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adhdnursegoat · 2 months ago

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In the Event of a Black Out

Word count: 6.3K

Content Warning: minors dni, explicit sexual content, PWP, accidental intimacy, touch starved Edward, vulnerability during sex

Pairing: Edward Nigma X gender neutral reader (let me know if i missed anything)

Setting: Arkham Knight

“What did you do?!”

“I didn’t do shit! What did you do?”

“I would not do anything this stupid.”

“Oh, right, cause you don’t make mistakes.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Would you just shut up and help me? I can’t see!”

“Well, unfortunately, the one thing I have been unable to do is to evolve the ability of night vision… yet.”

“Can you not just answer a simple question without being a smartass?”

“Can you not be an annoying twit and help yourself?”

“Jesus Christ—fine! Don’t help. I’ll just flounder around until I run into a project and break something.”

You could practically see the scowl on his face, even in pitch black. “...Where are you?”

“Over here.”

“That is not descriptive.”

“Follow my voice.”

He sighed, and then you heard the hesitant sound of footsteps. Then you heard a less-than-ideal scraping crash. “Fuck!” Better him than you—you’d never hear the end of breaking one of his precious Riddlerbots.

“Marco!”

“No!”

“You’re no fun.”

“What about this situation screams fun to you?”

“It’s fun because we are now on equal footing.” You could hear the scuff of his boots closer, so you reached out in front of you, absolutely unable to see your hands in front of your face.

“We are nothing of the sort. I assure you the blackout neither stole my IQ nor blessed you with more.”

“Ass.”

“Brat.”

Finally, your hand pressed, nearly shoved into something soft, solid, and warm. You reached further, drifting up higher to grip and grasp about, trying to sense your environment. You grabbed and touched what felt like a nose and cheek.

“Hey!” Edward quickly snapped up to grab your wrist and jerk it away. “Watch what you’re grabbing.”

“I can’t watch anything.”

“Don’t be smart.”

“Said the smart one.”

Edward’s grip on your wrist tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground you. There was a low growl behind it, that guttural sort of warning he saved for when he was two seconds from short-circuiting.

“Just—be careful.” His voice was closer than expected, brushing against your cheek like a whisper turned threat. You weren’t sure if it was the dark playing tricks or if he’d leaned in.

“I’m always careful,” you said flatly, rolling your eyes—pointlessly, since he couldn’t see it.

“Right,” he muttered, dry as dust and just as warm. Disbelieving. Definitely scowling. You could hear it in the angle of his voice, the tension coiled tight in the silence that followed. “Come on.”

He kept hold of your wrist, his fingers still curled firm around it—less of a guide, more of a leash, like he didn’t trust you not to break something or trip a secondary security system just by existing.

You felt him turn, the shift of air as his body pivoted. The slight tug on your arm followed.

“Where?”

“To find the breaker box,” he replied over his shoulder, like it should’ve been obvious. His steps were careful but brisk, the sound of his boots brushing the floor just ahead of you in the dark. “Need to find something to orient to—wall, doorway, anything.”

You followed, letting him lead, but your free hand lifted almost on instinct—searching for something more solid than the clammy air and your own stumbling steps. You found the back of his shirt and gripped it, fingers curling tight into the fabric like he was the only fixed point in this pitch-black labyrinth of wires, half-assembled death traps, and rising tension.

He jolted at the touch. Barely. A sharp inhale. A twitch in his back. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t comment.

Edward moved again, deliberate and slow. You stayed close—so close you could feel the soft brush of air every time he shifted, the residual heat radiating off him in the dark.

You were just thinking that if he stopped too fast, you’d crash right into him—

Then he did. Dead halt. Your chest collided with his back, your momentum tangled with his legs.

The floor wasn’t under you anymore.

There was a chaotic scuffle of limbs, a clatter of boots, a muffled curse. The both of you hit the ground in a graceless, jumbled heap. The impact knocked the breath out of your lungs. Something sharp jabbed your hip. Something else—a knee? An elbow? Possibly pride—dug into your ribs.

And Edward? Edward groaned beneath you.

“Oh, for the love of— get off,” he barked, voice muffled, pinned somewhere beneath your shoulder. “You weigh a thousand pounds.”

“I do not!” you gasped, trying to push yourself up—only to realize that your arm was stuck between his chest and the floor, and your leg was looped awkwardly around something metal. A pipe? A bot limb? Maybe Edward’s endless collection of industrial cables.

You flailed. He groaned again, louder this time.

“You’re wallowing,” he hissed.

“Well, move, then!”

“I can’t move! You’re the one on top—get your elbow out of my liver!”

“I would if I could! I think I’m—ugh, I think I’m caught on something.”

