitement.

"Thank you." you start, but the firm tap on your cheek gives you the incentive to rephrase, "Thank you sir."

"Better. You know how few people can say they've had the privilege of The Riddler fucking their face?"

Despite how fucked up morally you know it is, you can't help but feel slight pride at his words, knowing that it's you who he chose to sleep with. He tugs you up by the arm, before humming and squishing your cheeks together, tilting your face from side to side as he appraises you.

"How about you lay on the bed." he says, and despite the phrasing, you can infer from his tone that he's not asking. So you do, hearing the cheap infirmary bed creak as you lay down. Outside you can vaguely hear noises, yells and chants mostly, but you try your best to tune it out as Edward makes quick work of ridding you of your nurse uniform. He gives a wolf whistle, smirking shamelessly.

"Not bad at all." he mumbles, which you assume is quite high praise for him, as he gropes your tits roughly. "I knew I wasn't wrong to have been taken by your looks. It's a bonus you have half a brain in there somewhere."

Feeling a little mean, he gives one of your breasts a sharp slap, grinning as you flinch and squirm. He repeats the motion, and again for a third time on the other one, before soothingly massaging the tender skin.

Before long, he can't resist parting your legs to get a good view of your dripping cunt, needy and pulsing after being treated so roughly by him.

"Oh poor thing." he coos, the falseness of his sympathy only adding to your arousal. "Do you need master's help?"

You can only nod pitifully, as he brings his fingers to your clit and circles slowly, as if observing the consequences of his actions. At your hips jerking, he uses his other hand to pin you firmly to the bed, the structure squeaking under the weight. He continues to play with your clit, alternating his pace and rhythm to keep you on edge, never quite allowing you to reach the peak of the satisfaction he could bestow upon you.

"Such a needy hole, look at it. It's just begging to be filled, isn't it?" he asks, to which you nod again. In response, he slaps your cunt harshly. "If i wanted to talk to myself, i'd have simply jerked off in the safety of my isolated cell. Speak."

"Yes, yes I want to be filled." You say quickly, embarrassment fading away to let the desperation uncurl its claws in your mind. Seemingly satisfied, he slowly pushes two fingers into your pussy, barely suppressing the groan at how wet and hot you feel.

Starting to pump his digits, he curls them to press into your g spot, watching as you tense and make soft moans at the sensation. His other hand wraps around your neck, smirking at your wanton desperation.

"So quick and eager to have a criminal's fingers inside of you. And a nurse at that, don't you have a duty of care?" he taunts sadistically, languishing in your shame and embarrassment as he keeps fucking you harshly with his fingers. You try and shake your head, but you can't with how he's choking you ever so slightly; a reminder that your life is in the hands of one of Gotham's most feared supervillians. And your cunt has never been wetter.

But you aren't the only one affected. Edward was never the type of man to be able to go multiple rounds, and age didn't exactly help that fact. But whether it was being in the Asylum, his abstaining from self pleasure, or just you, he was hard as a rock again and itching to know what your pussy might be like around him.

"Please..." you start to beg, slightly dazed from the onslaught of sensations.

"Please what, hm? Please stop? Please fuck me? Oh please I want to be fucked by the greatest intellectual this city has ever known?"

You can hardly digest the intense self importance he's displaying as you nod again as best you can. "Please fuck me sir."

"Getting better, but say it louder. More conviction. I'm not an easy man to please." he threatens, moving his fingers faster, practically bullying the inside of your pussy as he releases the grip on your neck, allowing merciful oxygen to grace your airways.

"Please sir, please fuck me. Please make me yours, your slut. Please." you beg between moans, body tensing.

"I will." he assures you, pulling his fingers out and bringing them to his face to observe your fluids, "but you should know, you became my slut when you so willingly got on your knees for me."

He grabs your hips and pulls you towards him as he kneels firmly on the bed, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it under you. You almost voiced your thanks at the action, before he rubs the head of his cock on your sensitive clit.

"Once more, for good luck."

What an asshole, he doesn't even believe in luck, you think to yourself, but the stimulation on your core was leaving your breathless and needy, so you indulge him.

"Please fuck me master, I need you. I need The Riddler."

Playing into his ego, his persona, almost always works (not that you know that, opting for an educated guess instead) and he rewards you by sinking into your pussy, moaning uncharacteristically higher pitched. Once he bottoms out inside of you, he takes a moment to really take in the scene in front of him, before grabbing hold of your hips and starting to move.

You moan, the fingering causing your cunt to already be sensitive and on fire with urgency as he starts to fuck you. He bends over you, taking his glasses off and placing them at your side before starting to move his hips faster, determined to rid you of any other thought but him.

"That's it, fuck, go dumb on my cock for me." he encourages, as your eyes glaze over. "My dumb little nurse, so willing to spread her legs."

Not being able to deny his accusation, you simply hold on to his arms for dear life as he picks up the pace even more, thrusting into you and watching your cunt soak his cock in your wetness.

"Making such a goddamn mess." he grunts, leaning down and slapping your clit for the sake of it.

You whine at that, body jerking in response as he chokes out a small chuckle. Soothing it, he rubs circles with his thumb in time with his thrusts, content with the noises of pleasure that fall from your lips. Outside, the noise of the riot were obvious now, and he uses it to his advantage.

"What if someone were to see? Would they think i forced myself on you? Or would they see you for what you truly are? A whore who wanted one of her patients to fuck her." he demeans you, and all you can do is attempt to shake your head.

He tuts, leaning so his breath tickles your lips. "I told you, lying doesn't suit you sweetheart."

Perhaps you were a whore, for wanting a man like Edward to make you feel something, but you can't hope to deny that what he's making you feel is good, so damn good.

"I'm a whore." you mumble quietly, before he groans. He feels your walls tightening around him, can feel the way your body is tensing as you near release.

"Say it properly, and i'll let you cum all over The Riddler's cock. How about that?" he says it like he's giving you a gift, something so unbelievable that you should be grateful he even considered it. But either way, you give in.

"I'm a whore, i'm your whore sir." you manage to get out between punishing thrusts, nails digging into the meat of his biceps. "I'm The Riddler's whore."

He moans, slamming into you with conviction. "You're damn right you are."

You're unsure if that meant you had permission to cum, but between his thrusts and his thumb playing with your clit, you knew you couldn't stop it as you cum hard around him. Your back arches, giving him a hell of a sight as he chases his own orgasm brutally.

"Yes that's it, take it. Take what i give you...take my cum, god you're so lucky. So privileged, so-"

He cuts himself off with a groan, mumbling your name as he buries himself completely inside of you as he finishes. You squirm softly at the warmth of the sensation, but not being able to go anywhere due to the death grip he has on your thighs; you're most certainly going to have bruises.

After a few blissful moments, he pulls out, admiring how your cunt flutters around nothing before his cum slowly leaks from your used hole. He gently reaches down and collects some on the tip of his finger, before pushing it back inside, laughing at your overstimulated gasp.

"There. Now wasn't that more enjoyable than running to the guards for help."

Giving him a sweaty nod, he climbs off of you and fixes him jumpsuit, before rolling his shoulders and standing up. You force yourself to sit up a little, watching as he smirks.

"I'm a little ahead of schedule, I confess I was foreseeing a little more convincing on my part for you to let me bed you." he says, uncharacteristically self deprecating, now matter how slight.

"Ahead of schedule for what?" you ask, before your answer is revealed when he picks up an empty chair and smashes the window.

"Oh sweetheart, while I did want to fuck you, did you really think i'd not pass up the opportunity for escape? I think my sabbatical has reached it's conclusion." he announces, walking over and grabbing your wrist to look at your watch. "The morons should have neutralised the guard post by now, if they actually listened to what I had to say."

At your hesitance, he smirks as he lets go of your wrist and leans down to give you a lingering kiss. "Perhaps i'll visit you again, you certainly made quite the impression on me."

At a loss for words, you stutter out a quick "okay" before he turns and begins to climb out the window. Not before turning for one last look at you.

"I really should have left a mark, people need to know you're mine now. Get changed sweetheart, in my estimations you have about ten minutes."

With that, he's gone, and you're left on the bed, cum dripping from your cunt and sweat slowly evaporating from your naked skin. Still, you suppose, he did protect you from the riot.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(perhaps one day I will include a daddy kink in my writing, but alas I fear today is not that day)

[ivy-bluefire]

Idk if I've already reblogged this, I just really like rereading it a bunch

Insufferable 

Edward Nygma AKA The Riddler x Gender Neutral Reader 

Genre: Smut 

Words: 1,140

Summary: You’ve been an obnoxious pervert for too long, but all your shameless begging has finally paid off. 

Content/Warnings: Hate sex, rough sex, penis in ambiguous hole sex, choking, mean dirty talk, insults, degradation, slapping, sub/bottom reader

“Is this what you wanted, you sniveling little cretin?” 

Edward’s question comes out as a snarl. You can hear the words pushing through his gritted teeth, but they run over your mind like water to a stone. You’re not really listening. 

How could you be when he’s pounding into you from behind this way, like his life depends on making sure he molds your insides to fit his cock? 

You’ve never seen Edward this angry. 

You’ve never seen him angry at all, really. Annoyed, irritated, sure, but this goes deeper. He’s fuming. 

Just like you wanted. 

You took a liking to Edward the moment you laid eyes on him. More than a liking, really. Obsession was the better word. Obsession was the only word. 

To put it bluntly, you couldn’t go five minutes without humping his leg. You were never shy about your attraction or want for sex, and never wavered despite his biting insults. What kept you coming back, though, was the fact that Edward did too. 

He’s a highly intelligent man, any clueless window licker could see that in an instant, and you’re a rather new rogue on the scene—no one would be bothered by him killing you just to be rid of you. 

But he didn’t. He never even laid a hand on you, though you’ve seen him take his cane to quite a few unruly thugs before. He could’ve landed you in the hospital seven times over by now, but again and again you stood untouched. 

And then he broke. 

You can’t even remember what you said at this point. All you remember is that look in Edward’s eyes, like bulging glass exploding and sending shards in every direction—for whatever reason, he’d hit his limit. 

It’s all a blur from there until now. You can vaguely recall gloved hands on your body, his rough grip on your arms and neck as he dragged you to whatever position he deemed fit. Now, though, none of that matters. 

You finally have what you want. 

“Answer me, dammit!” 

A particularly hard thrust hits deeper than you were ready for. You cry out from the sensation, every nerve ending in you screaming with pleasure. There’s no mistaking your utter ecstasy, but it only seems to aggravate Edward even more. 

“God, just listen to you,” he hisses, leaning down to speak into your ear, “those fucking noises you’re making…is that all you know how to do, mewl and beg like a whore? I’ve never seen you do anything else.” 

