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circledemptiness · 4 months ago

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You wear submission so beautifully – Chapter 2

Fandom: Batman (Arkham Knight) Pairing: Edward Nigma (The Riddler) x Reader Rating: Explicit +18 Tags: Very Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen, Hate Sex, Humiliation

You swore you'd make him pay. Reclaim your pride, your power, your name. But sometimes, things don't go as planned, leaving you even more confused, even more hurt.

✦ Chapter index ✦ Read on AO3

As the night stretches on, slumber remains a distant dream. You toss and turn in your bed, your body soaked in sweat, every shift reminding you of tonight’s mistake. Your mind fights, desperately, to push away the mortifying memories, but it’s a losing battle. Every bruise, every tender spot on your body is a cruel reminder of your mistake with Edward Nigma. Your mind won’t let you forget for even a second how mercilessly he stripped you of your dignity, how, like an animal, he treated you as nothing more than his personal ragdoll, and how you let him. Not consciously, no. But you let him. And there’s a sick, carnal truth to it that you can’t escape; in that wretched moment, this was what you wanted. This was what you needed, craved. But if only it had been anyone else. If only it hadn’t been Edward fucking Nigma.

You wince as you shift again in an uncomfortable position, your muscles stretching over the bruises he left, and a sickening, hot pain churns in your insides. The fucker really did a number on you, no care for your comfort, no respect, no humanity. He took what he wanted, and you were just a body; a vessel to feed his ego, a plaything for him to debase, turning you into his toy to ruin to his heart’s content. Like he was entitled to break you, as if you were always meant to be his to shatter and destroy.

Your abused cunt aches, the sensitive flesh swollen and throbbing with that searing reminder, your cold hand offering nothing more than hollow comfort as it hovers over the bullied skin. Even after a shower, even after scrubbing yourself raw, you can still feel the remnants of him on your fingers, smell him on your skin. His scent, that stain, clings to you like oil. And you hate it. You hate it all.

Fury rises like fire in your chest, choking you, flooding your veins with a blistering need for vengeance. You ache to scream, to rip him apart, to drag him to his knees and make him feel what he did to you. Every single thought in your mind is a knife, twisting in your gut. You remember how Pamela thought this would help you. What a joke. If anything, it only fueled your rage, a blaze that threatens to consume you whole. It’s shattering, overwhelming, devastating.

You swallow back the bile burning in your throat, the fire of your anger churning like poison inside. And you think, think, think of how, you know, he’ll never forget what happened. Oh, he’ll revel in it, taunt you with it, every chance he gets, using it as a weapon against you. He must be so proud, so grand, having tamed you, having broken you, even for just one night. When your mind was fogged and your judgment clouded by need and delirium, when you were vulnerable.

Slumber never finds you that night. Or the nights that follow.

Thankfully, you haven’t seen him since. Because you can practically hear his grating voice in your head, see that smug, self-satisfied expression plastered on his face. It should hardly come as a surprise to you, however; the man is the embodiment of a recluse lunatic, probably hiding at the orphanage like the pathetic little cockroach he is, working on his iron-clad inferno.

Time has passed, and though you have licked your wounds since, your pride still hasn’t healed. Your body doesn’t ache as it did, but your mind is growing the seed of revenge, full of the desire to make him pay.

It’s not only about reclaiming the dignity he stole from you; but to make him regret your humiliation. And it’s not only about the crude, mortifying fact that Edward Nigma fucked you; it’s about not letting him think you’re beneath him. Not letting him think he can walk all over you. Not when you’re both crime lords, both powerful in your own right. One slip, one word, and your entire reputation could be ruined. The Riddler’s pathetic little game could tank you in this city. And you’ll be damned if you let him get away with it.

There’s only one person who can help you now. One place you need to be– and she owes you.

You find her in a hidden, abandoned greenhouse, weaving through the wild, monstrous roots, the air thick with the scent of decay and life. The moonlight punctures the cracked glass dome, illuminating the space in fractured beams, painting luminous freckles all over the eerie vegetation. You don’t even take in the beauty of it all, because you’re not here for that. The golden spores swirling through the air, their light mocking you as you walk deeper, they don’t matter. You’re not here to admire the garden. Though your hazy mind seems to make you want to forget what you came for in the first place.

Then, you hear her voice, soft, silky, almost dangerous in the way it curls around you, as if the trees themselves murmured to you.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, my friend,” she says, a tone that’s all too calming, all too seductive. It unsettles you. You shake your head, focusing. Trying your best not to succumb to the green, poisonous heaven.

“You owe me, Red,” you say, voice trembling with rage, but unyielding. Your resolve is cold steel now, unbreakable. You stand firm, glaring into the dim space, waiting for her organic silhouette to appear.