A beat of heavy silence. Then an exhale, sharp and withering.

“Of course you are,” Edward muttered. “You know what? Fine. Stay there. Rot in the tangle you’ve created.”

“Oh my god—do something, Nigma.”

A pause. Then you felt him shift underneath you—slowly, resentfully. His hand slid along the floor until it found your thigh, then moved upward with practiced, clinical focus.

“Hold still,” he grunted.

His fingers skimmed the side of your leg, over your hip, then hesitated as they found the edge of something taut—a twisted strap or caught hem. You couldn’t see, but you could feel every inch of his touch through the fabric, every slight adjustment, every press of his palm as he followed the length of the snare.

You went still.

Completely, breathlessly still.

Because his hand didn’t stop at your hip. It kept going—slow, deliberate, dragging down the curve of your thigh like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. Like he was searching for something and forgot to stop when he found it.

Then it slipped inward.

His fingers curled gently around the tender inside of your leg, resting there, motionless.

Heat pooled low in your belly.

Neither of you moved.

The dark pulsed around you like a second skin, pressing in on all sides, every sound sharp and loud in the silence. You could hear his breath catch. Could feel the tension coiled beneath your body, his hand still cradled against your thigh, not retreating.

"Umm… is that… better?"

His voice was quieter now. Rougher. A thread of something unfamiliar wound through it—like he wasn’t sure if he meant the question, or just needed to say something.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Didn’t trust your voice. Didn’t trust your body.

So you shifted. Carefully. Slowly.

You meant to sit up. To put distance back where it belonged. But the space was tight, and your leg was still caught between his. When you pushed upward, your hips settled on one of his thighs, straddling it instinctively for balance. Your hands braced on his lower stomach. That was a mistake.

Edward’s muscles jumped beneath your palms. Sharp inhale.

You both froze again—idiots caught in your own trap.

Finally, you spoke quietly, “You know… this is a terrible way to fix a power outage.”

You felt him exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“Well, excuse me for attempting to assist,” he muttered. “Next time, I’ll let you wander around and trip into the elevator shaft.”

“I tripped over your bot.”

“I tripped over your clumsiness.”

That earned a quiet scoff. Your fingers flexed slightly against his abdomen. The fabric was soft. His body, under it, was not.

He shifted to sit up. At least, you thought he meant to sit up. But the movement pulled you in closer. His thigh pressed snug between yours, and suddenly his chest was nearly against yours, his breath warm against your face. Close. Too close.

The words on your tongue scattered like loose screws.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

There was no quip. No snarl. No breathless complaint or cutting remark. Just this—this moment suspended in a blackout, where the heat wasn’t from faulty wiring but from something pulsing and slow and alive between your hips and his.

His hands were at your waist. You weren’t sure when that happened. You weren’t sure if he knew either. You felt him breathe—felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath your own, the minute tremor in his fingers where they gripped your sides like he’d only just realized he was holding on.

Still… Edward didn’t pull away.

You weren’t sure who moved first—if it was you leaning in for balance or him shifting to escape the awkwardness—but the result was the same. You ended up straddling his waist, knees braced on either side of him, your hands resting against the firm plane of his lower stomach. His breath hitched at the contact, and your fingers twitched in response, pressing more fully against him without meaning to. The darkness swallowed everything but sensation: the fabric of his shirt wrinkling beneath your palm, the heat of him bleeding through it, the unmistakable tension rippling beneath his skin.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you. There were no quips, no insults, no snide remarks to fill the space—just breathing, shallow and uneven, caught somewhere between restraint and curiosity. His hand, still curled around your side, began to move with the kind of slowness that made it obvious he was second-guessing every inch. His palm slid from your waist to your lower back, fingers ghosting up along your spine as if tracing the ridges of some ancient secret. He stopped just beneath your shoulder blades, but didn’t pull away. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, as though he needed the anchor just as much as you did.

The heat between your bodies was impossible to ignore. Your hips were pressed against his, and every breath made your chest rise against his. Edward’s free hand had planted itself against the floor beside him, but you could feel the way it tensed—like he wasn’t sure whether to push himself up or stay exactly where he was. When he finally started to shift, you felt it first in the subtle lift of his torso, the slight withdrawal of him from beneath you, the way his breath broke against your cheek like a breeze trying to pull back from the storm.

And then—he began to pull away.

You moved before you thought. Your hand shot out, catching his wrist.

“Wait…”

It came out softer than you intended, but no less raw. A single word, stripped of its armor, small and human and trembling.

He froze. Mid-motion. Mid-exit. His body half-curled beneath you, one elbow braced, ready to shift away—but your hand wrapped around his wrist and held him there, tethered by something far more delicate than force. Not yet. Not like this. Not when the space between you was still viscous.

