Chapter Text
Gotham is cold.
You haven’t seen Edward in two weeks.
You’re cold, miserable, and damp, and that’s nothing new. Your coworkers had all but dragged you to that Halloween party the other day, and while you enjoyed it, all you could think about was the fact that you hadn’t seen him since you brought him back to your apartment.
That had been it. He’d left, late in the evening, closer to morning, and nothing seemed off. He had hung in the doorway, though. Stared at you, something in his eyes dark and unreadable. You told him he could stay, but he’d insisted on leaving, as painful as it was for him. Nothing wrong, but, it was there. The distance.
(But he’d smiled, too. That was the kicker. He smiled at you, thanked you, then left. You’d sworn you heard him mutter something about promises, but before you could ask, he was gone, and once again, you were alone.)
When the news breaks out about the mayor, you can’t say you’re surprised. It’s Gotham. The city is a cesspool, elected officials are crooks, it’s nothing new. Carnage and violence are commonplace. People die every day. You aren’t numb to it like most, but what the hell can you possibly do?
(You’re not a fucking vigilante. A hero. No, there wasn’t room for that. Your hands shake and your bones are brittle and you don’t own a cape. Not for me, thanks.)
So you get up, get dressed, and go to work like you always do. Live. Contributing nothing.
Edward doesn’t come in. Not even once. It shouldn’t bother you, but it does. His presence had been a constant force for awhile, and having it just stop and him disappear felt.. wrong. Jarring. You worry.
But he’s just a man, isn’t he? Just a person. What did you really know about him, at the end of the day? He didn’t owe you anything. Just like you didn’t owe him.
(One night stands aren’t new or anything to cry over, either. You’re an adult. Come the fuck on.)
So, maybe, you’re thinking about it too much. Thinking about him. When the news about The Riddler breaks, it’s everywhere. More coverage than petty crimes, but still. Another maniac in a mask. Killing.
Wanting to purge Gotham of its sins.
“You’d think the guy would invest in contacts or something more practical, like- Ow! What? Too soon?”
You’re barely registering your conversing coworkers, their nervous chattering, laughs. When you see the face on the screen of the shop television, you think nothing of it. Until you do. Then you’re looking up again, dread coiling low in the pit of your stomach.
The glasses look familiar. But it’s 2019, isn’t it? Who doesn’t own a pair like that? You have a pair similar to that. It doesn’t matter. The voice-
You can’t be doing that. Driving yourself up the wall, looking for coincidences, patterns that aren’t there in the first place. But something in your gut is screaming. It feels stronger than just a tissue paper thin hunch.
What could you even do? Go to the cops? Report it? Report what, exactly? Hell, you don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about, and suspicions can be deadly, ruin lives. You’d be implicated then, too, drilled with questions, and for all you know, you’re wrong, and it would be wasting everyone’s valuable time. Just because you’re subconsciously trying to lick your own wounds and get back something you feel like you lost.
(You aren’t wrong, unfortunately. You rarely were with things like this. Call it a sixth sense, a gift, a burden.)
The more you think about it, the sicker you feel, so you just.. don’t. Pushing all thoughts aside is difficult, especially when that face is plastered everywhere, but you do it. Keep your head down.
Are you a bad person? Probably. A coward? Absolutely. Again, the little voice reminds you, in the shittiest possible attempt to be placating, you don’t know anything for certain. Not like you have evidence. It’s not wrong to mind your business and look out for yourself. Especially when no one else is.
Except people are dying.
But here, it’s cold, and they do every day. In droves.
And the air is different, now. Tensions are higher. Something is brewing, there’s change coming. You can feel it. Voices are louder. That symbol is everywhere, suddenly. All too quick. On cardboard signs, the TV, graffitied on bridges, and you find yourself mindlessly scratching it onto a notepad, over and over, the lines dented into several sheets below from the force of your hand.
?
You needed sleep.
(Possibly to pursue therapy again, too.)
“I still can’t believe they’d even ask.”
“I mean, yeah, it’s pretty fucked up, but-"
“— just a joke, man, come on—“
“I don’t think it’s funny when people are being killed,” Sophie hisses. “Like, have some class, maybe? I don’t know.”