He gives a harsh smack to your ass as he sits back up, and you make sure the sound you make is as lecherous as you can make it. His grip on you tightens for a brief second. You’re still getting under his skin. No matter what he does, you’re still going to enjoy this. 

“Pathetic,” he growls, “just pathetic. Do you even hear to yourself? For weeks on end you were completely incessant…’Oh, please, Eddie, give me your cock, Eddie, I need it, Eddie, oh Eddie, oh Eddie—‘“

He pushes your head into the mattress, muffling the shameless moan that spills from your lips as he ruts erratically into you. 

“I mean, do you ever shut up?!” 

He’s already losing any semblance of rhythm, not that he had much in the first place. It’s clear what this is really about for him: dominance. He’s not seeking pleasure from this as much as he is an ego boost, another way to tell himself he is the superior, especially to someone like you. 

Suddenly, he stills. You make a noise of confusion, but don’t have much time to think before he’s sliding out of you. You open your mouth to protest, naturally, however you get no chance. Edward grasps you once more before roughly flipping you onto your back, making the mattress creak and shudder from the sudden force. 

For just a moment, you lock eyes. His green iris’s shine with rage, ginger brows furrowed so tightly and scowl so deep it’s nearly a work of art. His harsh expression doesn’t waver as he pushes his length back into you. Your back arches, but you don’t look away from him; you make sure he sees that smile he despises so. 

A hand wraps around your throat, fast enough to startle you with how quickly your airflow is cinched. You sputter for a moment before collecting yourself. 

“You are just insufferable,” Edward mutters, inches away from your face, “and you know it, and you just can’t help yourself. I get it now. No matter what I do, you’ll just eat it up, won’t you? It doesn’t matter how much I throw you around or abuse you, you’ll enjoy it either way. I just can’t win.” 

You swallow, feeling your throat bob against the palm of his hand. Your grin only widens, now open and showing teeth. 

He backs up, looking down at you silently for a long few moments. He’s completely still, letting his pulsing cock rest inside of you—he’s contemplating something, and he doesn’t like it. 

After a few moments, he huffs. It’s a sigh of frustration, you think, or something akin to it. When he speaks again, his anger has deflated just a bit. 

“…Fine. I can’t win. But if I can’t win…”

He adjusts his position, releasing your neck and making himself comfortable looming over you. 

“…I’ll just pummel you until I feel better. Now close your cock-hungry maw so I can slap you without breaking it.” 

You blink up at him dumbly. Did…did you hear that right? 

He raises a brow, and a hand. In a split second, you shut your mouth tight, and squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact. 

His open palm comes down on your cheek without mercy. The sound of the slap is loud in your ears, and it’s delicious. You sigh in pleasure as the sting sprawls out across your face. 

Edward doesn’t let it show, but you could swear satisfaction flashes in his eyes. It’s brief, hardly there at all, but you can see it. Only you could ever see it. 

He grabs your chin and turns you to face him once more. He raises his hand again, and you gladly let him slap you for a second time. This hit is even harder, and it feels so damn good. He’s starting to thrust into you again, just as needy and erratic as before. The mere thought of him cumming inside of you makes your stomach flip in anticipation. 

“Something tells me you’ll never learn your lesson,” you hear him mumble, and it pulls a breathy giggle from your throat. You shake your head no, and Edward lets the briefest smirk cross his lips. 

“I can live with that,” he replies, “I suppose I could stand to do this again…and a few more after that.” 

This is not fully proofread, please let me know if you see any errors. 

Feedback is appreciated and encouraged. 

If you like this fic, please reblog! It’s free, takes two seconds, and it’s a great way to support writers.  

[ivy-bluefire]

Insufferable 

Edward Nygma AKA The Riddler x Gender Neutral Reader 

Genre: Smut 

Words: 1,140

Summary: You’ve been an obnoxious pervert for too long, but all your shameless begging has finally paid off. 

Content/Warnings: Hate sex, rough sex, penis in ambiguous hole sex, choking, mean dirty talk, insults, degradation, slapping, sub/bottom reader

“Is this what you wanted, you sniveling little cretin?” 

Edward’s question comes out as a snarl. You can hear the words pushing through his gritted teeth, but they run over your mind like water to a stone. You’re not really listening. 

How could you be when he’s pounding into you from behind this way, like his life depends on making sure he molds your insides to fit his cock? 

You’ve never seen Edward this angry. 

You’ve never seen him angry at all, really. Annoyed, irritated, sure, but this goes deeper. He’s fuming. 

Just like you wanted. 

You took a liking to Edward the moment you laid eyes on him. More than a liking, really. Obsession was the better word. Obsession was the only word. 

To put it bluntly, you couldn’t go five minutes without humping his leg. You were never shy about your attraction or want for sex, and never wavered despite his biting insults. What kept you coming back, though, was the fact that Edward did too. 

He’s a highly intelligent man, any clueless window licker could see that in an instant, and you’re a rather new rogue on the scene—no one would be bothered by him killing you just to be rid of you. 

But he didn’t. He never even laid a hand on you, though you’ve seen him take his cane to quite a few unruly thugs before. He could’ve landed you in the hospital seven times over by now, but again and again you stood untouched. 

And then he broke. 

You can’t even remember what you said at this point. All you remember is that look in Edward’s eyes, like bulging glass exploding and sending shards in every direction—for whatever reason, he’d hit his limit. 

It’s all a blur from there until now. You can vaguely recall gloved hands on your body, his rough grip on your arms and neck as he dragged you to whatever position he deemed fit. Now, though, none of that matters. 

You finally have what you want. 

“Answer me, dammit!” 

A particularly hard thrust hits deeper than you were ready for. You cry out from the sensation, every nerve ending in you screaming with pleasure. There’s no mistaking your utter ecstasy, but it only seems to aggravate Edward even more. 

“God, just listen to you,” he hisses, leaning down to speak into your ear, “those fucking noises you’re making…is that all you know how to do, mewl and beg like a whore? I’ve never seen you do anything else.” 

He gives a harsh smack to your ass as he sits back up, and you make sure the sound you make is as lecherous as you can make it. His grip on you tightens for a brief second. You’re still getting under his skin. No matter what he does, you’re still going to enjoy this. 

“Pathetic,” he growls, “just pathetic. Do you even hear to yourself? For weeks on end you were completely incessant…’Oh, please, Eddie, give me your cock, Eddie, I need it, Eddie, oh Eddie, oh Eddie—‘“

He pushes your head into the mattress, muffling the shameless moan that spills from your lips as he ruts erratically into you. 

“I mean, do you ever shut up?!” 

He’s already losing any semblance of rhythm, not that he had much in the first place. It’s clear what this is really about for him: dominance. He’s not seeking pleasure from this as much as he is an ego boost, another way to tell himself he is the superior, especially to someone like you. 

Suddenly, he stills. You make a noise of confusion, but don’t have much time to think before he’s sliding out of you. You open your mouth to protest, naturally, however you get no chance. Edward grasps you once more before roughly flipping you onto your back, making the mattress creak and shudder from the sudden force. 

For just a moment, you lock eyes. His green iris’s shine with rage, ginger brows furrowed so tightly and scowl so deep it’s nearly a work of art. His harsh expression doesn’t waver as he pushes his length back into you. Your back arches, but you don’t look away from him; you make sure he sees that smile he despises so. 

A hand wraps around your throat, fast enough to startle you with how quickly your airflow is cinched. You sputter for a moment before collecting yourself. 

“You are just insufferable,” Edward mutters, inches away from your face, “and you know it, and you just can’t help yourself. I get it now. No matter what I do, you’ll just eat it up, won’t you? It doesn’t matter how much I throw you around or abuse you, you’ll enjoy it either way. I just can’t win.” 

You swallow, feeling your throat bob against the palm of his hand. Your grin only widens, now open and showing teeth. 

He backs up, looking down at you silently for a long few moments. He’s completely still, letting his pulsing cock rest inside of you—he’s contemplating something, and he doesn’t like it. 

After a few moments, he huffs. It’s a sigh of frustration, you think, or something akin to it. When he speaks again, his anger has deflated just a bit. 

“…Fine. I can’t win. But if I can’t win…”

He adjusts his position, releasing your neck and making himself comfortable looming over you. 

“…I’ll just pummel you until I feel better. Now close your cock-hungry maw so I can slap you without breaking it.” 

You blink up at him dumbly. Did…did you hear that right? 

He raises a brow, and a hand. In a split second, you shut your mouth tight, and squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact. 

His open palm comes down on your cheek without mercy. The sound of the slap is loud in your ears, and it’s delicious. You sigh in pleasure as the sting sprawls out across your face. 

Edward doesn’t let it show, but you could swear satisfaction flashes in his eyes. It’s brief, hardly there at all, but you can see it. Only you could ever see it. 

He grabs your chin and turns you to face him once more. He raises his hand again, and you gladly let him slap you for a second time. This hit is even harder, and it feels so damn good. He’s starting to thrust into you again, just as needy and erratic as before. The mere thought of him cumming inside of you makes your stomach flip in anticipation. 

“Something tells me you’ll never learn your lesson,” you hear him mumble, and it pulls a breathy giggle from your throat. You shake your head no, and Edward lets the briefest smirk cross his lips. 

“I can live with that,” he replies, “I suppose I could stand to do this again…and a few more after that.” 

This is not fully proofread, please let me know if you see any errors. 

Feedback is appreciated and encouraged. 

If you like this fic, please reblog! It’s free, takes two seconds, and it’s a great way to support writers.  

[ivy-bluefire]

Bat-Villains x Reader

They realize they love you after a nightmare about you dying

Characters: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Scarecrow, Two-Face, The Riddler & The Penguin

The Joker

- The Joker had always laughed at the idea of love. It was messy, inconvenient, and far too human for someone as “elevated” as him. So, when the nightmare came—your lifeless body crumpled beneath the rubble of some grim Gotham alley—it caught him off guard. His cackles turned to hollow echoes as he screamed your name, the vibrant color of his world bleeding into dull gray.

- He jolted awake with a gasp, his face covered in a rare sheen of sweat. His usual smirk was absent as his wild eyes darted around the room, landing on your sleeping form beside him. You were alive, breathing softly, your face peaceful in slumber. The sight of you alive was a jolt to his twisted heart.

- For the first time in a long while, he didn’t laugh. He sat there, his thoughts in chaos, a war between his denial and the crushing realization that he couldn’t imagine a world without you. It scared him more than Batman ever could. He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the emotions bubbling to the surface.

- “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, his voice shaking. But his hand moved on its own, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent, and he froze, a flicker of vulnerability flashing in his usually unhinged eyes.