Edward didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But you could feel him watching—or at least, facing you in the dark. His presence was unmistakable, a pressure in the air, a heat just beneath your skin. The room may have been shrouded in black, but there was no mistaking him. You could’ve found him blind.

And you did.

With a tentative drift, your fingers eased from his wrist and began to creep upward, cautious at first, like you were crossing into sacred ground. You didn’t rush. Couldn’t. Each inch demanded attention. Your hand traced along the inside of his forearm, brushing over the coarse hairs and the grime of whatever work he’d been elbow-deep in before the power cut.

Higher, across the ridged tension of his bicep. You felt the shape of him there—lean and hard, the ever-present tautness of someone who never quite relaxed, never quite let go. Even still, even here, there was power waiting just beneath the surface. Coiled. Quiet. Unyielding.

Your palm followed the curve of his shoulder, pausing slightly as your fingers ghosted across the seam of muscle and bone. There was dust on him—grit clinging to his shirt, and probably beneath it. Your hand swept up further, seeking the sharp line of his collarbone, and when you found it—God—you let your thumb drag over it above his tanktop. It jutted just beneath his skin, elegant and severe, a perfect geometry of tension and restraint.

He still hadn’t moved. But you could feel him breathe. Not steady. Not calm. Shallow. Barely-there. Like the act of being touched was more than he’d bargained for.

You weren’t finished.

Your fingers skimmed up the side of his neck next, brushing over the tendons, the hollow of his throat where his swallow caught halfway down. His pulse was steady but elevated—a quiet rhythm bounding beneath the pads of your fingers like a secret he hadn’t meant to share. His skin was hot there, exposed, and you followed the blaze upward. You met the line of his jaw, the rasp of stubble prickling against your fingertips. And when your hand finally cupped his face—thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone—he inhaled—sharp and sudden, a breath hitched in surprise as your palm settled against his face, cradling it.

Edward still didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Everything you needed to know was there beneath your palm—tension wound tight, reverence fighting restraint, a quiet kind of hunger. Still, he let you touch him. Not like a man used to softness. But like someone who ached for it, belied by the subtle tilt of his head into your palm.

He exhaled, just beneath it, a sound: not a word, not a moan, but a sigh, quiet and shaken, like he didn’t know what to do with this kind of contact. The warmth of his breath wafted against your skin, and you could feel the heat rising beneath his skin, the stillness in his body. And when you leaned in, the distance vanished.

Your lips met his—carefully, uncertainly.

The kiss was nothing like a storm. It was soft. Fragile. The first brush of mouth to mouth tentative and reverent, like he was afraid it might break both of you open. There was no hunger, not yet. Just the dizzying stillness of the moment, the warmth of his breath across your skin, and the quiet quake of a man who didn’t know he could be wanted like this.

You stayed close, thighs still bracketing his waist, your balance forgotten somewhere back in the fall. When his hips shifted beneath you—barely a twitch, the ghost of motion—you adjusted instinctively. The press of your body aligned more snugly against his, not in invitation, but inevitability. It wasn’t overt. Wasn’t obscene. Just closeness. A firmer weight. A sharper breath. The hush between you trembling on a new frequency.

Edward made a sound against your mouth—low, involuntary. The kind of sound a man makes when something slips past the walls, when sensation outruns logic. But still, he didn’t move. His hands remained where they were—beneath you, beside you, nowhere they shouldn’t be. He didn’t pull you closer. Didn’t push you away. He just kissed you. Slowly. Carefully. Lips parting in small, reverent increments, learning your shape by feel, like each pass of his mouth over yours was a question he didn’t know how to ask. There was tension in him—always—but it had shifted. Less resistance. More surrender. He kissed you as if he didn’t know what would happen if he let it go further. And maybe didn’t care.

Your hand still cradled his face, thumb stroking gently along his cheekbone. And even in the dark, even with the faint hum of electricity still dead in the walls, you could feel how vulnerable this made him. Not the position. Not the kiss. The silence. The lack of mask. The absence of pretense.

And Edward—bitter, brilliant, impossible Edward—didn’t run.

Not yet.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak, if either of you dared. His breath was warm against your lips, shallow and quiet.. You swallowed. Let your thumb trace the sharp cut of his jaw.

“You’re… really not going to say anything?”

A pause. His voice was low, rough with the kind of restraint that wasn’t physical. “Do you want me to?”

You considered it. The silence was heavy again—but not cold. Not distant. It was the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like steam.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted softly. “I don’t think I want this to be clever.”

That made something in him twitch. A tiny breath of laughter. Bitter. Fond. “Then I’ll ruin it if I speak.”

“You won’t.”