(You aren’t a part of the conversation, but you sigh anyway, from your safe distance. Rub your temples like that will help the migraine you’ve been nursing for days. )
“Hate to break it to you, but it’s… shitty people in power getting what’s coming to them, y’know? Not like he’s picking off innocent people from the street at random.”
“They have families-“
“And how many families have they screwed over? Huh? How many lives have they ruined, contributed to ruining, directly, on purpose-”
“Hey,” you say, suddenly, interrupting, voice loud, four heads turning towards you at once. The attention makes your throat feel dry, but, hey, you brought it on yourself. So you clear it. Try to lighten the mood. “You’re going to scare off customers.”
You get varying looks. Surprise. Disgust. Amusement. Sophie is looking at you like you, personally, shot someone at point blank range right in front of her.
Bad attempt, you think. Oops.
“Maybe if customers didn’t come in and ask if we can make cupcakes with their fucking murder cult symbol on them, then I’d be happier to have them in here-“
“It was a joke,” you say, voice flat despite your scowl, continuing when you see her open her mouth to snap. “People are stupid.”
“They belong on a list.” She hisses, arms folded, eyes burning. “Should have taken their picture and banned them from the building.”
A bit of an overreaction, you think, but you don’t say it. The store is empty, it’s nearly closing time, and you’re already over your scheduled hours. Your back hurts. You don’t want to get into this right now, or ever.
“Highly doubt the lead serial killer is the one showing up here asking for a custom order catering gig, Soph.”
“Still! It’s just- Am I the only one bothered by this? Any of it?“
(Performative. Exaggerated. You understand the venom, the revulsion, but, at the same time, you can’t help but agree with the notion of it not.. being the end of the world. The targets weren’t good people.)
“Just… it’s Saturday,” you say, finally, lamely, almost pleading, deflating. Two of your coworkers have already skittered off to sweep and smoke, eager to be free of the subject but also go home. “Just.. focus on cleaning and getting home safe yourself. All you can do.”
Sunday meant closed. Sunday meant rest. You’re so close.
“Sorry for caring, I guess.”
“Maybe we’ll be shut down for the whole week,” Margot pipes up, and you hear a quiet laugh in response that makes your brows furrow more. “In.. memoriam. Or something.”
“Some of us have to make rent, Marg.”
“I know, but like.. think about it-"
“Best thing I’d ever get from a politician, honestly.”
“Soo.. definitely not happening, then.”
“Wouldn’t hold my breath.”
No. Not doing this.
You flex your fingers in your coat pocket and brace yourself before pushing the door open to begin your trek home. No goodbyes, but you doubt any of them will notice.
For once, it’s not raining.
(Something is coming.)
The water is boiling when you step in to the shower, and, for enjoyment, punishment, whatever reason, you twist the dial even higher. You’d think you would be used to it, by now, but it still stings.
(Never can quite place if it’s good or bad, though. Something you’ve always had trouble distinguishing, when it came to sensations. Is it good? Bad? Are they one in the same? Does it matter?)
When you reach for your shampoo, you fumble, and it clatters to the ground as you swear, curtain rustling when you bend down to pick it up.
Once you’re scrubbed clean, skin feeling raw, new, you’re hopping out, towel wound around you. Your cat is crouched in the doorway. Staring out into the living room.
“You’ve got an hour,” you say, half-exasperated, half-amused, to which she says nothing. As cats do. “Look, I’m sorry, but you should know by now-"
And you freeze. Your gaze, which had wandered to the mirror, still covered in steam, landed on something scrawled directly above the sink. Letters. Bleeding water droplets, but fresh.
SORRY
Below it?
:(
You feel lightheaded.
You don’t sleep that night.
Days are blurring.
It happens again. Oh, you swear it does. Instances. Smaller things. You lose track of shit you know had a specific place, you vividly recall setting down right there. Several articles of clothes go missing. You could chalk it up to your own absentmindedness, poor memory, mistakes, maybe, by some stretch of the imagination, but when you come home one night to every single magnet on your refrigerator arranged into a heart, well..
Pretty hard to write off.
(Don’t go off your meds- The ones you have no refills on.)
The leftovers you were going to have for dinner stay in there. You don’t touch it. You don’t go back into the kitchen at all, after you’ve inspected the fridge once, a lump in your throat.