- He stayed awake for hours, staring at you, convincing himself that this was just some fleeting weakness. But the image of your death lingered, gnawing at him, turning his denial into reluctant acceptance. “You’ve done it, haven’t you?” he whispered bitterly. “You’ve made the Clown Prince of Crime care.”

- The next morning, his usual theatrics were toned down. He stayed unusually close to you, his hand lingering on yours longer than normal. You raised an eyebrow at his behavior, and he waved it off with a manic laugh, but deep inside, he knew he’d never let you out of his sight again.

- That night, he held you a little tighter than usual, his arms wrapped around you as if to shield you from the world. “You’re mine,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “And no one will take you from me. Not even death.”

Harleen Quinzel aka. Harley Quinn

- Harley’s dreams were usually chaotic, filled with explosions, bright colors, and nonsensical antics. But this one was different. It was dark, quiet, and horrifying. She saw you, broken and bleeding, calling out to her with your last breath. No amount of laughter or jokes could save you.

- She woke with a start, her heart pounding and tears streaming down her cheeks. “Puddin’?!” she gasped instinctively, but then her eyes landed on you. You were there, next to her, your chest rising and falling steadily. Relief washed over her, and she let out a shaky laugh.

- Harley wasn’t one to dwell on emotions—she usually masked them with jokes and a bubbly exterior. But this dream? It shook her to her core. She sat up, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch your face, as if reassuring herself you were real.

- “What’s goin’ on with me?” she whispered to herself. She knew the answer deep down but wasn’t ready to admit it. The thought of losing you had torn her apart in the dream, and the intensity of her feelings scared her.

- For the rest of the night, she stayed awake, her mind racing. She replayed every moment with you, every smile, every laugh, and every time you’d stood by her side. “Guess I’m hooked,” she murmured with a small, bittersweet smile.

- The next day, she was more clingy than usual, following you around and cracking even more jokes than normal. You noticed her odd behavior, but she brushed it off with a wink and a kiss on the cheek. “Just feelin’ extra lovey-dovey today, sugar!”

- That night, as you lay in her arms, she finally whispered the words she’d been too scared to say aloud. “I love ya, ya know? Like… the real kinda love, not the crazy kinda love. Well, maybe a lil’ crazy, but still real.” She kissed your forehead, her heart lighter than it had been in years.

Pamela Isley aka. Poison Ivy

- Pamela’s dreams were rarely nightmares. But this one? It was a haunting vision of you lying lifeless among her beloved plants, your blood staining the green foliage. The image was so vivid, so horrifying, that it shattered her usual composure.

- She woke with a sharp inhale, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes darted to your side of the bed, relief flooding her as she saw you curled up peacefully. The nightmare lingered, though, its dark tendrils wrapping around her thoughts.

- Ivy wasn’t one to let emotions control her. She prided herself on being logical, detached. But this dream forced her to confront the truth she’d been avoiding. She cared for you—deeply, irrevocably—and the thought of losing you was unbearable.

- She reached out, her fingers lightly tracing the curve of your cheek. Her touch was soft, almost reverent, as if she feared you might disappear if she pressed too hard. “You’ve rooted yourself in my life, haven’t you?” she whispered.

- For hours, she stayed by your side, watching you sleep, her mind racing with plans to ensure your safety. She’d protect you, no matter the cost. “No one will harm you,” she vowed quietly. “Not while I still breathe.”

- The next day, her demeanor was gentler than usual. She handed you a cup of tea, her green eyes soft as they met yours. “Drink this,” she said. “It’ll keep you healthy. And stay close to me today, alright?” Her protective side was in full bloom.

- That night, as you lay in her arms, surrounded by the soft glow of her plants, she finally let herself be vulnerable. “You’re the one thing I can’t afford to lose,” she admitted. “I’ve spent my life fighting for the earth, but you? You’ve become my world.”

Bane

- Bane’s dreams were typically filled with battles and conquests, but this one was different. He saw you, broken and defeated, your life slipping away because he hadn’t been strong enough to protect you. The sight of your lifeless form was a blow worse than any he’d taken in the ring.

- He woke with a start, his chest heaving as if he’d run a marathon. His eyes immediately sought you out, relief washing over him when he saw you safe and sound, curled up beside him. But the dream lingered, the pain and helplessness gnawing at him.

- Bane wasn’t used to feeling weak, but that nightmare had shaken him. He sat up, his massive frame tense as he stared down at you. “You are my strength,” he murmured, the words foreign on his tongue but no less true.

- For hours, he sat there, replaying the nightmare in his mind. He realized then just how much you meant to him, how deeply you’d carved yourself into his life. “I cannot lose you,” he vowed, his voice low and resolute.

- The next morning, his protective instincts were in overdrive. He insisted on accompanying you everywhere, his large hand resting possessively on your shoulder. When you questioned his sudden behavior, he simply replied, “You are important to me. That is reason enough.”

- That night, as you lay in his arms, he finally let his walls down. “I have fought many battles,” he said quietly. “But the thought of losing you? That is a battle I cannot win.” His voice was thick with emotion, his vulnerability laid bare for you to see.

- Bane’s love was fierce and unwavering, and from that moment on, he made it his mission to keep you safe. “You are my heart,” he admitted softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I will protect you with every ounce of strength I possess.”

Jonathan Crane aka. Scarecrow

- Jonathan’s dreams were often macabre reflections of his own fears twisted into nightmarish landscapes. But this time, it wasn’t about him. The nightmare was about you—your lifeless body crumpled in a dark alley, surrounded by shadows, your voice calling his name in desperation before falling silent forever.

- He woke abruptly, his breath shallow and ragged, the echo of your scream still ringing in his ears. For a moment, he sat frozen, his hands trembling slightly. Then his eyes darted to the bed, where you lay peacefully, your chest rising and falling in soft rhythm.

- Jonathan wasn’t one to embrace vulnerability, yet this dream left him shaken. He stared at you, his mind racing with an uncomfortable realization: he cared for you far more than he’d ever allowed himself to admit. Losing you, even in a nightmare, felt like losing a part of himself.

- He leaned closer, his hand hovering over your cheek but not quite touching, as if afraid to disturb the calm you radiated. “You’re more dangerous than fear itself,” he murmured quietly, his voice tinged with a rare warmth. “Because you’ve made me weak.”

- The following day, Jonathan was quieter than usual, his sharp words softened when directed at you. He lingered in your presence, finding excuses to stay close, though he masked his concern with his usual intellectual aloofness.

- That night, as you stirred beside him, Jonathan finally let his guard down. “You don’t realize it, do you?” he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’ve made me care… and that terrifies me.” His fingers brushed against yours, a silent vow to keep you safe.

- From that moment on, he became even more meticulous in his plans, ensuring no one could ever harm you. Jonathan Crane, the master of fear, had found something he feared more than anything: a world without you in it.

Harvey Dent aka. Two-Face

- Harvey’s nightmares were like a coin flip—sometimes they reflected his inner turmoil, other times they felt like cruel twists of fate. This time, it was the latter. He saw you, the one person who made him feel whole, bleeding out in his arms as he screamed for help that never came.

- He jolted awake, his hands clutching the sheets tightly as he gasped for air. His scarred side twitched involuntarily, but his eyes sought you immediately. Relief washed over him as he saw you sleeping soundly beside him, completely unaware of his inner torment.

- Harvey sat up, running a hand down his face. The nightmare had been too vivid, too real. He couldn’t shake the image of your lifeless body, the way your eyes had stared at him, full of trust even as the light faded from them.

- “You’re my anchor,” he whispered, his dual voice cracking slightly. “You make me believe there’s still something good in me.” The thought of losing you wasn’t just painful; it felt like losing the last shred of humanity he had left.

- The next day, Harvey was unusually protective, his coin flipping idly between his fingers as he shadowed your every move. When you teased him about being overly cautious, he brushed it off with a half-smile. “Can’t be too careful,” he muttered, though his eyes betrayed his deeper worry.

- That night, as you curled up beside him, Harvey wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. “You’re the one thing in my life that doesn’t need a coin flip,” he admitted softly. “I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

- From then on, his duality softened slightly when it came to you. Both sides of Harvey Dent—man and monster—agreed on one thing: you were worth everything. And he wouldn’t let anyone take you from him.

Edward Nygma aka. The Riddler

- Edward’s nightmares weren’t random; they were puzzles of his subconscious, riddled with hidden meanings and twisted scenarios. But this time, the riddle was cruelly simple: you were dead, taken from him in a moment of chaos he couldn’t control or predict. The answer to the nightmare was devastatingly clear—he couldn’t solve it.

- He woke in a cold sweat, his mind racing as if trying to piece together clues to prove the dream wasn’t real. When his eyes landed on you, still peacefully asleep beside him, he let out a shaky breath, relief flooding his system.

- For once, Edward was at a loss for words. The nightmare had shaken him in a way few things could. He prided himself on his intellect, his ability to plan for every contingency, yet the thought of losing you felt like an unsolvable equation.

- “You’ve become my greatest mystery,” he murmured, brushing a hand through his hair as he watched you sleep. “How did you manage to make me feel this way?” His voice was tinged with frustration, but beneath it was an undeniable warmth.

- The next day, Edward was more attentive than usual, his riddles and taunts aimed at others rather than you. He stuck close, his sharp eyes scanning for any potential threat, though he masked his concern behind his usual arrogance.

- That night, as you curled up against him, Edward allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. “You’re the only thing in my life that doesn’t need a riddle to explain,” he admitted softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. “And I’ll make sure no one ever takes you from me.”

- From that point on, Edward’s plans always included you at the center, his mind working tirelessly to ensure your safety. For a man obsessed with answers, you had become the only certainty in his life.

Oswald Cobblepot aka. The Penguin

- Oswald’s nightmares were usually filled with power struggles and betrayal, but this one was personal. He saw you, his constant companion and solace, gunned down in a rival’s crossfire. The sight of your blood pooling beneath you was enough to send a chill through even his cold heart.

- He woke with a start, his usual composure shattered as he sat up, his breath heavy. His sharp eyes immediately sought you out, relief flooding him as he saw you beside him, alive and unharmed. But the nightmare had left its mark.

- Oswald prided himself on his control, yet the dream had revealed a vulnerability he couldn’t ignore. He sat in silence, his mind replaying the nightmare over and over, each iteration driving home just how much you meant to him.

- “You’re more valuable than all the riches in Gotham,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. He reached out, his gloved hand brushing against yours, the gesture unusually tender for a man like him.