Leaves rustle somewhere behind you, the organic temple coming to life in ways you can’t explain, practically breathing with the energy of the plants, an eerie glow blooming in the distance.

“How did it go with your darling nemesis? You haven’t told me,” she asks, her voice honey-sweet, but laced with something far darker, not quite mocking– expectation. She’s waiting for a confession. She already knows the answer, and she loves it.

“That’s why I’m here, Red. It was a perfect disaster. And it’s all thanks to you.”

A pause. A hum, echoing around you. As if, somehow, she was disappointed. Then, you feel it. The air shifts, and one of the giant flowers in front of you begins to unfurl, morphing into something grotesque, something alive. It opens like a nightmare, revealing her, blooming like a dark deity, her beauty and power undeniable.Your breath hitches, a medley of awe and intimidation, knowing that you are not in a friendly place. Not quite anyway.

Pamela emerges, her body entirely naked, yet covered in roots and leaves, flowers springing from her skin like she’s part of this very world. Her form is divine, intoxicating, but you don't allow yourself to be distracted by it. Not now. Not when every inch of you burns with hatred and fury.

“Pity,” she purrs, her smile twisted, sharp. “I really thought this could help you put your differences aside, if only for a night.”

The words are a slap to your face, reopening old wounds you’ve been trying to forget. Edward’s searing, insulting touch, his mocking words, his cruel glares; each one floods you again, a torrent of humiliation. Your frown deepens, your fists clench.

“It didn’t,” you growl, voice low, venomous. “It made things worse. So now, you owe me.”

She stares at you, unblinking, her smile turning dangerous.

“I see. And what is it that you want, then?”

You can’t help the cruel smirk that spreads across your face. You know exactly what you want. And perhaps she knows it, too.

“I want some of the spores that got into my system.”

She pauses. Then a flicker of something behind her eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or maybe the ghost of a secret. But she doesn’t protest. She doesn’t say a word. Instead, she chuckles, the sound light and eerie, like something wicked.

With fluid grace, she holds your hand, palm up, and from her fingertips, she conjures a large, soft leaf, placing it in your hand. With another mysterious gesture, she then calls forth golden spores from her very essence, dusting them over your palm in a fine, glowing powder.

“It’s potent,” she says, her eyes dark with amusement. “Use it wisely.”

You grin, a savage, feral thing, shaking your head in thanks before turning to leave. You feel her gaze on your back, and you thrive on it. With every step you take, the ground beneath you crackles with the energy of the plants, the roots writhing in your wake, as if they, too, recognize the hunger driving you.

You’ll use it wisely. Oh yes, you will.

✦ ✦ ✦

It isn’t difficult to enter the orphanage; that is, if you know your way through the serpentine labyrinth of the place, more akin to a nightmare than a real building. It is an entirely different story to actually find the man; you slither through its choking corridors, a nest of half-finished electric fences, broken tiles, flickering neon, and riddlerbots that eye you without recognition, neither a threat nor a friend to them. You cock a brow at the cracked walls and ceilings (how did he even manage to access them?), painted over with mad scrawlings: equations, insults, paranoid threats, declarations of genius. All of it in that bile-colored, radioactive green.

It sends a different kind of shiver through your spine. Not fear, no. Something closer to disgust. Pity, perhaps. The man is a raving lunatic, yes, but more than that, he's small. A creature obsessed with proving he's more than the rodent he knows he is. A wretched little mind, clinging to delusions of grandeur. And maybe, just maybe, there’s something almost fascinating in that level of brokenness.

There is something to dissect there, woven in the confines of his sick, fractured mind, so pathetic you could almost be curious to analyze it. Almost.

Right now, you’d rather tear his psyche apart. Ruin it in a way that truly matters.

You follow the sound of shuffling papers, muttering, mechanical scribbles, drawing you deeper into the orphanage’s rotted gut. The door to one of the rooms hangs slightly ajar, a single shaft of dim, sickly yellow light spilling out. Then, you see his silhouette through the crack.

Edward Nigma.

He’s hunched over a desk like a mad man, scrawling manically over a blueprint. He’s muttering to himself. Arguing. Affirming. Dismissing. His voice is low, fast, choked with fractured obsession, his thoughts scattered nonsensically all over the room. He wears that disgusting green shirt, cacked in a miasma of filth, paint, grime and other oils you don’t even care to identify; the short sleeves exposing pale arms peppered with bandaids, superficial cuts, and other marks; each one a testament to his spiraling mind. His cargo pants sag under the weight of a stuffed utility belt, and his goggles lie on the table beside him, lenses smeared with grime. The whole room reeks of sweat, paint, and something else, something burnt. Like his brain’s been overheating for days, his mind galloping in a world entirely different than yours.

