The scene playing out before him was nothing short of glorious. Drunken imbecile Tom Dougherty quavered on his knees, bleeding out beneath the flickering lights of the elevated train, his dumb face slack-jawed with the realization that he was going to die at the hands of a man whose name he'd probably never bothered to remember. And Edward Nygma, awed and shaking, felt as though he were a voyeur to it all.
He had never been a violent man, never felt the need to hurt someone before. But this, Edward had to admit, was ... fun. With each increasingly confident jab of the knife, he had welled with pride and watched with an almost childlike sense of glee. With each cut he cried out, all the slights and jokes and glares from his peers repaid onto one man, now falling backward into a puddle of his own blood. There was something in the bigger man’s eyes just before he went limp, something that excited Edward more than he ever would have imagined.
Officer Dougherty was afraid. Of him.
The first wound had been an accident, truly; in the process of picking Edward up from the ground to accost him further, Dougherty had practically plunged the small blade into himself. Even the second could almost be written off as unintentional — in a certain light. But everything that followed was all Ed, a tentative step into shadow — shadow that urged him to drive the knife into the officer’s bleeding gut again and again and again, with a ferocity that both thrilled and terrified him. His eyes flicked from blood-soaked knife to the cop’s motionless body, and before he could help himself, he’d laughed.
The sound was so foreign. Higher than he’d ever noticed, looser. And once he started, Ed found it difficult to stop. Hours later, with parts of Tom Dougherty strewn across his kitchen table, Ed had dissolved into a full-blown giggling fit. Dismembering the man had awakened a whole new side of Edward, and the sight of that abusive prick's thick, sticky blood dripping down his hands was almost arousing. Well — Ed regards the half-hard bulge in his pants with a sheepish chuckle — more than almost.
It is in the middle of hacking through the man’s thigh that Edward feels his cock twitch beneath the thin plaid fabric of his pants.
It doesn't seem right. And yet...
Don’t be ashamed, Eddie.
The little voice in his head is silk and shadow, seducing him with a commanding presence Edward finds impossible to ignore. It was the little voice that had helped him fight back, and it is the same little voice urging him on now.
Think of how he humiliated you. How he insinuated that you were less than a man. Think of the fear in his eyes as you stood over his pitiful, broken body. Look at him. Just another lummox who thought muscles made him invincible. Oh, how wrong he was.
Edward tentatively brushes a hand against his hardening cock and giggles. It had felt good. Killing Dougherty. The blood. The sense of power that came from making him afraid. Ed thinks of the small blade sinking deep into yielding flesh and tugs at his zipper.
“God, you deserved it,” he murmurs. Edward pulls off the bloody surgical gloves with a satisfying snap, then wraps his long, thin fingers around his cock.
He starts with slow, almost lazy strokes, intending to savor this moment the way he’d savored separating Dougherty’s head from his broad shoulders. After all, where’s the fun in rushing? It isn’t as though either of them is going anywhere tonight. Edward looks around to find the severed head, tossed carelessly into a old suitcase, and grins as his hand slides languidly up and down his member.
What will Kristen Kringle think of you now?
“Oh God,” he moans under his breath.
This would win her over. It had to. He's rock hard now, imaging her perfect pink lips closing around his swollen cock, her tongue running the length of his shaft and swirling around the tip. Green eyes gazing up at him in adoration. It's only a matter of time before…
“Is this- Are you asking me a riddle?”
Out of nowhere, in the blur of death and ecstasy, a different face comes to mind.
Oswald Cobblepot had dismissed him outright the first time they met, dismissed him the way Kristen Kringle always had. Edward groans. Why does that make him so irresistible? And why is he suddenly thinking of him now?
He had barely thought of the man since that first meeting. Sure, he casually kept track of his comings and goings, making a few notes whenever his name popped up in a case file, though really it was just enough to stay in the know. But now... Now Edward imagines taking him by that mop of jet black hair and shoving the so-called “king’s” face onto his cock. Maybe he'd even beg for it. Yes, Edward shivers, he can picture it perfectly: Oswald Cobblepot on his knees, pleading for the privilege of sucking him off.
Perhaps, at first, he’d resist the idea. After all, a king could never be seen in such a humbling position.
But you’ll show him, won’t you?
“Yes,” Edward breathes, cock gleaming with seminal fluid as he pumps his shaft harder and faster.
Reluctance would fade, give way to grudging obedience. Oswald was an intelligent man. Not as smart as Edward, but smart enough to quickly learn his place. In the end, he’d fumble eagerly for Edward’s cock and beg him to fuck his mouth.
Is that what you want?
“You...God...yes…” Edward grips the table with his free hand, legs trembling as the pleasure begins to overwhelm him.
Long fingers would twist in Oswald’s hair, pulling him forward until the the tip of Edward’s cock hits the back of his throat. And the King of Gotham would slurp and suck, eager and greedy, until…
Edward jerks forward and groans, spilling out over the bloody mess on his kitchen table as he imagines covering Oswald’s face with his seed — that contemptuous grin gone, hair matted with sweat, semen dripping off his beak-like nose.
The voice in Edward’s head begins to applaud. Look at what you’ve done. Truly a masterpiece.
“I- oh dear,” Ed giggles.
He would have to make a point of paying Mr. Cobblepot a visit. And soon.