You weren’t sure if he believed you. But he didn’t argue. And that silence was permission enough.

Not wanting to shatter whatever held so still between you, one of your hands drifted slowly down from his face to his chest, fingertips brushing over the collar of his open shirt, then flattening against the fabric of his tanktop. You felt the shape of him there—his ribs tight beneath your palms, the subtle tremble in his breath. And beneath all that, his heartbeat—wild, pounding, almost furious in its rhythm.

It wasn’t the beat of calm desire. It was something feral. Caged. Desperate. And that was the moment you realized: you could take this further. Right here. You had him—beneath you, under your hands, lips parted from that last kiss, body tense not with refusal but with restraint. He was saying nothing, but his body wasn’t still. His hips had shifted again, just enough that you were more keenly aware of the pressure where yours met. His jaw clenched under your touch.

He was open. He was wanting.

You leaned down, breath catching as you pressed your mouth to the corner of his again—slower this time, but not softer. Testing. Asking. And the moment he turned his head into it, meeting your kiss with equal force, it shifted. All of it.

Edward’s lips parted beneath yours, and the kiss turned sharp, breathless, teeth catching in the drag between mouths. It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was something pulled from the chest like a secret too long withheld. Something desperate. You gasped against him as his hips pushed upward into yours, the sudden press of friction making your spine arch. Still, he didn’t touch you with his hands—but his mouth spoke in movements. In the way he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every taste, every inhale, every sound you gave him.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging it up, baring a strip of skin beneath your palm. His stomach was hot. Tense. You felt the twitch of muscle beneath your touch, felt his breath stutter as your hand slid lower.

Still no words. Just heat. Just breath. Just that storm blooming under your skin like something inevitable.

He broke the kiss first—not with retreat, but to catch his breath, forehead tipping to yours. You could feel the tremor in him, the war he was still waging with himself, even as his body betrayed him moment by moment.

You let your hand slide over his ribs, feeling every tense divot and line.

“You’re not stopping me,” you murmured.

A beat. Then, softly—harshly—he answered: “I can’t.”

The words left him like a confession. Rough, low, barely there. But you heard it. Felt it—in the way his breath hitched against your cheek, in the way his body arched beneath yours like he was no longer holding anything back. Not logic. Not resistance. Not fear. Just need.

It started slow—still restrained, still cautious. But when your lips found his again, when you rolled your hips just once, deliberately, against the pressure growing between you, that final thread snapped.

His hands moved. Fast.

They surged from the floor like they’d been yanked by gravity—one gripping your waist, the other sliding up your back and into your hair. His fingers threaded through it, not gently, not thoughtfully, but desperately, pulling you down into him as his mouth claimed yours with a heat that hadn’t been there before. This wasn’t soft anymore. This was hunger. Sharp, ragged, real.

You gasped into him as his hand at your waist shifted, dragging the fabric of your shirt up with it, bunching it around your ribs. The cool air against your skin barely registered before his palm found its way beneath the hem, splayed wide and possessive along your lower back, like he needed to anchor himself there or he’d lose what was left of his self-control.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. It wasn’t just an expletive. It was surrender—guttural, breathless, wrecked.

You fisted your hands in the fabric of his open shirt, tugging at it with a kind of clumsy urgency, bunching it up as he shifted beneath you. He rose slightly, hips pressing upward under yours, his body caught in that liminal space between restraint and reckless want.

Edward’s hands were everywhere—raking up your back beneath your shirt, sliding around to grip your hips with a desperation that bordered on possessive. You could feel the tension in him, the way his fingers trembled just slightly with the effort not to go faster, harder, too much too soon. His shirt clung to one shoulder, tank top shoved haphazardly beneath his ribs—both useless now. You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t make out his eyes, his expression, the part of his mouth when he gasped—but you didn’t need to. Everything that mattered was beneath your hands. Your hands didn’t stop. You ran them up his chest, memorizing the cut of him by touch—the twitch of his ribs when you dragged your nails lightly, the quiet hiss when your thumbs brushed his nipples through the tank. His body answered you in small, urgent movements—hips lifting, stomach tightening, breath growing ragged against your cheek.

“You’re going to kill me,” he breathed.

Then, his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, teeth grazing your throat as he kissed a trail down to the edge of your collarbone. You felt him groan against your skin, felt the tension in his jaw as he fought to pace himself—and lost. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, not quite going lower yet, just pressing firmly at your hip, his thumb stroking over bone like he was trying to memorize it through touch alone. He pulledback, breath hot and panting in the dark. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the heat in his focus.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. The words were strained, wrecked. “Just say it, and I will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

“Shut up.”