You stare at him silently, your hand in the pocket of your coat, toying with something, something made of leather, that you brought just for him. You’re also wearing the same outfit that you did during your last encounter. As if it held some sort of meaning, some symbolism.

You step inside. No invitation. No ceremony. The door groans as it opens wider.

The space is suffocating, the walls scribbled with symbols and riddles, the floorboards half-rotted. It was probably an office once, a long time ago; there’s an old carpet curled like dying skin, and even an old couch on the other side of the room, dark and tired. A lantern flickers overhead, casting shadows that twist with each breath. It feels like you’ve stepped inside his mind: tight, erratic, chaotic, wrong. A suffocating cocoon, uncomfortable and threatening; like you’re not supposed to be here.

The floor creaks under your weight. A little too loud.

He hears it.

Edward jerks upright with a sharp gasp, whirling around, eyes blazing with immediate rage. But when he sees you, the fire shifts. His scowl melts into something far more vile. That fucking smirk, dripping smug and disdain, a knowing look plastered all over his proud face.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t it my most pathetic little parasite.” His voice crawls under your skin, claws at your nerves. Your heart beats faster, but not from fear. No. From the raw, blistering need to wipe that smugness from his face, bone and all.

“Ah, but you must be lost, my insignificant fiend. The exit is behind you; shall I draw you a map? Crayons, perhaps?”

You don’t answer. Not yet. Instead, you stroll deeper into the room, your expression smooth, your hands tucked behind your back like you’re admiring a zoo exhibit. You hum softly, mockingly, eyes scanning the cluttered mess, under his darkening gaze, his smile faltering gradually. Annoyance and anger burn in his emerald eyes, his chest heaving calmly as he glares at you.

“Hello, Eddie. Haven’t seen you in a while.” Your tone is warm. Playful. But every word drips with poison. Inside, you’re burning. Bile claws at your throat, fury crawls beneath your skin, and your hands twitch with the need to wrap around his neck and squeeze. His voice alone awakens the memories of your last wretched encounter; his cruel touch, his mocking smile, his potent scent, the humiliation. You want nothing more than to tear him apart. Slowly. Piece by piece. But tonight, you’re going to be smarter. Tonight, you will have your revenge.

He doesn't buy your act, of course. He just grins wider, a smug thing plastered all over his face, and how you want to tear it apart, shred it to the bones.

"You look desperate. Did you miss me, or just the way I broke you?" He knows. He remembers. And worse, he enjoys it.

His words cut deep, knowing exactly which buttons to press, reminding you of everything wrong that happened that night. You feel your throat tighten, your chest throb with restrained hate. But you don’t flinch. You don’t blink.

You lean forward, pressing your hips against the edge of his desk, tilting just so. You place a hand flat on his blueprint, tapping your fingers like a metronome. You feel the air between you tighten like wire.

You’re baiting him. And it’s working.

His smile falters. His jaw twitches. His eye gives a subtle, involuntary tic. A vicious energy boils just beneath his skin. You see it in the slight tremble of his clenched jaw, the twitch in his brow, the way his fists curl inwards until the knuckles whiten to bone. It gets to him, not being able to break you, his expression souring with disdain. And it is absolutely delicious.

Still, you keep smiling. Wicked and slow. A cruel little grin, yet almost seductive in nature, like a siren luring its prey. Your heart drums against your ribs, your entire body tensing under the weight of hatred coiled like a viper beneath your skin. Every cell in your being screams to lunge at him, to squeeze the life from his arrogant throat.

But instead, you wait. Your fingers tap the blueprint again, right over a scribbled equation. Edward’s gaze darkens, his eyes narrowing slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

And then his hand lashes out, gripping your wrist with bruising strength. It burns like a brand, and right now– right here, you know you have him.

“Touch that again and I’ll make sure pain is the last language you ever speak.” He spits, his voice so cold and surgical you feel a burning sensation coiling in your stomach. It isn’t fear, nor is it anger; not quite anyway. But something more insidious, akin to excitement.

You stare at him, unflinching. The hatred between you isn’t just mutual. It’s nuclear. You can feel it in the air between you; a tension, thick and fragile, that threatens to shatter.

And this is exactly what you want. To shatter it– shatter him.

In one fluid, swift motion, you pull Poison Ivy’s pouch from your pocket– and before Edward can even register what you’re doing, you blow the spores directly into his face.

He jerks back with a sharp, guttural grunt, releasing your wrist as his hands fly to his face. He stumbles, hissing between clenched teeth, rubbing furiously at his eyes, coughing as the golden dust seeps into his system. His expression contorts, first into confusion, then into dawning, visceral horror.