- The following day, Oswald’s protective instincts were in overdrive. He doubled your security, barking orders at his henchmen to ensure your safety. When you questioned his sudden behavior, he simply replied, “You’re too important to risk.”

- That night, as you rested your head on his shoulder, Oswald finally let his walls down. “You’ve done the impossible,” he admitted quietly. “You’ve made the Penguin care about something other than power. And I won’t let anyone take that away from me.”

- From then on, his love for you was evident in every action. For a man who thrived in Gotham’s cold, dark underworld, you were his one source of light—and he’d do whatever it took to keep you safe.

[ivy-bluefire]

Tempted to actually write something like this 👀

Why does the incredibly niche Riddler and Detective Yin enemies to this loser keeps showing up at my apartment because he got Jeopardy banned from Arkham to lovers fic not exist?

[ivy-bluefire]

HELP SAME

my friends: are you obsessing over a fictional character again?

me:

[ivy-bluefire]

I would pay you to continue this fic, if I could! Or to spill your secrets and tell me what comes next! 😂

Pick Up Lines

Part 1 / Part 2: Meet-Cute

Warnings: Language, stalking behavior, some suspense.

Requests are open but I’m slow. Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated!

The Riddler x Femme! Reader

3.8k words

You must look even worse than you feel.

You know this because of the way Bruce watches you from the driver’s seat of his car, permanently-sad eyes turned down even more at the corners, brow lined with the worry you normally hold for him. He turns his head towards you at every stop, lips parted, but he never manages to say a word. 

“Thank you again, for this.” 

Your own voice is raw and weary, shaking a little as your forehead rests against the cool window. There’s no need to pretend around Bruce. No need for a brave face. He’s seen you through the worst this life has had to offer.

Interviewers often asked what it was like to be friends with the Bruce Wayne—a humanizing tidbit before the hard-hitting questions, although it’s usually the most difficult to answer. Growing up at each others’ sides had made you more like family. He was the one who first suggested law school—mostly as an insult, after another petty argument. He paid for your tuition when the time came, though, and then refused to let you pay him back. There were years of Wayne Foundation Christmas parties and birthdays spent drinking champagne on his couch, a store-bought cake resting on the cushions between you. You were given no warning when it all came to an end. Work always kept you busy, and he had plenty of vague excuses up his sleeve. The past two years of unanswered phone calls and canceled plans had turned you into almost-strangers. 

Despite all that, there’s no one you trust more than Bruce. 

Wayne Tower looks just like you remember it, that familiar feeling of safety enveloping you as the gates fold closed behind Bruce’s car, sealing you in the lush green garden and its high, protective walls. Bruce puts the car in park just in front of the arched alcove of the door, hands still gripping the steering wheel. 

“Alfred said he’d be waiting for you,” he mumbles, “and Dory has already made up your room.”

“Are you not coming in?”

“I have a meeting.” Bruce frowns hard at the windshield, like he’d expected to find a better lie written in the thin layer of moisture across the glass. 

He should know better than to think you’d let that go. “A meeting?”

There’s no response. He’s about as talkative as a brick wall, and twice as stubborn. If you’re ever going to break him down, it’ll be one stone at a time.

You sigh in defeat, leaning your head back against the old leather of the headrest. Your hand finds his without much thought, fingers resting against his pale knuckles. He flinches from the touch, even though his skin is colder than yours. You let him settle into it before you speak.

“Are you just waiting for a properly dramatic moment to reveal all your secrets?”

He almost smiles; you catch it out of the corner of your eye. “Yeah.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to be patient.” 

The look he gives you says thank you, even if he stays quiet. You grip the strap of your duffle bag, yanking it from the back seat before sending him off with a wave and a sigh.  

The night air is cool, but not biting, rain misting down through the shelter of the high, shady trees, and the sound of your footsteps echoes around you, bouncing off the cobblestone drive.

Alfred is waiting in the foyer, as promised, with a much friendlier greeting than Bruce had given you, wrapping you in a one-armed hug. He still smells the same—the vague male scent of cologne and pomade, with something more mechanical underneath it, like motor oil. It’s one of those things that defined your childhood, one that brings back an old memory with every breath.

You pull him in tighter—maybe a little closer than what’s warranted, but you can’t help it. You’ve missed him. “It’s good to see you, Alfred.”

“And it’s good to see you, miss,” he says, kind enough to let you hold him, “although I wish it wasn’t under such circumstances.”

You wonder how much Bruce told him. You hadn’t heard any part of the muffled phone call, and not for a lack of trying. Jim had kept you distracted as you threw whatever you could reach into an overnight bag, peppering you with questions you didn’t want to answer.

Did you hear anyone come in? No.

How long was the power out before you left the bathroom? I have no idea.

Is there any significance to the rose petals? Not that I know of.

There was another envelope, and a finely wrapped box, left on the table near an unconscious—but luckily alive—Officer Garrett. Jim had asked if you wanted to wait for them to be dusted for prints; you told him to open both without you.

Alfred talks about nothing as he walks you to the guest room, filling the silence with questions about only the most superficial of topics.

“Can you be honest with me, Alfred?”

You pull him to a stop in one of the many identical hallways, at the third door on the left, the door to what has always been your room whenever you stayed here, although it looks like any other. Alfred won’t meet your eyes, watching his thumb as it travels back and forth over the top of his cane. 

His expression is etched with worry when he finally looks at you, and he sighs, the weight of the world on his shoulders, “I can try, miss.”

“How is he . . . really?”

Alfred frowns hard, choosing his words carefully. “Better than he looks.”

He meets your eyes, trying not to smile. It makes you both laugh, macabre little chuckles bouncing off the stone walls. “That leaves quite a margin of error.”

“Listen to me,” Alfred rests a hand on your shoulder, more fatherly than your own father ever was. “He may not look it, but he’s doing as well as he can. Don’t worry yourself too much over him. You need to take this time you’ve been given, and try to relax a little, yeah?”

But relaxing is one of those things you’ve never been very good at.

It’s not something you needed to be good at; people like you could always find rewards for throwing yourselves into your work, and with no work to throw yourself into . . .

Gray sunlight wakes you much too early from a night of fitful sleep, and after a few unanswered calls to Jim wondering about the possibility of him grabbing your laptop from your apartment, you spend the rest of your morning wandering the empty halls in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of leggings you usually reserved for apartment deep cleans and workouts. After rummaging through a few different closets, you manage to add another item to your ensemble—a well-worn workman’s jacket an old gardener must have left, and it helps to stave off the tower’s perpetual chill.

You journey into the library, craving something to swallow your time, but the dim room with its vaulted ceilings holds nothing but weak sunlight and disappointment. Most of the books are probably priceless, and definitely ancient—so old you’re afraid they’d crumble to dust in your fingers. The only “modern” contributions Bruce had made to the collection were dreary Russian classics that you’d rather eat page by page than read.

You fiddle with your phone in your hand, raking your eyes over the orderly shelves, before deciding to look up the closest book store—just to check—pleasantly surprised to see that there’s one only a few blocks from your location.

You really shouldn’t. And yet, you find yourself walking to the door.

It’s not like you could ask Bruce to go with you—you don’t even know if he came back last night, let alone if he’s awake. Of course Alfred would go, but the walk would be hell on his leg, and taking the car in the heart of the city would be its own kind of hassle.

And it’s not like you were in any danger in the daylight.

You leave a note on the dining table for Alfred—Needed some fresh air. I have my phone!—and sneak out the side gate.

There aren’t many others out in the early morning: some blue-collar workers with tired eyes on their way to and from jobs, one or two baby-faced professionals in expensive suits, handfuls of women in designer athletic gear measuring their pulses as they speed walk down the way. You’ve never seen a homeless camp on this side of the city, but you pass by a few people with cardboard signs, either foolish enough to hope for better luck among the wealthier crowd, or desperate enough to risk catching the attention of the police. You make a note to find out if the book store will let you withdraw any cash for your walk back.

It’s a high-end place—one with large, clean front windows and a little cafe inside, its chalkboard menu boasting oat milk lattes with your choice of floral syrups. The inside smells exactly how a bookstore should, the air warm enough that you can unzip your borrowed jacket without getting cold. You tuck your hands in the large, lined pockets, feeling invigorated, and decide to treat yourself to a drink.

There’s something very calming about walking through the aisles of a bookstore, something that makes you forget about everything beyond its doors, and you set a leisurely pace through the stacks, comforted by the privacy the shelves offer you. You pick up titles at random, choosing only the most ridiculous romances you can find—ones with tragic, busty women on the covers and the weakest of plot summaries.

Of course you’d bump into somebody with a shopping basket full of porn.

There’s a loud zip from the waterproof material of his jacket when his shoulder blade brushes yours, and it’s unexpected enough to startle the book you were holding out of your hand. 

He reaches for it the same time you do—long, pale fingers and dry knuckles poking from the oversized sleeve of his jacket. His hand just brushes yours along the book’s stiff spine, and you’d never believed in all that fairytale rom-com bullshit, but given the way your fingertips go numb when they meet his, it almost feels like a spark.

He’s got big, dark eyes and a round, angelic face—his cheeks a sweet baby pink when he meets your eyes, growing pinker with embarrassment when he sees the cover of the book you were holding, like he’s the one who’s been caught red-handed.

Fuck, he’s cute. The kind of guy you’d like to carry around in your pocket.

“Sorry,” you snatch the book from the floor before he can get another chance to examine the shirtless cover model and his air-brushed pectorals, tucking it back on the shelf at random and crossing your arms over your chest in a poor attempt to seem casual, “I didn’t see you there.”

He’s staring up at you from the ground, wide eyed, and his lips tremble without words—you’d say the expression he wore was disbelief, if he didn’t look so afraid.

But then he gets a hold of himself, standing in front of you with a slight slump to his shoulders and his hands tucked away in large jacket pockets. He’s taller than you thought he would be.

“That’s okay,” he sounds just like he looks, small and bashful. His eyes dart away from yours, back to the shelf and its rows and rows of trashy romances, his cheeks reddening again. You grasp at straws for a distraction.

“Are you a mystery fan?”

There’s a sign above one of the shelves behind you, the word MYSTERY in large block letters, thank god, and it successfully diverts his attention away from the chiseled firefighters and men in kilts.

He hums quietly as he nods, tracing over the dark covers and author’s names, clearly more familiar with the titles there than you are. Conversation doesn’t seem to come naturally to him; he purses his thin pink lips together, thinking hard about what to say next. 

“What about you?”

“Oh, not really,” you say, and he offers nothing to fill the silence. You feel compelled to continue, “I think there’s enough mystery in my own life.”

Which would explain your presence in the romance aisle—funnily enough—although if he makes the same connection, he’s too kind to point it out. 