Instead, your hands slid down between you. His skin was burning under your palms, slick with the sweat clinging to both of you now—heady, hot, humid in the dark. Every inch you explored seemed wound tighter, more braced, like his whole body was caught in the space between restraint and collapse. You traced the line of his stomach, the slight hollow at his navel, the sharp ridge of his hips beneath fabric. Then lower. Your fingertips bumped his belt buckle—hot from his skin, metal biting against your touch. You fumbled for the clasp, working through the worn leather, the button, the zipper. He made a sound as you worked—low, wrecked, sharp. His hands dug into your hips, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. His breathing was ragged now, cut up into pieces between the kisses he dragged along the column of your throat.

You were almost there, but your shorts were in the way. You cursed softly under your breath and leaned back just enough to get your hands between you. You could barely think, barely breathe, tugging at the waistband and shimmying them down over your hips in the dark. You kicked them off blindly, one leg at a time, half-graceful, half-feral.

Edward’s hands never left you. He guided you back into his lap the second the fabric cleared your legs, like gravity was no longer strong enough and only he could keep you where you belonged.

You straddled his waist again, seated across him on the dusty, dirty floor, knees aching, chest pressed tight to his. The floor beneath was hard, uncomfortable—but you didn’t care. His tank top was still bunched beneath his ribs. His cargo pants were shoved low around his hips, everything open. You could feel him now—his cock pressed hot and thick between your thighs. Bare.

You both froze there for a moment. Just breathing.

Then you shifted. One hand braced behind his back, the other reaching down between your bodies, lining him up with the kind of instinct that wasn’t thought—it was need. He let out something sharp and high in the back of his throat, his hands tensing on your hips, trying—failing—not to pull.

At last, you sank down onto him—slow, deliberate, unstoppable. The stretch stole your breath. He filled you completely, the pressure dizzying: hot, hard, too much, perfect.

With your forehead pressed to his temple, the exhale left your lungs in one stunned, trembling rush. One hand gripped his shoulder like a lifeline, the other slid behind his neck, fingers tangling in the damp curls at his nape. Thighs shaking where they cradled his hips, you felt him shudder beneath you—a full-body tremor, raw and helpless. The sound that tore from his throat wasn’t a moan. It was a rupture.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, frayed to the edge of breaking—somewhere between awe and agony.

No answer came from your lips—only breath, ragged and caught. You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear, the tremor in your voice mirroring the one gripping your body. With a sharp inhale, he moved.

Those hands, once reverent, turned possessive—gripping your ass, holding you flush against him as he ground up into you, slow and brutal. The drag of him inside you was blinding. You gasped, your mouth falling open, a moan spilling from your throat before you could trap it behind your teeth.

Edward’s mouth found yours again—sloppy now, gasping, wet. Tongue and teeth and need. The kiss was frantic, fevered, and absolutely unforgiving. His hips drove upward with controlled force, tight thrusts that sent jolts through your spine. You met him, rolling your hips in tandem, body slick with sweat and sensation. Every grind, every drag was devastation. All around you, the dark amplified everything. The sound of skin against skin. The sharp slap of movement. The whimper of a man trying not to lose control—and failing. The lilting of your moans.

Breath tore from him in ragged bursts, caught somewhere between a moan and a curse, his hands locked around your waist like he was holding himself together by the feel of you. Each time you came down, you felt the strain in his muscles—the way his thighs tensed beneath yours, the way his stomach clenched as he thrust upward to meet you with a kind of restraint that was barely holding.

You rode him in the dark, the slick sound of your bodies meeting swallowed by the static of breath and heat. The floor beneath you was unforgiving—cold, biting at your knees—but it only made you move harder, made every grind, every bounce sharper in contrast. You chased the rhythm with single-minded hunger, moaning into his open mouth, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, grounding.

“Fuck,” he rasped, the word tumbling from his throat like it hurt. “You’re—” He couldn’t finish.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, dragging down the damp fabric still clinging to him. “Say it,” you breathed, forehead pressed to his. “I want to hear you say it.”

He exhaled a sharp breath, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid beneath your tank top, palm splayed across your lower back, dragging you down harder. “You feel like sin,” he groaned, voice cracked and trembling. “Like I should never be allowed to touch you like this.”

You rolled your hips slower, more deliberate, your breath catching as he gasped into your neck. “You can,” you assured. “You already are.”

Your hips shifted, no longer rocking in that easy rhythm, but grinding down in slow, tightening circles—each pass dragging his cock along every sensitive ridge inside you. You rolled your pelvis forward at the top, then dropped down with a stuttering snap of motion that made him choke on a sound, hips jerking up in reflex.

It was intentional. Precise. Your movements weren’t rushed—they were devastating. Drawing his length through your slick, pulsing heat in a rhythm that was both merciless and teasing, calculated to make him fall apart and know you were the one doing it to him.