“What is this?!” he screams, voice hoarse, already fraying at the edges. And you just watch him, calm as glass, with a proud, complacent smirk.

Then it hits him. The recognition.

The color drains from his face in real time. His lips part slightly, stunned, as a tremor ripples through his whole body. That sharp, calculating mind of his flickers for a moment. And then it lands. His eyes widen. Wide enough to split, like a miserable owl.

“You wouldn’t–”

“I would,” you cut him cleanly, “and I did.”

His knees buckle beneath him like a puppet whose strings just snapped, and he collapses onto the ratty chair behind him. Hands cradle his skull like he’s trying to keep it from splitting open. His breathing quickens, shallow and uneven; panic already twisting its claws around his throat.

You see it. You feel it. The same helplessness he shoved down your throat now floods his lungs.

“Get out,” he mutters, low and shaky; barely more than a breath. But you hear it. And you savor it.

You take your time as you walk to the worn, stained couch. And with deliberate, gleeful satisfaction, you throw yourself down like royalty. You lounge back, legs crossed, your hand disappearing in the pocket of your coat to play with this shiny little leathery gift you have for him, watching him unravel like a threadbare riddle finally torn in half.

His plea echoes in your ears (get out, get out) and all it does is ignite your memory. Your own voice, hoarse with humiliation. His laughter, low and cruel. His touch. The degradation. That feeling like you'd been hollowed out and laughed at.

You smile at him now. Slow, venomous, triumphant.

“No,” you say simply, your voice a velvet knife. “I don’t think I will.”

His mouth opens, ready to spit venom, but the words never leave him. Instead, a flash of raw panic contorts his face. You see it. You revel in it.

It starts with the heat. Cruel and searing, like acid under the skin, flooding his chest and gut, twisting deep into muscle and nerve. His breath hitches, stutters. His pupils dilate. His spine stiffens. He grips the desk like it might anchor him, but you know he’s already drowning in the first wave of that cursed, devastating arousal.

Your eyes flash, glowing with poisonous glee, your satisfaction sweet and merciless.

Edward mutters to himself God knows what as his hands rake desperately across the cluttered desk. Searching for something. Anything. Some serum, some antidote, some reason. He pants now, loud and ragged, and when he staggers to one of the shelves in blind frustration, you don’t miss the aching, glorious tent in his pants.

A low laugh slips from your throat.

“Oh dear,” you purr, “looks quite painful, doesn’t it?”

He whirls, eyes black with fury, or perhaps shame? His gaze locks on yours, jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck twitch. There’s a veil of sweat glistening over his chest, a flush blooming high on his cheeks, and his lips are parted from the effort of keeping his breathing under control.

You’ve never seen him like this. He looks… ruined. And you’ve barely even touched him.

But then, something flickers in those furious eyes. Defiance. Even now. That stubborn, obsessive pride that refuses to die. He stands straighter, shoulders squared, and without breaking eye contact, he unclasps his utility belt with one hand. Drops it to the floor with a thud.

Then, slowly, he works open his fly.

“Suit yourself,” he rasps, voice gravel-thick with restraint. “Stay, or don’t. I’m not concerned. I’ll do what’s necessary, simply recalibrate, and when it’s done, I’ll move on with my day. Your little tantrum won’t mean a thing.”

You bark a laugh, shaking your head. The arrogance is still there, clinging to him like it’s second skin, even as his body betrays him in real time.

“You really think that’s how this works, grand genius?” you tease, sinking comfortably back into the couch like this is all a game to you. “You don’t get off and move on. This isn’t a bad headache you can jerk away. That poison is in your spine, Dog. In your brain. You think this ends with a tissue and a nap?”

He scoffs, breath still catching in his throat. But you see it now: the twitch in his fingers, the tremor in his thighs. He knows you’re right. But he’ll die before he admits it. And frankly, that’s what makes it all the more delicious.

Edward shamelessly fists his cock from his half-undone pants, and for a brief, traitorous moment, your eyes widen in a near Pavlovian effect. You remember the weight of it, the silken warmth of its length, rutting against the cleft of your ass like an animal claiming territory. And a sick, searing heat licks up behind your navel. It sits there, molten and repulsive, because your body is remembering something your mind has sworn to forget.

It had been a spectacular orgasm, yes. But it had come with a price; your dignity. Pain. Humiliation. You breathe in sharply, grounding yourself. It wasn’t you. It was the spores. A chemical betrayal. That’s all. And still… the memory bites.

His cock is already glistening, precum leaking generously all over his shaft in slow strings, the tip red and angry, throbbing incessantly. It’s almost obscene how eager his body is; how even now his hips jerk with a need that borders on involuntary.