He shifts quietly, glancing towards the mouth of the aisle, probably desperate to get out of here. But it feels like ages since you’ve had a normal conversation with somebody, even though less than twenty four hours have passed since you met with Jim. And you’ve never been very good at letting things go. 

“What would you suggest?”

“What?” 

His eyes flash back towards yours, and he squints them, almost suspicious—like he can’t understand why you’re still talking to him, like he’s grown too accustomed to being the butt of the joke. 

“If I wanted to get into the genre, where do you think I should start?”

He frowns, deadly serious about your request, and if you were expecting an Agatha Christie or a Stephen King, you’re immediately corrected. His hand travels to one of the lower shelves, shaggy hair falling in curtains around his face, leaving the pale skin at the back of his neck bare and vulnerable just above the collar of his blue dress shirt. 

God, really? You chew on the inside of your cheek, staring hard at the block print covering the front of a John Grisham novel. You’re hardly a nun, but this interaction’s got you acting like you’re fresh from the convent. Maybe you should have taken your secretary’s offers to set you up with her cousin or neighbor or whatever. But, then again, the conventionally-attractive thirty-somethings she showed you pictures of never piqued your interest like this guy. 

He stands again before you can think too deeply about petting your fingers over the delicate little hairs at the edge of his scalp, to see if they’re really as soft as they look.

“Here.”

He rests the book in your hands, gently, like the slightest breath might undo the glue at its seams and cover the floor in sheafs of unbound papers. You take in the faded gray cover—completely unassuming, both the title and the author unfamiliar. It’s a little like the man in front of you, you think with a stifled smile, although the USA Today review promises hidden depths.

“Thank you—”

He hears the pause in your voice, and hesitates himself, before winning whatever internal battle he’d faced and pressing his hand out for you to take.

“Edward,” he supplies.

“And I’m—”

“I know.”

He blushes furiously at that admission, eyes wide with surprise, like he’s just confessed to some heinous crime. For the first time you wonder if you should be worried, talking to a stranger so openly given . . . everything.

The blush only grows more acute, skin redder than you would have thought medically possible. He speaks in a small voice, sliding his clammy hand from your grip. “I’ve— I’ve seen your campaign ads on TV.”

Now it’s your turn to be embarrassed. “Oh god, those are really, really awful.”

His face falls, looking sadder than warranted. “What?”

You heave a sigh, shifting the basket from one arm to the other. Creating the campaign ads had been, to put it mildly, a fucking nightmare. The PR guy you’d hired was a total ass, forcing ethnically-ambiguous child actors into your arms and constantly commanding you to “smile, no wider.” The end result left you looking vapid and cloying.

“They’re just so, I don’t know, cheesy? I can’t watch any of them without cringing. People are always worried I won’t come off as ‘likable,’ so I guess we had to overcompensate.” 

He actually looks distraught at the idea. “Why would anyone dislike you?”

Oh my god. You part your lips like you’re about to speak, but find yourself too stunned to list any of the reasons people found you unpleasant, warranted or not. And then you spy a brooding figure over his shoulder, and you're stunned for an entirely different reason.

“Bruce?”

Bruce is standing with his back towards you in the little cafe area, and he turns at the sound of his voice, purple shadows under his eyes and a relieved expression on his face, which quickly turns critical. 

“What are you doing here?” He crosses the space between you in a few large strides, concrete frown tampered a little by the confused look he shoots in Edward’s direction. You give him a little shake of your head—Bruce had never been a fan of meeting new people, and it seems like Edward is the same. He clings tightly up against the shelves, the oversized sleeve of his jacket denting against the wooden frame, trying his best to make himself smaller. When he glances at you, pressing his glasses back up his nose, you think you spy a little hurt in his features.

It’s not like that, you want to say. And then you want to roll your eyes at yourself.

Of course it’s not like that. It’s Bruce.

“I was just looking for something to read. And I have my phone.”

You put on a falsely innocent tone, a trick that had served you fairly often in your childhood whenever you’d gotten caught doing something you shouldn’t. Bruce recognizes it too well to be on the receiving end.

“I’ve been calling you.”

You slip your phone from your pocket, scrolling through an unprecedented list of notifications,  missed calls and messages—some from Jim, but the majority from Bruce.

A little pocket of worry burrows its way into your chest. “I didn’t know I had it on silent, still. I’m sorry. Did something happen?”

“Lieutenant Gordon came looking for you, something about the . . . situation at your apartment last night.”

Edward’s shoulders have dropped down from his ears, and you can feel the curious pressure of his eyes on the side of your face. Your mouth twists into a frown. It’s a hell of a time to meet somebody. It seems like Edward might be thinking the same thing, shifting from foot to foot. 

“I should go,” he says, “I’m late for work.”

He tries to scoot past you in the aisle, careful not to touch you. When your hand wraps around his arm, he jumps. 

“Wait—“ you stop him, and then flounder, unsure how to ask for what you want—acutely aware of the way Bruce is watching you and the way Edward is watching him watch you. “I should probably get your number, you know, in case I want any more recommendations when I finish this one.”

There’s a display table near the end of the shelf—stacked with little recommendation cards you can fill out for other customers and a cup of ball-point pens. You take one, pressing it into Edward’s hand.

He eyes you warily, his clammy fingers unfurling slowly around the plastic before he writes down his name and number on the inside cover in a messy scrawl.

“Thanks, I’ll call you.” 

He nods, unable to even meet your eyes, pink cheeks dusted by the ends of his sandy blond hair. He’s too shy to even say goodbye. 

You watch him go, and when you turn back Bruce is staring at you with a heavy frown. You take a little pleasure in watching him chew on his criticisms, deciding where he might have the moral high ground, whittling them down to practically nothing. 

“You could have just had him type it into your phone.” 

Jim is waiting for you in the sitting room of Wayne Tower, trying hard to look like he’s not mesmerized—and maybe a little put-off—by the brutal architecture and ostentatious decor. 

There’s a few items on the coffee table in front of him: your computer—thank god—a black dress from your closet, still in its plastic dry-cleaner wrapping, some black heels.

You take a seat, and Jim clears his throat, gesturing to the clothes. “Mitchell’s funeral is tomorrow; I thought you’d want to attend.”

“Thank you,” you drop into one of the chairs across from him, but you can’t pull your eyes away from the dark green envelope and its matching box.

He sighs, leaning on his forearms. “Our guys dusted them for prints and didn’t find anything. I’m sorry.” 

You nod. It’s not alright, but it’s expected.

Gordon looks like he’s ready to say more, but he pauses, glancing over your shoulder. “I’d hoped we could talk more about this in private.”

You look back. Bruce is still standing in the doorway, looking quiet and awkward.

“I don’t mind if he stays. If it’s alright with you, of course.” Gordon nods, and Bruce finds a seat. The room is quiet, and solid with tension. 

“I guess we should start with this.” Gordon reaches for the box. It’s heavier than you expected, and long, easily spanning the distance between the armrests of your chair without touching your lap. You lift the lid and cast it aside.

“Oh.” 

It’s not the same one. That’s what you have to tell yourself, looking down, tears stinging your eyes. It’s not the same bat. But there’s a roaring in your ears, and the smell of blood thick in your nose, suffocating your other senses. 

It’s not the same one. That one had more wear—nicks in the barrel, paint faded in some places, like the two retro stripes near the handle, flecked at the edges. That bat had been Bruce’s originally, until he’d passed it on to you—a kind of consolation prize, after your parents had yet again denied your pleas to join a local softball league. You made due, playing catch with Bruce in the garden, trying not to seethe when he had to leave for his little league practice. 

It’s not the same bat, but it weighs just the same in your hand. You know what it would sound like, if you swung it through the air. Know how it would feel to lift it high above your head, then bring it down with all your might.

“God.” 

You don’t need to explain the significance of the gift—the two men are well-aware of your history, just like the rest of Gotham. And him, as well.

Bruce swallows, watching you lift the bat from its package and set it gingerly at your feet—no sudden movements. He looks like he’s going to be sick. 

Gordon clears his throat. “We got another card, as well. No cipher this time, but there is a riddle. It’s a little vague—we haven’t been able to figure out a satisfactory answer.” 

He pulls out the card, shows you the front: I’m “pin-ning'' all my hopes on you, valentine! underneath an illustration of a child hanging little heart shapes on a clothesline.

“It could be two, just me and you. What do you have that also has you?” he reads. 

Bruce frowns, “a family?”

You’ve still got your eyes on the baseball bat, chewing on the inside of your cheek. 

“No, not a family. A team.” 

A team.

Gordon pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back against the couch cushions. His fingers tremble for a cigarette. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

He’s taken the words right from your mouth.

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[ivy-bluefire]

WHERE IS PART 3

PLEASE I AM *BEGGING.* If there's no part 3, I think I might actually die..

Pick Up Lines

Part 1 / Part 2: Meet-Cute

Warnings: Language, stalking behavior, some suspense.

Requests are open but I’m slow. Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated!

The Riddler x Femme! Reader

3.8k words

You must look even worse than you feel.

You know this because of the way Bruce watches you from the driver’s seat of his car, permanently-sad eyes turned down even more at the corners, brow lined with the worry you normally hold for him. He turns his head towards you at every stop, lips parted, but he never manages to say a word. 

“Thank you again, for this.” 

Your own voice is raw and weary, shaking a little as your forehead rests against the cool window. There’s no need to pretend around Bruce. No need for a brave face. He’s seen you through the worst this life has had to offer.

Interviewers often asked what it was like to be friends with the Bruce Wayne—a humanizing tidbit before the hard-hitting questions, although it’s usually the most difficult to answer. Growing up at each others’ sides had made you more like family. He was the one who first suggested law school—mostly as an insult, after another petty argument. He paid for your tuition when the time came, though, and then refused to let you pay him back. There were years of Wayne Foundation Christmas parties and birthdays spent drinking champagne on his couch, a store-bought cake resting on the cushions between you. You were given no warning when it all came to an end. Work always kept you busy, and he had plenty of vague excuses up his sleeve. The past two years of unanswered phone calls and canceled plans had turned you into almost-strangers. 

Despite all that, there’s no one you trust more than Bruce. 

Wayne Tower looks just like you remember it, that familiar feeling of safety enveloping you as the gates fold closed behind Bruce’s car, sealing you in the lush green garden and its high, protective walls. Bruce puts the car in park just in front of the arched alcove of the door, hands still gripping the steering wheel. 

“Alfred said he’d be waiting for you,” he mumbles, “and Dory has already made up your room.”

“Are you not coming in?”

“I have a meeting.” Bruce frowns hard at the windshield, like he’d expected to find a better lie written in the thin layer of moisture across the glass. 