His breath stuttered out in fragments against your neck, jaw clenched, every muscle in his stomach tensing as he tried—tried—to hold on.

“Jesus—fuck, I’m not—” The words died in his throat, swallowed by a groan, hoarse and guttural as his forehead fell to your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice a soft, wicked taunt against his temple. Your hands dragged up his back, nails grazing the damp fabric of his shirt, the heat between you scorching now, your thighs trembling from the effort, from the building pressure cresting behind your ribs. “Just don’t stop.”

His mouth was on your shoulder, open and desperate, moaning helplessly into your skin as you bounced again—sharper this time, faster, not enough to finish but enough to make his hips snap up with a raw, broken thrust.

He was close. So were you.

And then—

The lights flickered on.

Too bright. Too sudden.

Edward jolted like he’d been shot, his entire body seizing beneath yours. Hands froze at your hips. Chest heaving. Eyes wide, blinking against the harsh overhead fluorescents that illuminated everything.

You saw him. Finally, saw him.

His dark hair was a wild, sweat-damp mess, curls sticking to his forehead, to his flushed cheeks and throat. His glasses were nowhere in sight. His shirt hung half-off his shoulder, collar stretched, his tank top soaked and clinging to the lean cut of his torso. His mouth was parted in shock, lips kiss-bitten, his expression utterly wrecked.

His eyes—those brilliant, electric blue eyes—looked dazed, vulnerable, caught.

And for a moment, he stopped. Like the light made it real. Like he was about to disappear inside himself and take the moment with him.

But you didn’t let him.

You cupped his face in both hands, drawing him back to you, your forehead pressing to his, your breath shaking as you stared into him.

“Don’t stop,” you whined, voice trembling, your thumbs stroking over the flushed heat of his cheeks. You started moving again, hips rolling down slow and deep. His breath caught with a startled sound, mouth falling open. “Please. Don’t stop.”

Your voice pitched higher as the rhythm built again, as your hips met his in a seamless, hungry rhythm. You kissed him—sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate—riding him with effortless, aching momentum now, the sound of your bodies echoing in the room.

“Oh god, Edward,” you gasped. “Don’t—don’t stop—ah!”

Your head fell back, mouth open, hands sliding from his face to his shoulders just as the orgasm tore through you like a storm.

Heat coiled in your belly, then exploded—sharp and bright and deep, every muscle in your body seizing as your walls clenched around him, pulsing, dragging him with you. Your cry echoed off the walls, breath breaking, thighs shaking around his waist.

He watched you come apart in his lap—eyes wide, mouth parted, reverent.

And he was right there with you.

You rode out the shudders of your orgasm with his name on your tongue, your body pulsing around him in slow, clenching waves. Your thighs quivered against his hips, your hands curled into his shoulders for balance, grip faltering as the high twisted through you—but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t dare.

Instead, you kept moving. Kept grinding your hips down onto him with slow, aching precision, milking every drop of aftershock from your own body—and dragging him with you. His hands scrambled for purchase—first at your waist, then up your back, then into your hair as his body bucked beneath yours, the tension in him a live wire, a fuse burning fast.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” He looked up at you, wild and panicked, his eyes locked to yours like he was falling and couldn’t find the ground.

You didn’t let go. You gripped his jaw, holding his face steady in your hands, lips barely brushing his. “Yes, you can,” you whispered, voice wrecked and breathless. “Let me see you. Let me have you.”

Edward moaned—high, wrecked, utterly gone—and that was it.

His hips surged up into you in one final, frantic thrust, then stilled. His head dropped back, mouth open in a soundless cry as his body arched beneath yours. The orgasm ripped through him—violent and full-body—his fingers clenching at your sides as he spilled into you, hips jerking with every pulse, every helpless wave.

You stayed with him, hips still moving gently, drawing it out, wringing every last flicker of pleasure from him with your body wrapped tight around his. Watching him shake. Watching him fall apart. His eyes never left yours. Not until they fluttered closed, lashes heavy, lips parted as he sagged beneath you—shuddering, breathless, undone. You kissed his cheek, soft and reverent, then his temple, then his mouth—slow and lingering, the kind of kiss meant to tell him he survived it.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Couldn’t. But the way his arms curled around you, holding you to his chest like you were the only thing keeping him in his body—that said everything.

Feeling everything catch up to you, you let your head all to his neck, resting there, tucked there.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The cavernous lair was whirring, electronics coming alive with the backup system—it wasn’t quiet. But you were. You both were save for your panting, huffing breaths. You were both sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, your thighs aching, his hands still heavy on your back.