Under different circumstances, you might have admitted the unholy truth. Edward Nigma has a beautiful dick. But right now, you just smile. Smug and cruel. Like someone watching a car crash in slow motion. And you fully intend to enjoy the show.

True to his word, or delusion, he doesn’t spare you another glance. He braces his palm flat against the desk, bends slightly at the waist, and begins to pump himself with focused, brutal determination. His strokes are quick and practiced, like he’s trying to force this problem away with sheer mechanical precision. The sharp angle of his spine, the tension in his jaw, the way his lips part, it’s almost… impressive. And his pleasured face, well… it is something worth remembering.

But you know it won’t last. You know it. Because he doesn’t understand what he’s up against. Not really. That orgasm he’s chasing will always stay one breath, one blink, one heartbeat away. Waves of pleasure that will keep rolling inside him, licking his nerves with mocking precision without ever fully crashing, without any true relief.

His grunts get louder. His pace more frantic. His thighs tense and tremble, muscles clenching with wasted effort. His hand is soaked, movements slick and obscene, and yet his frustration only grows. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

A sharp, furious BANG echoes through the room as his fist slams against the desk. His breath tears from his throat like sandpaper, ragged and choked. And still, he keeps going; hand pumping relentlessly, even though you can see in his face that it hurts now. The tension in his hips is brittle. His body is working against him now.

You cross your legs slowly, smiling like a queen watching her jester fall apart mid-performance.

Little gasps start to slip from him now. Almost whimpers. Pleas. Not to you, of course. He’d die first. But to something. Some shred of logic, some cruel God, some internal mechanism to please let him come.

He’s folded over the desk now, jerking his cock like it owes him answers. His knuckles are white. His face is flushed to the ears. His whole body is slick with sweat and trembling with the effort. It cannot possibly feel good anymore.

It’s beautiful, in a way. The destruction of a man who thought he was untouchable.

You bite your lip, watching intently, drinking in every miserable, humiliating detail. And then, finally, you purr:

"Oh Eddie… you look like you’re dying. Say, would you like a little help?"

He doesn’t stop. He can’t. But his head snaps toward you, a spectacular glare darkening his face. His expression is wild, devoured by arousal, frustration and sheer contempt. Need and hatred and agony, bleeding together into something primal and dangerous.

His eyes blaze emerald and black, his lips twitch like he wants to curse you and beg you at the same time. His chest heaves, his cock pulses helplessly in his hand, and you…

You feel that sick twinge deep in your core. Not pity. Not sympathy. Something worse. Something that shouldn’t be here. A misplaced feeling.

“I don’t need you,” he spits, but the words crack like broken glass in his throat. “I never need help with anything!”

You cock your head, watching the desperate clench of his jaw, the sweat slicking his temple, the tremor in his thighs. Even he doesn’t believe it. And the lie tastes like ash in the air, to your complete delight.

With a sinful grace and sheer sadistic amusement, you shift on the couch, crossing and uncrossing your legs, slow and deliberate; a siren luring her prey. Because you are not done. This– this is only the beginning. A smirk curls on your lips, gleaming like a dagger, your breath hitching with delicious anticipation.

“Tell you what– I want to see what the great Edward Nigma looks like when he’s choking on something other than his own ego. And if you make me purr, maybe I’ll help you come.”

His eyes widen, a quasi bovine look on his face. You see the exact moment he short-circuits. His hand falters around his shaft for an instant, body twitching like he’s been struck. Shock. Disbelief. Embarrassment. Rage.

He looks away quickly, brows furrowed deep in shame and conflict, his lips twitching tightly with frustration and fury. You know exactly what’s going through that brilliant, broken brain of his– you felt it too, when it was you bent over the desk, and him taunting you into submission. He’s weighing humiliation against relief, pride against release. And it’s killing him.

And the second he starts tucking himself back into his pants, your stomach flips with savage satisfaction. Victory tastes better when it’s earned.

He doesn’t speak. Not yet. Not as he adjusts his fly with shaking fingers, exhaling hot hair through flared nostrils. Not as he dares to meet your eyes, burning with reluctant submission and hatred, so dark you can barely see the green in his gaze anymore.

But you stop him before he takes a single step.

“Ah ah– wait,” you purr, reaching into your pocket with slow, calculated glee. “One last thing.” You toss the object to him, watching with sick pleasure as his hands close around the thick strip of black leather. The color drains from his face. And then returns with a flood of fury.

It’s a collar.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he snaps, voice nearly breaking with rage.

You lean back, tilting your head like a curious cat.

“Good boys get to come.” A pause. A smile. Like a guillotine. “So tell me, Edward... are you going to be a good boy for me?”