He should know better than to think you’d let that go. “A meeting?”

There’s no response. He’s about as talkative as a brick wall, and twice as stubborn. If you’re ever going to break him down, it’ll be one stone at a time.

You sigh in defeat, leaning your head back against the old leather of the headrest. Your hand finds his without much thought, fingers resting against his pale knuckles. He flinches from the touch, even though his skin is colder than yours. You let him settle into it before you speak.

“Are you just waiting for a properly dramatic moment to reveal all your secrets?”

He almost smiles; you catch it out of the corner of your eye. “Yeah.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to be patient.” 

The look he gives you says thank you, even if he stays quiet. You grip the strap of your duffle bag, yanking it from the back seat before sending him off with a wave and a sigh.  

The night air is cool, but not biting, rain misting down through the shelter of the high, shady trees, and the sound of your footsteps echoes around you, bouncing off the cobblestone drive.

Alfred is waiting in the foyer, as promised, with a much friendlier greeting than Bruce had given you, wrapping you in a one-armed hug. He still smells the same—the vague male scent of cologne and pomade, with something more mechanical underneath it, like motor oil. It’s one of those things that defined your childhood, one that brings back an old memory with every breath.

You pull him in tighter—maybe a little closer than what’s warranted, but you can’t help it. You’ve missed him. “It’s good to see you, Alfred.”

“And it’s good to see you, miss,” he says, kind enough to let you hold him, “although I wish it wasn’t under such circumstances.”

You wonder how much Bruce told him. You hadn’t heard any part of the muffled phone call, and not for a lack of trying. Jim had kept you distracted as you threw whatever you could reach into an overnight bag, peppering you with questions you didn’t want to answer.

Did you hear anyone come in? No.

How long was the power out before you left the bathroom? I have no idea.

Is there any significance to the rose petals? Not that I know of.

There was another envelope, and a finely wrapped box, left on the table near an unconscious—but luckily alive—Officer Garrett. Jim had asked if you wanted to wait for them to be dusted for prints; you told him to open both without you.

Alfred talks about nothing as he walks you to the guest room, filling the silence with questions about only the most superficial of topics.

“Can you be honest with me, Alfred?”

You pull him to a stop in one of the many identical hallways, at the third door on the left, the door to what has always been your room whenever you stayed here, although it looks like any other. Alfred won’t meet your eyes, watching his thumb as it travels back and forth over the top of his cane. 

His expression is etched with worry when he finally looks at you, and he sighs, the weight of the world on his shoulders, “I can try, miss.”

“How is he . . . really?”

Alfred frowns hard, choosing his words carefully. “Better than he looks.”

He meets your eyes, trying not to smile. It makes you both laugh, macabre little chuckles bouncing off the stone walls. “That leaves quite a margin of error.”

“Listen to me,” Alfred rests a hand on your shoulder, more fatherly than your own father ever was. “He may not look it, but he’s doing as well as he can. Don’t worry yourself too much over him. You need to take this time you’ve been given, and try to relax a little, yeah?”

But relaxing is one of those things you’ve never been very good at.

It’s not something you needed to be good at; people like you could always find rewards for throwing yourselves into your work, and with no work to throw yourself into . . .

Gray sunlight wakes you much too early from a night of fitful sleep, and after a few unanswered calls to Jim wondering about the possibility of him grabbing your laptop from your apartment, you spend the rest of your morning wandering the empty halls in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of leggings you usually reserved for apartment deep cleans and workouts. After rummaging through a few different closets, you manage to add another item to your ensemble—a well-worn workman’s jacket an old gardener must have left, and it helps to stave off the tower’s perpetual chill.

You journey into the library, craving something to swallow your time, but the dim room with its vaulted ceilings holds nothing but weak sunlight and disappointment. Most of the books are probably priceless, and definitely ancient—so old you’re afraid they’d crumble to dust in your fingers. The only “modern” contributions Bruce had made to the collection were dreary Russian classics that you’d rather eat page by page than read.

You fiddle with your phone in your hand, raking your eyes over the orderly shelves, before deciding to look up the closest book store—just to check—pleasantly surprised to see that there’s one only a few blocks from your location.

You really shouldn’t. And yet, you find yourself walking to the door.

It’s not like you could ask Bruce to go with you—you don’t even know if he came back last night, let alone if he’s awake. Of course Alfred would go, but the walk would be hell on his leg, and taking the car in the heart of the city would be its own kind of hassle.

And it’s not like you were in any danger in the daylight.

You leave a note on the dining table for Alfred—Needed some fresh air. I have my phone!—and sneak out the side gate.

There aren’t many others out in the early morning: some blue-collar workers with tired eyes on their way to and from jobs, one or two baby-faced professionals in expensive suits, handfuls of women in designer athletic gear measuring their pulses as they speed walk down the way. You’ve never seen a homeless camp on this side of the city, but you pass by a few people with cardboard signs, either foolish enough to hope for better luck among the wealthier crowd, or desperate enough to risk catching the attention of the police. You make a note to find out if the book store will let you withdraw any cash for your walk back.

It’s a high-end place—one with large, clean front windows and a little cafe inside, its chalkboard menu boasting oat milk lattes with your choice of floral syrups. The inside smells exactly how a bookstore should, the air warm enough that you can unzip your borrowed jacket without getting cold. You tuck your hands in the large, lined pockets, feeling invigorated, and decide to treat yourself to a drink.

There’s something very calming about walking through the aisles of a bookstore, something that makes you forget about everything beyond its doors, and you set a leisurely pace through the stacks, comforted by the privacy the shelves offer you. You pick up titles at random, choosing only the most ridiculous romances you can find—ones with tragic, busty women on the covers and the weakest of plot summaries.

Of course you’d bump into somebody with a shopping basket full of porn.

There’s a loud zip from the waterproof material of his jacket when his shoulder blade brushes yours, and it’s unexpected enough to startle the book you were holding out of your hand. 

He reaches for it the same time you do—long, pale fingers and dry knuckles poking from the oversized sleeve of his jacket. His hand just brushes yours along the book’s stiff spine, and you’d never believed in all that fairytale rom-com bullshit, but given the way your fingertips go numb when they meet his, it almost feels like a spark.

He’s got big, dark eyes and a round, angelic face—his cheeks a sweet baby pink when he meets your eyes, growing pinker with embarrassment when he sees the cover of the book you were holding, like he’s the one who’s been caught red-handed.

Fuck, he’s cute. The kind of guy you’d like to carry around in your pocket.

“Sorry,” you snatch the book from the floor before he can get another chance to examine the shirtless cover model and his air-brushed pectorals, tucking it back on the shelf at random and crossing your arms over your chest in a poor attempt to seem casual, “I didn’t see you there.”

He’s staring up at you from the ground, wide eyed, and his lips tremble without words—you’d say the expression he wore was disbelief, if he didn’t look so afraid.

But then he gets a hold of himself, standing in front of you with a slight slump to his shoulders and his hands tucked away in large jacket pockets. He’s taller than you thought he would be.

“That’s okay,” he sounds just like he looks, small and bashful. His eyes dart away from yours, back to the shelf and its rows and rows of trashy romances, his cheeks reddening again. You grasp at straws for a distraction.

“Are you a mystery fan?”

There’s a sign above one of the shelves behind you, the word MYSTERY in large block letters, thank god, and it successfully diverts his attention away from the chiseled firefighters and men in kilts.

He hums quietly as he nods, tracing over the dark covers and author’s names, clearly more familiar with the titles there than you are. Conversation doesn’t seem to come naturally to him; he purses his thin pink lips together, thinking hard about what to say next. 

“What about you?”

“Oh, not really,” you say, and he offers nothing to fill the silence. You feel compelled to continue, “I think there’s enough mystery in my own life.”

Which would explain your presence in the romance aisle—funnily enough—although if he makes the same connection, he’s too kind to point it out. 

He shifts quietly, glancing towards the mouth of the aisle, probably desperate to get out of here. But it feels like ages since you’ve had a normal conversation with somebody, even though less than twenty four hours have passed since you met with Jim. And you’ve never been very good at letting things go. 

“What would you suggest?”

“What?” 

His eyes flash back towards yours, and he squints them, almost suspicious—like he can’t understand why you’re still talking to him, like he’s grown too accustomed to being the butt of the joke. 

“If I wanted to get into the genre, where do you think I should start?”

He frowns, deadly serious about your request, and if you were expecting an Agatha Christie or a Stephen King, you’re immediately corrected. His hand travels to one of the lower shelves, shaggy hair falling in curtains around his face, leaving the pale skin at the back of his neck bare and vulnerable just above the collar of his blue dress shirt. 

God, really? You chew on the inside of your cheek, staring hard at the block print covering the front of a John Grisham novel. You’re hardly a nun, but this interaction’s got you acting like you’re fresh from the convent. Maybe you should have taken your secretary’s offers to set you up with her cousin or neighbor or whatever. But, then again, the conventionally-attractive thirty-somethings she showed you pictures of never piqued your interest like this guy. 

He stands again before you can think too deeply about petting your fingers over the delicate little hairs at the edge of his scalp, to see if they’re really as soft as they look.

“Here.”

He rests the book in your hands, gently, like the slightest breath might undo the glue at its seams and cover the floor in sheafs of unbound papers. You take in the faded gray cover—completely unassuming, both the title and the author unfamiliar. It’s a little like the man in front of you, you think with a stifled smile, although the USA Today review promises hidden depths.

“Thank you—”

He hears the pause in your voice, and hesitates himself, before winning whatever internal battle he’d faced and pressing his hand out for you to take.

“Edward,” he supplies.

“And I’m—”

“I know.”

He blushes furiously at that admission, eyes wide with surprise, like he’s just confessed to some heinous crime. For the first time you wonder if you should be worried, talking to a stranger so openly given . . . everything.

The blush only grows more acute, skin redder than you would have thought medically possible. He speaks in a small voice, sliding his clammy hand from your grip. “I’ve— I’ve seen your campaign ads on TV.”

Now it’s your turn to be embarrassed. “Oh god, those are really, really awful.”

His face falls, looking sadder than warranted. “What?”

You heave a sigh, shifting the basket from one arm to the other. Creating the campaign ads had been, to put it mildly, a fucking nightmare. The PR guy you’d hired was a total ass, forcing ethnically-ambiguous child actors into your arms and constantly commanding you to “smile, no wider.” The end result left you looking vapid and cloying.

“They’re just so, I don’t know, cheesy? I can’t watch any of them without cringing. People are always worried I won’t come off as ‘likable,’ so I guess we had to overcompensate.” 

He actually looks distraught at the idea. “Why would anyone dislike you?”