Edward sat beneath you, his chest rising and falling in slow, disbelieving waves. His shirt hung from one shoulder like an afterthought. His hair was a wild mess, curls clinging to the flushed shell of his ear. He looked like he’d survived a small war.

And you? You were still straddling him. Still buried together. Still reeling.

He blinked up at the ceiling, eyes dazed, voice hoarse. “Well… that was interesting.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Shut up.”

“Can’t,” he croaked. “Think I blew a fuse. Physically. Psychologically. Possibly spiritually.”

You snorted against his skin before raising up to shake your head and narrow your eyes playfully.

He only smirked softly in that way only he could.

Had it not been for the blackout, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you would’ve kept circling each other for weeks. Months. Always brushing, never breaking.

Maybe the dark just gave you permission.

Compelled with this new breach in boundaries, you reached up and brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. “So…” you murmured, “that’s what it takes to get you to shut up for five minutes.”

A breath caught in his throat—half laugh, half indignation. “I was being respectfully stunned.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” You tilted your head.

He narrowed his eyes, still breathless. “Had the lights not come back on, I could’ve salvaged my dignity.”

“Mm. No, sweetheart.” You hummed, dragging your fingers through his hair, gently teasing out a knot. “That ship got railed and sunk about twenty minutes ago.”

Edward’s hair was damp beneath your fingers, sticking to his temple, his face still flushed and dazed. You could feel his pulse through every point of contact—under your hands, inside you, in you. He blinked up at you, like the world was just now catching up to him. His mouth parted slightly, like he might try to say something clever. But he didn’t. Not yet.

You stroked your hand back through his hair, quiet. “You look like you just got struck by lightning.”

He huffed a breathless laugh, voice raw. “I feel like I forgot my own name.”

“Should I remind you?” you asked, rolling your hips once—lazy, cruel.

He flinched. “Please don’t.”

You smiled, soft and sharp. “Well then,” you said, dragging your hand down his chest like you were mapping your way back to calm, “maybe next time, you’ll think twice before you leave a mess all over the floor.”

His hand flexed at your hip, still twitchy with the aftershocks. “I didn’t—”

“Edward.”

A beat.

“…Okay,” he grumbled.

Smiling, you leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek, then to the edge of his jaw, slow and reverent, like you weren’t just teasing—you were claiming the wreckage.

He didn’t move. Barely breathed. You felt the twitch of his fingers against your skin, the way his chest rose to meet yours without thinking, like his body was still answering to you, even as his brain tried to catch up. And for once, he didn’t try to be clever. He didn’t deflect. He just sat there, dazed and quiet, his arms loose around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You weren’t either.

So you stayed. Straddling him on the cold, grimy floor. Skin cooling. Muscles aching. The overhead fluorescents buzzed softly above you, flickering now and then like they were struggling to decide if they were staying on for good.

Eventually, you shifted just enough to rest your forehead to his. Your nose brushed his. He exhaled.

“…We’re gonna have to move eventually,” Edward murmured.

You nodded. But didn’t move.

Not yet.

#Please Do Not Feed The Riddler #Riddler x reader #Riddler x gender neutral reader #Edward Nigma #The Riddler #Riddler fanfiction #Riddler fanfic #Riddler #Arkham Knight #Arkhamverse #dc comics #smut #reader insert #gn reader #PWP #minors dni

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styluswritesdc · 29 days ago

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Being a Nurse within Arkham Asylum

These are my own personal thought on how this would be! I really wanted to talk about this as for my own OC! this would be her background so I decided to just write out some thoughts on how it would be for literally anyone. and how you should interact with the rogues as patients.

Now, when I say nurse I would say the job would literally entail just that. they have psychiatrists and guards who have their own responsibilities within the Asylum so I was thinking about who would be administering medications and tending to wounds and ailments within the asylum.

these would be positions filled by persons within Gotham with little education, college students or anyone desperate enough for wok and due to the nature of the asylum positions that have frequent openings and new staff.

due to the sheer amount of resignations from each post there would be little experiences demanded. I genuinely believe that if you entered your CV you'd get a call the next day with a "when can you start?" no interview, just a small chat on your first day with what the work consist of and a contract.

this contract will be an NDA to some degree due to the abuse within the system against both employees and patients. and maybe even a contract of minimum period of work due to the sheer amount of employee turnover.

this job wont pay well, its Gotham like. but its liveable. and that's the most you could hope for.