Edward looks at you like he wants to carve your name into the wall with your bones, like he wants to paint the room with your blood. There’s a wildness in his eyes, something murderous and barely leashed, because the Riddler does not submit to anyone. Pupils blown wide, lips parted in disbelief, face turning red, fury rolling off of him in waves so thick it’s like heat from a furnace.

He grips the collar in both hands as if he could strangle it, or you, with the same force. His knuckles blanch, the tendons in his neck strain like wires pulled taut, the muscles in his throat bulging like they could tear. But even with all that rage, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn his back. Doesn’t reject the command.

And that, right there, that split-second of silence, of utter humiliation, where he weighs his pride against his desperation– it’s exquisite. Exactly like how he made you beg last time, writhing beneath him, choked on his cruelty. This is your mirror, your echo, your revenge served soaked and raw. Your heart pounds in your chest, looking at him through half lidded eyes, like the demand isn’t a complete insult to him.

Your gaze stays locked with his, unflinching and amused. You tilt your head, smile lazily. Patient, indulgent. The picture of cruel anticipation.

And then, finally, as if every second is a blow to his ego, Edward’s fingers begin to move. They tremble with fury, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grind. And still, he works the buckle. Opens it. Pulls the collar around his throat like a man fastening his own noose.

And he tightens it.

Your smile widens slowly, blooming with victorious wickedness.

You lean back into the couch, spreading your legs with grace and elegance. The fabric of your skirt falls like a curtain, draping delicately between your thighs. The same skirt he ruined last time. It’s a symbol, you think. Something like that, anyway. You see the way his gaze flicks to it, just for a second, the ghost of memory dragging his arousal back to the surface like a hook in his gut.

He doesn’t say a word as he approaches. But his whole body trembles. With shame. With need. With unadulterated hatred. Every step is a silent scream. And when he reaches you, when he’s close enough to smell you, to taste the heat rising from your thighs, he hesitates. Swallows. Hard. You can see it: his bile, his disgust, and that last shred of pride sliding down his throat like poison.

And then he kneels. Slow. Stiff. Controlled. As if surrender is physically painful. It is. And it’s everything you wanted.

It’s hard to contain the venom in your smile, the kind that speaks volumes without a word. A silent warning, a promise: you will regret what you’ve done to me. And he sees it. Feels it. You know he does.

He trembles, caught in a storm of shame, humiliation, and raw, animal despair. He doesn’t even speak. A fucking miracle. As if, for once, even he knows that his words would only shatter against the weight of what’s happening. For once, Edward Nigma, the Riddler, has nothing to say.

The sound is soft, but it lands like thunder. His exhale is tight, bitter, furious. And on his face; disdain. Defeat. His hands grasp your thighs with the kind of grip that speaks of restraint barely held, tendons pulled taut, fingers digging into your flesh as if he wants to bruise you just for allowing this. For making him do this. He parts your legs like a man kneeling before a throne he wants to burn.

When he pulls your underwear aside with a sharp tug of his thumb, you brace for the worst. You expect fumbling, you expect a petty vengeance, you expect him to ruin this just to spite you. You inhale, steadying yourself. Preparing.

But then, his mouth meets you.

And it’s... almost tender. A soft, exploratory press of his tongue against your slit. You're not fully wet yet, but he’s patient. Too patient. The flat of his tongue drags upward, deliberate, until it finds your pearl, where he sucks, slow and calculated, like he’s learning you.

Your breath stutters. It’s not clumsy. It’s not vengeful. It’s technical. Measured. Like he’s applying the same genius he uses to build death traps, except this time it’s your body he’s deciphering. His lips suckle your folds, then his thumb circles your pearl. Just once. And your hips jolt. A moan escapes your throat, half-wounded, half-helpless.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. He refuses to. You know it’s not humility; it’s shame. Shame that he’s on his knees for you. Shame that you can feel how hard he is from this alone.

But then... he finds something. Hits a nerve. His tongue flicks just right, his thumb presses just there, and your lips part around his name before you can stop it.

It slips out. An accident.

“Edward.”

His eyes snap up. Wide. Dark. Something flickers. Surprise, disbelief, hunger. You see it. That twisted spark of need, of pride. His pupils dilate as he shudders between your thighs, the cursed pollen crawling under his skin again, stoking the furnace of his lust.

He hums against you. And then, with a last roll of his shoulders, a last squeeze on your thighs, he devours. With no restraint. His tongue turns sharp. Greedy. Fast. His hands tighten around your thighs, anchoring himself as if your cunt is the only goddamn thing tethering him to reality.

And you can’t look away. Even when he’s sucking like he wants to punish you, like he wants to ruin you even in his submissive state. Even when his thumb rolls over your clit with maddening rhythm. Even when you feel your orgasm licking behind your navel too soon.