Oh my god. You part your lips like you’re about to speak, but find yourself too stunned to list any of the reasons people found you unpleasant, warranted or not. And then you spy a brooding figure over his shoulder, and you're stunned for an entirely different reason.

“Bruce?”

Bruce is standing with his back towards you in the little cafe area, and he turns at the sound of his voice, purple shadows under his eyes and a relieved expression on his face, which quickly turns critical. 

“What are you doing here?” He crosses the space between you in a few large strides, concrete frown tampered a little by the confused look he shoots in Edward’s direction. You give him a little shake of your head—Bruce had never been a fan of meeting new people, and it seems like Edward is the same. He clings tightly up against the shelves, the oversized sleeve of his jacket denting against the wooden frame, trying his best to make himself smaller. When he glances at you, pressing his glasses back up his nose, you think you spy a little hurt in his features.

It’s not like that, you want to say. And then you want to roll your eyes at yourself.

Of course it’s not like that. It’s Bruce.

“I was just looking for something to read. And I have my phone.”

You put on a falsely innocent tone, a trick that had served you fairly often in your childhood whenever you’d gotten caught doing something you shouldn’t. Bruce recognizes it too well to be on the receiving end.

“I’ve been calling you.”

You slip your phone from your pocket, scrolling through an unprecedented list of notifications,  missed calls and messages—some from Jim, but the majority from Bruce.

A little pocket of worry burrows its way into your chest. “I didn’t know I had it on silent, still. I’m sorry. Did something happen?”

“Lieutenant Gordon came looking for you, something about the . . . situation at your apartment last night.”

Edward’s shoulders have dropped down from his ears, and you can feel the curious pressure of his eyes on the side of your face. Your mouth twists into a frown. It’s a hell of a time to meet somebody. It seems like Edward might be thinking the same thing, shifting from foot to foot. 

“I should go,” he says, “I’m late for work.”

He tries to scoot past you in the aisle, careful not to touch you. When your hand wraps around his arm, he jumps. 

“Wait—“ you stop him, and then flounder, unsure how to ask for what you want—acutely aware of the way Bruce is watching you and the way Edward is watching him watch you. “I should probably get your number, you know, in case I want any more recommendations when I finish this one.”

There’s a display table near the end of the shelf—stacked with little recommendation cards you can fill out for other customers and a cup of ball-point pens. You take one, pressing it into Edward’s hand.

He eyes you warily, his clammy fingers unfurling slowly around the plastic before he writes down his name and number on the inside cover in a messy scrawl.

“Thanks, I’ll call you.” 

He nods, unable to even meet your eyes, pink cheeks dusted by the ends of his sandy blond hair. He’s too shy to even say goodbye. 

You watch him go, and when you turn back Bruce is staring at you with a heavy frown. You take a little pleasure in watching him chew on his criticisms, deciding where he might have the moral high ground, whittling them down to practically nothing. 

“You could have just had him type it into your phone.” 

Jim is waiting for you in the sitting room of Wayne Tower, trying hard to look like he’s not mesmerized—and maybe a little put-off—by the brutal architecture and ostentatious decor. 

There’s a few items on the coffee table in front of him: your computer—thank god—a black dress from your closet, still in its plastic dry-cleaner wrapping, some black heels.

You take a seat, and Jim clears his throat, gesturing to the clothes. “Mitchell’s funeral is tomorrow; I thought you’d want to attend.”

“Thank you,” you drop into one of the chairs across from him, but you can’t pull your eyes away from the dark green envelope and its matching box.

He sighs, leaning on his forearms. “Our guys dusted them for prints and didn’t find anything. I’m sorry.” 

You nod. It’s not alright, but it’s expected.

Gordon looks like he’s ready to say more, but he pauses, glancing over your shoulder. “I’d hoped we could talk more about this in private.”

You look back. Bruce is still standing in the doorway, looking quiet and awkward.

“I don’t mind if he stays. If it’s alright with you, of course.” Gordon nods, and Bruce finds a seat. The room is quiet, and solid with tension. 

“I guess we should start with this.” Gordon reaches for the box. It’s heavier than you expected, and long, easily spanning the distance between the armrests of your chair without touching your lap. You lift the lid and cast it aside.

“Oh.” 

It’s not the same one. That’s what you have to tell yourself, looking down, tears stinging your eyes. It’s not the same bat. But there’s a roaring in your ears, and the smell of blood thick in your nose, suffocating your other senses. 

It’s not the same one. That one had more wear—nicks in the barrel, paint faded in some places, like the two retro stripes near the handle, flecked at the edges. That bat had been Bruce’s originally, until he’d passed it on to you—a kind of consolation prize, after your parents had yet again denied your pleas to join a local softball league. You made due, playing catch with Bruce in the garden, trying not to seethe when he had to leave for his little league practice. 

It’s not the same bat, but it weighs just the same in your hand. You know what it would sound like, if you swung it through the air. Know how it would feel to lift it high above your head, then bring it down with all your might.

“God.” 

You don’t need to explain the significance of the gift—the two men are well-aware of your history, just like the rest of Gotham. And him, as well.

Bruce swallows, watching you lift the bat from its package and set it gingerly at your feet—no sudden movements. He looks like he’s going to be sick. 

Gordon clears his throat. “We got another card, as well. No cipher this time, but there is a riddle. It’s a little vague—we haven’t been able to figure out a satisfactory answer.” 

He pulls out the card, shows you the front: I’m “pin-ning'' all my hopes on you, valentine! underneath an illustration of a child hanging little heart shapes on a clothesline.

“It could be two, just me and you. What do you have that also has you?” he reads. 

Bruce frowns, “a family?”

You’ve still got your eyes on the baseball bat, chewing on the inside of your cheek. 

“No, not a family. A team.” 

A team.

Gordon pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back against the couch cushions. His fingers tremble for a cigarette. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

He’s taken the words right from your mouth.

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[ivy-bluefire]

Insufferable 

Edward Nygma AKA The Riddler x Gender Neutral Reader 

Genre: Smut 

Words: 1,140

Summary: You’ve been an obnoxious pervert for too long, but all your shameless begging has finally paid off. 

Content/Warnings: Hate sex, rough sex, penis in ambiguous hole sex, choking, mean dirty talk, insults, degradation, slapping, sub/bottom reader

“Is this what you wanted, you sniveling little cretin?” 

Edward’s question comes out as a snarl. You can hear the words pushing through his gritted teeth, but they run over your mind like water to a stone. You’re not really listening. 

How could you be when he’s pounding into you from behind this way, like his life depends on making sure he molds your insides to fit his cock? 

You’ve never seen Edward this angry. 

You’ve never seen him angry at all, really. Annoyed, irritated, sure, but this goes deeper. He’s fuming. 

Just like you wanted. 

You took a liking to Edward the moment you laid eyes on him. More than a liking, really. Obsession was the better word. Obsession was the only word. 

To put it bluntly, you couldn’t go five minutes without humping his leg. You were never shy about your attraction or want for sex, and never wavered despite his biting insults. What kept you coming back, though, was the fact that Edward did too. 

He’s a highly intelligent man, any clueless window licker could see that in an instant, and you’re a rather new rogue on the scene—no one would be bothered by him killing you just to be rid of you. 

But he didn’t. He never even laid a hand on you, though you’ve seen him take his cane to quite a few unruly thugs before. He could’ve landed you in the hospital seven times over by now, but again and again you stood untouched. 

And then he broke. 

You can’t even remember what you said at this point. All you remember is that look in Edward’s eyes, like bulging glass exploding and sending shards in every direction—for whatever reason, he’d hit his limit. 

It’s all a blur from there until now. You can vaguely recall gloved hands on your body, his rough grip on your arms and neck as he dragged you to whatever position he deemed fit. Now, though, none of that matters. 

You finally have what you want. 

“Answer me, dammit!” 

A particularly hard thrust hits deeper than you were ready for. You cry out from the sensation, every nerve ending in you screaming with pleasure. There’s no mistaking your utter ecstasy, but it only seems to aggravate Edward even more. 

“God, just listen to you,” he hisses, leaning down to speak into your ear, “those fucking noises you’re making…is that all you know how to do, mewl and beg like a whore? I’ve never seen you do anything else.” 

He gives a harsh smack to your ass as he sits back up, and you make sure the sound you make is as lecherous as you can make it. His grip on you tightens for a brief second. You’re still getting under his skin. No matter what he does, you’re still going to enjoy this. 

“Pathetic,” he growls, “just pathetic. Do you even hear to yourself? For weeks on end you were completely incessant…’Oh, please, Eddie, give me your cock, Eddie, I need it, Eddie, oh Eddie, oh Eddie—‘“

He pushes your head into the mattress, muffling the shameless moan that spills from your lips as he ruts erratically into you. 

“I mean, do you ever shut up?!” 

He’s already losing any semblance of rhythm, not that he had much in the first place. It’s clear what this is really about for him: dominance. He’s not seeking pleasure from this as much as he is an ego boost, another way to tell himself he is the superior, especially to someone like you. 

Suddenly, he stills. You make a noise of confusion, but don’t have much time to think before he’s sliding out of you. You open your mouth to protest, naturally, however you get no chance. Edward grasps you once more before roughly flipping you onto your back, making the mattress creak and shudder from the sudden force. 

For just a moment, you lock eyes. His green iris’s shine with rage, ginger brows furrowed so tightly and scowl so deep it’s nearly a work of art. His harsh expression doesn’t waver as he pushes his length back into you. Your back arches, but you don’t look away from him; you make sure he sees that smile he despises so. 

A hand wraps around your throat, fast enough to startle you with how quickly your airflow is cinched. You sputter for a moment before collecting yourself. 

“You are just insufferable,” Edward mutters, inches away from your face, “and you know it, and you just can’t help yourself. I get it now. No matter what I do, you’ll just eat it up, won’t you? It doesn’t matter how much I throw you around or abuse you, you’ll enjoy it either way. I just can’t win.” 

You swallow, feeling your throat bob against the palm of his hand. Your grin only widens, now open and showing teeth. 

He backs up, looking down at you silently for a long few moments. He’s completely still, letting his pulsing cock rest inside of you—he’s contemplating something, and he doesn’t like it. 

After a few moments, he huffs. It’s a sigh of frustration, you think, or something akin to it. When he speaks again, his anger has deflated just a bit. 

“…Fine. I can’t win. But if I can’t win…”

He adjusts his position, releasing your neck and making himself comfortable looming over you. 

“…I’ll just pummel you until I feel better. Now close your cock-hungry maw so I can slap you without breaking it.” 

You blink up at him dumbly. Did…did you hear that right? 