Work consists of a schedule of medication for each patient on whatever floor/wing you're designated. there might not be any possibility of changing what patients you have based on how the more familiar they get with you, the more they'll cooperate (unless harassment or legitimate violent threats like Zsasz where its completely viable and you will die lol)

you would also tend to patients injured during riots, guard violence or scraps between patients.

the best way to cope in this role is if you adapt to your patients.

the incredibly insane (not any of the rogues gallery) are unironically the easiest, they're incredibly restrained with straight jackets, mouth gags etc. they're also held down on medical beds when you do tend to them and escorted back by armed guards.

its the bloody rogues that ssuuucckk ass as patients.

this is a guide based on my opinion plus some are excluded based on them being in black gate like Selina Kyle and Penguin or I don't believe any medication would be prescribed like Ivy or Clayface (purely there for containment purposes)

Riddler sucks. waiter waiter! a riddle per pill please thank you! so annoying. if you cant answer he will not take it so be smart and it will be grand. (no one will swap with you btw) due to the inhibitors necessary to keep him from escaping he will sometimes repeat a riddle.. its actually quite sad. he will get very upset with himself if you inform him. like I'm talking hitting his head in frustration level upset. however, if you build up a repour with him he will respect you and he's actually fine to deal with ultimately. difficulty level 7/10

Scarecrow is unsettling. that's about it. don't bother lying when he asks you what you fear. you'll end up afraid of it if you do. he can tell. will probe you about your fears etc.. its stimulating for him. its something to do. that's literally the hardest part, once you get over being slightly afraid of HIM you're fine! chat to him about psychology and his work and the visits will be over before you know it. difficulty level 5/10

two face is completely dependant on their mood. if they're good then they're genuinely a sound guy and easy patient.. if he's angry then.. ugh. if the coin says no medication you're fucked but you could try and convince them by asking loophole questions for the coin and you might get lucky. if the guards take their coin you will not be able to get near them. genuinely will freak. no job done for you. difficulty level 7/10

Mad hatter is unironically piss easy. not joking. play into his delusions slightly. write "eat me" or "drink me" labels in calligraphy on the medications and you're SET. that's it just.. don't put anything he gives you on your person or like y'know.. mind control. difficulty level 2/10

killer croc, depending on the canon you're looking at, for example the Arkham games have him in the sewer under the asylum accessible via lift. they only chuck food down there every now and again its extremely inhumane but he does come up into the building sometimes for therapy appointments. the protocol could be you put the medication into his hooks of meat or give the to him at his rare visits upstairs. just treat him like a person and you'll be fine! just keep hands away per Aaron Cash's warnings. difficulty level 7/10

Harley Quinn is just a fucking joy to treat at this point. she's literally one of the few rogues to actually rehabilitate like in BTAS. she's so easy and just chat to her like you're talking over coffee and you're set. honestly is quite nice! she'll gossip about the other rogues and its actually lovely. I loovvee her. an absolute pleasure difficulty level 0/10 (give her a lollipop she was excellent.)

firefly is just a bloke really. the only reason he's here instead of black gate is because he's a diagnosed Pyromaniac. he will sit there grumpily and tell you he's gonna burn this place down one day. very much a "that's nice, sweetie" treatment. just take your pills and go man. difficulty level 1/10

Bane, depending on canon, would only be in Arkham because he's teecchnically a metahuman. he's far too intelligent and strong to be held in anything either than the high security Arkham can provide. the only reason he would be treated would be to study titans effects and monitor his condition he's pretty easy but wants to know every ingredient of the medication. not my body is a temple shit, but he wants to know what (probable) poisons the doctors are prescribing him. overall a bit tedious and annoying but lets just say it isn't hard to find a vein on this guy so difficulty level 2/10

Freeze is there for containment but would receive medications for his obsessive disorder and to monitor his condition. he is kind and honestly uncaring. he is only thinking about Nora and how he's loosing precious time to save her.... you can ask about her if you like.. he might tell you about her but.. that's about it. safety level 0/10.

joker.. is just ugh. such a fucking pain. he's held down massively and labelled as incurable. he has so many different diagnoses and its like.. what the ffuuuckk do you give him? difficulty level is you may die. (10/10)

please defend them from the guards. they're absuive and the treatment they give the patients can be abysmil.

give Edward a pack of cards, stop them from beating Jervis and crane because they're physically weaker, allow Harley to have social time, ivy to have outdoor time (with a power dampener collar on), Waylon to see the outside, bane to exercise, Fries to have a picture of Nora and please please for your own sake allow Harvey to have their coin and reprimand the guards as much as you can for taking it in the first place.

whatever you do brother PLEAASEEE keep on good terms with the patients (minus joker, he don't give a fuck) cause when there's a riot or breakout and there WILL BE ONE. you don't want these guys to see you and want to kill you. I'm not saying they'll spare you but if they see you hiding in an office or vent they might just pretend they don't see you.. and if things go REALLY well and they actually like you they might just let you go unharmed. its been demonstrated in the Arkham games and even comics that if you're a fucking asshole they will hunt you down.

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