His gaze never wavers now. It’s full of rage, of insult, of humiliation... but underneath it there’s something primal. Addictive. You realize with a sick thrill that he probably enjoys it. Probably needs it. That the same mouth that cursed you is now dripping in your slick; and he’s not stopping. Not until you break.

A genius, of course. Even now. Studying you like a problem he’s obsessed with solving. And you can feel the answers in every flick, every swirl, every wicked press of his tongue. You’re gasping. Writhing. The couch is the only thing keeping you from flying apart. He groans again, and the vibration is brutal, flooding your spine with pleasure.

And then, it happens.

Your back arches. Your hand fists in his greasy hair. Your hips grind down against his face, riding out every wave, using him like the desperate, filthy tool he is. You cry out, raw and ruined, as the orgasm rips through you, makes your bones melt, your vision blur, your thighs quake around his cheeks. He doesn't pull back. He pants into your cunt like it's oxygen, his mouth slick with your release.

And still. Not a word between you. Only the heavy sound of your breathing. Only the sting of confused desire in your chest. Only the cold realization that you just let him make you come. And it was mind-blowing.

He kneels there, face soaked, lips swollen, panting like a dog. You blink through the haze, your eyes glassy, your body still trembling. And the painful truth hits you like a punch; he’s good. Too good. And you fucking hate him for it.

For a moment, there’s only silence, save for your mingled breathing. You try to reclaim your mind, to anchor yourself in something real, but then his head lifts slowly. His face is flushed, his lips wet, and when the black collar brushes lightly against your knee, your heat-drunk mind dares to think it doesn’t even look half bad on him.

His eyes are dark. Tense. There’s shame there, clear and bitter. But something else too. Despair. Need. Hunger that won’t go away. He squeezes your thighs, rough and possessive, but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. You feel the weight of it in his hands, the expectation. The silent demand. He wants what was promised.

You tilt your head, mock-innocent, a wicked smile curling at your lips.

“…Is something the matter, Nigma?”

His expression fractures like glass. Embarrassment. Frustration. Rage.

“You said–” His voice is already unraveling. “You said if I–”

“Oh. Did I?” you purr, pretending to think. “I must’ve been lost in the moment.” You lean forward slightly, pursing your lips. “You were… surprisingly competent.”

He snarls. And then something snaps.

He lunges, fast and rabid, one knee jamming against the couch for leverage, fists twisting in your shirt as he drags you forward, nearly off balance. His eyes are wild now, spiraling with unfiltered hatred. His control, his precious composure. Gone. And you can see it, plain as day; that flash of murderous intent. He could kill you. He wants to kill you. And you’re not entirely sure he won’t actually strangle you right now.

“You filthy bitch–”

You move on instinct. Your hand dives into your coat pocket, fingers closing around the leash that you kept hidden there, the metal warm in your grip. In one fluid motion, you snap it onto the collar at his throat.

And then you yank.

Vicious. Ruthless. Like yanking the leash of a rabid dog. He jerks, caught entirely off guard, a strangled gasp ripped from his throat as the collar cuts into his neck. He stumbles sideways, still clutching at you, and both of you tumble to the floor, a chaotic tangle of limbs, fury, and friction.

The landing is messy, graceless. You grunt as your back hits the floor, but you don’t stop pulling. The leash stays tight in your grip. He falls partially over you, half-straddling your hip, breathless and snarling. And you roll, twisting to your side to get the upper hand, but the leash drags him with you, and the motion drags him on top of you, your body flattened beneath his.

You're on your stomach now, legs shifting beneath him. You plant your knees, pushing yourself up just enough, and end up nearly on all fours, your hips raised, skirt riding high.

You feel it. The thick, hard weight of his cock pressing hot and unforgiving between your ass cheeks, through his pants, straining and angry.

His thighs bracket yours. One of his hands finds your wrist, squeezing, the other clawing at the collar, tugging against the choking pressure. His breath is ragged, close to your ear, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as he realizes what just happened. What you just did to him.

And then, your eyes meet.

There’s a moment. A beat. A spark that sets the whole fucking world on fire.

His pupils blown wide. Your mouth parted. His breath hot against your cheek. The air between you charged and ugly with something that should never exist; hatred and arousal, disgust and heat, need. And suddenly it’s so clear. The vile twist in your gut unravels into something horrible and true.

You want him. You hate him. You hate him, and you want him inside you.

“Call me a filthy bitch again,” you growl, your voice low and shaking as you yank the leash again, this time pulling his throat back to your mouth, to your rage.

And something flashes in his eyes. A tremor. Shame, maybe. Doubt. But it vanishes. The fury floods back in. His lip curls.