He raises a brow, and a hand. In a split second, you shut your mouth tight, and squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact. 

His open palm comes down on your cheek without mercy. The sound of the slap is loud in your ears, and it’s delicious. You sigh in pleasure as the sting sprawls out across your face. 

Edward doesn’t let it show, but you could swear satisfaction flashes in his eyes. It’s brief, hardly there at all, but you can see it. Only you could ever see it. 

He grabs your chin and turns you to face him once more. He raises his hand again, and you gladly let him slap you for a second time. This hit is even harder, and it feels so damn good. He’s starting to thrust into you again, just as needy and erratic as before. The mere thought of him cumming inside of you makes your stomach flip in anticipation. 

“Something tells me you’ll never learn your lesson,” you hear him mumble, and it pulls a breathy giggle from your throat. You shake your head no, and Edward lets the briefest smirk cross his lips. 

“I can live with that,” he replies, “I suppose I could stand to do this again…and a few more after that.” 

This is not fully proofread, please let me know if you see any errors. 

Feedback is appreciated and encouraged. 

If you like this fic, please reblog! It’s free, takes two seconds, and it’s a great way to support writers.  

[ivy-bluefire]

[ivy-bluefire]

I know that—objectively—this is bullshit, but I have chosen to believe that the reason the US hasn't formally changed to the metric system is for the poets. When the going gets tough you can still claw your way forward inch by inch, but centimeter by centimeter just doesn't quite carry you. You're in love/excited/nervous/scared and your heart is beating a hundred miles per hour, whoa that sounds fast and dangerous! But a hundred kph? I've been passed by people going faster than that coming out of downtown on capital boulevard. The pound of flesh they take from you is raw and bloody and full of pain, the kilogram of flesh is impersonal and excised in laboratory conditions under strict observation. Liters are okay tho, if only because they sound like meter and a meter is used to measure things, so the measure of a man can be siphoned (as a byproduct of the kilogram) into a bottle with a screw cap lid and stored in a dark cool room until he is found wanting. A gallon would be wasteful, a quart too unserious, and a cup not enough to keep him from withering in the desert sands under 100 degree faeghreignheit sun. ...Okay maybe celsius gets a pass too.

[ivy-bluefire]

It occurs to me that some people have a warped view of Shadow the Hedgehog.

There’s like two versions of him. 

There’s the impression people (including some SEGA creators) have of Shadow the Hedgehog, which started somewhere on or after 2005, which I will be referring to as

1. Shadow’s shadow

He’s dark but it’s cringey because he’s trying so hard to be dark, and you get the impression that only 10 year old boys and 14 year old girls think he’s actually dark. He has a gun, just to prove to monkey-brain children used to fun Sonic ring-collecting that he’s bad. He cusses because cussing is edgy. He never does anything good unless it’s to prove he’s a better hero than Sonic. He’s over-the-top cruel or emo because that’s all he represents, and picks fights to defend his own pride like a bad version of Season 1 Zuko.

The problem with this version of the character is that somewhere down the line, even SEGA thought that Shadow’s shadow was all the Shadow the Hedgehog that everyone wanted to see. Or they just forgot that none of the above character traits have anything to do with the original character, at all. And so they started putting him in the new games like that.  But that’s not the real Shadow. That’s just Shadow’s Shadow, a lame guess at who the character is based on his black and red design and snippets of things which people who never played SA2 heard about the character.

The real version of the character, which sparked the original popularity, is

 2. Shadow the Hedgehog

The original Shadow the Hedgehog was popular because he was the new character in a game that brought emotional Lore to the Sonic games. He debuted in Sonic Adventure 2, and he wasn’t even the only new character in that game, which is kind of one of the things that was awesome about him: he wasn’t supposed to be The Cool One™ in the franchise. 

He was supposed to be a one-off character. Think about that: not a character that just hit every out-of-proportion-fanservice trait, not a character that they kept bringing back over and over to entice weary fans. 

He was just a new story element, presenting interesting themes that worked as a great foil for Sonic himself, then dying in an emotionally impactful way, making the SA2 game interesting and memorable for it’s story.

That is what was originally so popular about Shadow. Yes, he was really cool, and he did check all the “Dark Version of Your Beloved Main Character Trope” boxes, but he was ALSO a really well-rounded character that didn’t feel like he was just a hook to get fans interested. He had depth.

In fact, it could be argued that he brought depth of story to the series in a way that hadn’t been done since…well, Knuckles the Echidna. Sonic’s first-ever “rival” (who was not a robot.) 

And Shadow brought depth of story MORE than Knuckles, because Shadow came around in the era of Cutscenes and Dialogue which provided a medium for this little thing called Flashbacks. Yeah, Knuckles’ first, pixel-y appearance brought in story elements like The Master Emerald and visuals that hinted at lore, like a Shrine.

But Shadow? 

Shadow the Hedgehog appeared and was instantly the audience’s window to look through and see things that had never been seen before, which fleshed out Sonic’s whole canon and world. Things like:

The Government (woah, the Sonic world has a President and a unique military organization?)

Eggman’s family (woah, they’re actually going to tell us something about where Eggman came from?)

Chaos Powers (woah, the Chaos Emeralds actually do something besides just turning characters “super?”)

A story structure like this, where a new character also served as a way to examine deeper parts of Sonic Lore, had been used in the game’s predecessor, Sonic Adventure 1. But that new character, Chaos, was just presented as a mindless, silent villain with a blank face who turned out to have feelings right before he disappeared forever. Shadow is not like that at all in his first appearance.

He starts the game acting kind of like a genie who’s been let out of the bottle, offering to grant Eggman wishes. He offers Eggman a mysterious bargain. He seems totally evil and in possession of power over the Chaos Emeralds that allow him to rival Sonic. But during the story, there start to be hints at something underneath it all. 

He keeps flashing back to a scary/sad combo of scenes involving a little girl. He mentions that he’s after revenge. He talks like a Shakespeare character when he villainously monologues, but he also ends most of his levels with “I’m the coolest!” and smugly talks smack with Sonic during their fight scenes. He seems totally focused on his mission one minute, then, any time he encounters Sonic, appears to get completely distracted and eager to compete, like a 18 year-old athlete.

All this contrast between a lofty, broody villain personality with a hidden fun, competitive showboating personality made the audience DESPERATE to know where this Shadow guy came from and what made him tick. It helped that other characters, like the government spy and Eggman himself, were teasing at a mystery in his past, too.

Then when you DO find out the why behind everything Shadow does, there’s been such a buildup that it’s satisfying. 

I mean, it sounds really weird to hear that Shadow the Hedgehog is an artificial creature created by Eggman’s genius grandfather on a space station to bring hope to the Earth below, but was warped by a desire for revenge when the Government tried to kill him and wound up shooting the little girl who was his only friend and sealing him away for 50 years, instead. But it ONLY sounds that weird if you didn’t play the SA2 game and get to know Shadow as he was intended, bit by bit, reveal by reveal.

 Because SA2 Shadow had reasons for being broody and angsty. 

And he wasn’t ALWAYS broody and angsty. In fact, he was a master manipulator! When he was around Eggman, he was confident, smooth, and articulate, like a Shakespearean villain. When he was around Rouge, whom he did not trust, he was silent, firm, and to-the-point. Only by himself was he angsty–and it never lasted long. 

And when he was around Sonic? 

Oh boy. That is my FAVORITE thing about Shadow. Because when he was around Sonic, it’s like I said. He would stop being focused on his revenge-mission and stop being focused on whatever he was doing with Eggman and he would just turn into this competitive, flashy guy. I mean, yes, it would’ve been hard for him to stay focused on the mission because Sonic was actively trying to get in his way–but the thing is

Shadow starts to be his real SELF around Sonic. Even while they’re fighting. Because you get the sense, as the player/audience, that if this big trauma had not happened in Shadow’s past, he would have been Sonic. In personality. Sonic and Shadow are both highly competitive, love thrills, and love a challenge. They are also both heroic. Even while Shadow is a villain, he winds up saving Rouge the Bat from death by explosion, just because it seems like he can’t help himself. And remember, he was created to be a savior of the world anyway.

So combine Heroism with Competitiveness and you have someone who is very close to our fun-loving, cool blue hedgehog protagonist. But then the human race he was sworn to protect destroyed his home, murdered his best friend right in front of him, and locked him away as a dangerous weapon for 50 years. 

Shadow is not what you get if you take Hot Topic and throw it on top of Sonic the Hedgehog. 

Shadow is what you get if you took a bunch of Flickies murdering Tails the Fox right in front of Sonic while Green Hill Zone burned in the background. 

And then, at the very end of Sonic Adventure 2, Shadow realizes that he didn’t promise Maria (his best friend who was murdered) revenge. He promised her that he would protect everyone on Earth. So very much like Ben Solo (RIP) you get a quick snippet of who Shadow the Hedgehog really is when he’s not burdened by all the Baggage. 

In a handful of cutscenes and well-performed in-game dialogue, you hear that his voice is a little lighter. He physically transforms from black to white.

He’s focused on destroying the evil threatening the planet, but he also says kind little things like, “Sonic, you need rest! Let me give it a try!” and “How are you doing, Sonic?” and

AND

in one in-game clip of dialogue, he even says that he thinks SONIC might be the Ultimate Life Form. 

Shadow’s Shadow, the lame ironic tropey interpretation of Shadow, would never say something like that. He’d cuss in a low-voiced rasp and dramatically try to blow the head off of anyone who even joked about it. But the thing is, at this point in the story, you are seeing Shadow as he is: a lab-created being who’s probably only lived around a year, consciously, and was still figuring out what he even is before going under. The only reason he was ever anything but a good-natured, gold-hearted hero was because of the trauma and revenge-induced worldview. When all of that is stripped away and he starts seeing his purpose and his whole history clearly, he is this slightly naive, open-hearted, mission-driven, contemplative foil to Sonic.

Then he sacrifices his life and dies. And the end of the game is all of the characters, good and bad, united for a scene where they each contemplate who they are and what is right and wrong.

And that’s the effect he had on players, too. He was such a deep, interesting character who was not edgy (even though his backstory was more violent and dark than any other character’s) that they loved him desperately. And SEGA brought him back.

Of course, they brought him back with amnesia, and that probably would’ve been fine, except it spiraled into the Shadow’s Shadow version of the character that got his own video game and worsened everything.

But that’s besides the point.

The original Shadow the Hedgehog, the true, real version of the character, was absolutely the best part of the franchise at the time. And basically, in conclusion, SA2 Shadow is the BEST Shadow.

[ivy-bluefire]

♡ Yandere Alphabet ♡

Remastered with permission from the creator. Original alphabet found here.

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?