“You filthy fucking bitch–”

A laugh rasps from your throat. Breathless, venomous.

“Yeah?” You twist your neck just enough to throw him a look over your shoulder, voice like a blade wrapped in silk. “And you’re a dog. So mount me properly.”

He freezes. Completely still. Stunned. Like you just said the riddle he’s never been able to solve. His cock twitches against you. You feel it.

And that’s the end of it.

The hate, the pride, the shame. It all collapses into the firestorm that’s been building since the first time your mouths opened. You’ve both fallen off the edge. And there's no going back.

His hands fly to your hips like he's been starved. Desperate, shaking, frantic. He grabs fistfuls of your skirt, yanking it up so fast it rustles and folds awkwardly over your lower back. His touch is fevered, all motion and no finesse. Too impatient to feel, too consumed by the violent need to take.

He doesn’t spare a glance for the collar. Doesn’t care about the leash now. The black leather dangles against your spine, a forgotten symbol of your cruelty, as Edward fumbles with his belt, the sound of the buckle snapping open jarring in the quiet. Your heart slams against your ribs, matching the speed of his breath.

And then, he yanks your panties to the side, just enough to bare you to him.

You barely register the slick, hot press of his cockhead against your entrance before he thrusts.

One brutal snap of his hips and he’s buried to the hilt, inside you, tearing a broken cry from your throat. He fucks forward again, harder, meaner. His hips slamming into your ass with unforgiving force.

He mounts you.

There’s no pause. No build-up. No gentleness. Just raw, feral rhythm. A dog in heat, claiming what he thinks is his.

His fingers bruise your hips as he drives into you, again and again, the leash caught in your fist tightening with every brutal stroke. Your body jerks under the force, hands scrabbling uselessly at the floor for something, anything to hold onto as he pounds into you like he wants to erase you from the inside out.

You moan. You scream. And still, you grind back against him. Still, you meet every violent thrust with one of your own. Your cunt clamps around him, wet and needy, the sounds of your fucking obscene in the echoing room.

He fucks like he hates you.

He fucks like he’s punishing you for existing.

And you take it like it’s gospel.

Every thrust punches into you with full force, his cock bullying your insides, his cockhead kissing your cervix without any mercy, withtou any care for your own comfort. You’re already close, too close, your body wound tight, the tension seizing in your gut like a trap about to snap.

Your hand flies between your legs, rubbing your clit in frantic circles, not needing finesse, not needing time. It’s already too much.

And then, you break.

It hits like a collapse. A quake in your bones. A scream ripped from deep in your chest as your orgasm consumes you, wracking you with shudders, your whole body seizing as your cunt clamps down around him like a vice.

You’re still crying out when he follows. He groans, low and raw in your ear, a snarl twisted in the sound, his teeth bared, his hips stuttering as he shoves himself deep and stays. You feel it, every throb of his cock as he spills inside you, thick and hot, his cum flooding your insides. So much of it it leaks instantly, dripping down your thighs in slow trails.

He doesn’t moan. Doesn’t whisper your name.

He grits his teeth and comes like he’s furious about it.

And then. Silence. A single breath. Two. Then reality comes crashing in.

Edward stumbles back, pulling out so fast you feel the sting of it. Like being emptied too soon. His legs wobble. He barely keeps upright as he grabs at his pants, buttoning them with trembling fingers. He won’t look at you. His hair’s a mess, his face is pale. He looks ruined.

You slowly roll onto your back, breathing like you’ve been running for your life. He presses his palm to his forehead, eyes fixed on nothing. You can feel it; his shame. His disgust. It fills the room like smoke, thick enough to choke on. You recognize this feeling. You felt it too, last time.

“Get out,” he rasps. Voice low. Hollow. “Get the fuck out.”

You raise a brow, lips curling faintly, but say nothing. He won’t meet your eyes. His fists are clenched. His jaw tight.

You know that look. You know that feeling, the one where the haze clears and all that’s left is the ache. The confusion. The guilt of wanting it, of needing it. And for a flicker of a moment, you almost, almost, feel bad for him.

Because you feel it too. Something twisted and sick and impossible. Something that knots in your belly and won’t let go.

That was some of the best sex of your entire fucking life.

But you don’t say it. You gather your things. Smooth your skirt down over your hips. Ignore the slick trail of his cum trickling down your thighs. You don’t bother fixing your makeup. You don’t even fix your hair.

You walk to the door without a single glance back.

You leave him there, alone, like the incomplete question mark he is.

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#edward nigma #edward nygma #edward nashton #the riddler #arkham knight riddler #edward nigma x reader #edward nygma x reader #edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader

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