The nausea you feel isn’t just from the lack of sustenance. It can’t be. The urge to scramble the symbol, take all the pieces, smack them to the floor, do something to the threat (gift), anything, is there, just over your shoulder, looming. Curling its fingers around your throat. Whispering. But you don’t.
Instead, you double check the locks on your doors and brace a chair against it.
When you go to call out of work tomorrow, you receive a confused, warm laugh in response. Your boss has always reminded you of your mother. Especially when she takes on that tone.
No. Not your mother. A mother. What a mother should be.
“Tomorrow’s.. Sunday. Are you alright?”
Your gaze flicks from your phone to your kitchen, a bitter taste in your mouth. There’s a takeout menu stuck in the heart, dead center. Pinned by your favorite magnet.
(Alright, you can’t ever pick favorites when it comes to anything, but, it’s up there. One of your oldest ones. It was your grandmother’s. Cute. Even if a cat should not be that shade of yellow or have a foot that looks like that. Right now? Feels like it’s mocking you.)
I’m ALWAYS in TROUBLE…
But it’s SO MUCH FUN !
“…yeah. I’m fine. Forgot. Sorry. See you Monday.”
After you’ve hung up, you pull the menu off and throw it in the trash.
(You see that face, again, on the news, leather and bespectacled, ranting, promising real change and you could easily turn the TV off. You just leave it playing as you stare at the screen, blankly, heart thump thump thumping.)
No more lies.
Something thuds in a neighboring unit, and you nearly jump out of your own skin. Muffled voices. You can’t ever pinpoint where it’s coming from, but you hear it again, and for some reason, it’s comforting. Your shoulders lose their rigidity. There’s life around you. Normality. You’re just tired.
(You should do something. Tell someone. Stay with a friend. Run. But who do you have in this city? No one. When it comes down to it, you have no one. Your world is confined to 800 sq ft.)
When you (somehow) pass out, it’s on the couch, exposed, vulnerable. Part of you knows when exhaustion tinges the edge of your vision, you’re slipping, but you’re just so drained, and if you don’t wake up..
Worse things. There are always worse things.
(Waking up might be worse, at this point.)
Despite the world around you being chaos, your next two days are ones of peace.
Nothing happens. Nothing goes missing. No broken windows. No broken bones. Nothing moves, and you’re wary, still, but you find yourself breathing easier, if only a little. Hours tick by sluggishly and at a break-neck pace simultaneously. What feels like an hour is a minute. You blink, and your shift is over. It’s annoying, but time has never been kind or sensible.
You could have been creating this, maybe, in your own, fucked up way. The trouble. All in your head. Just for the sake of trying to rationalize, make some sort of connection. An elaborate scenario, where you were important enough for someone to follow, to miss.
(Not someone. Him.)
The reality? You didn’t have that much power or meaning.
When you come home, it’s late. You’d gotten off early but just wandered, skirted around the less safe parts of the area, and then it was night, somehow. Back in your apartment, you kick off your shoes, rolling your shoulders with a wince. A flick of the switch and the room is bathed in light.
And you see the bouquet before anything else.
Daffodils, arranged neatly, in a glass vase, tied with a green bow. An envelope propped against them. Your name scrawled across the front.
Logically, you know you should not touch that shit. You should leave. Get out, go anywhere, just not.. be here, in this room, certainly not opening it. But morbid curiosity is strong and you’ve never had a good, healthy sense of self-preservation, so you snatch the envelop up with a shaking hand, fingers trembling when you rip it open. You don’t even notice the paper cut you get.
It’s.. a card. Comically colorful, with a retro, cartoonish animal smiling at you with wide, doll-like eyes.
I’M NOT LION…
Your mouth is dry. When you open it, something falls out, and when you slowly reach down to pick up the square of paper, you realize, with mounting dread, it’s a photo.
Of you.
Asleep.
Been missing you something FIERCE!
(This is.. a crime scene. This is fucking evidence. There’s no way this isn’t related to a city-wide scandal, a manhunt, death. And what are you doing? Putting your hands all over it. Standing here.)
There’s handwriting, too. Inside the card.
The more of me you take, the more of me you leave behind. What am I?
You swear the room is moving. Your head and heart throb, and you drop the card on the table, the yellow of the flowers sickeningly bright. Insides twisting, you take a step backwards, and even if you’d heard him, you wouldn’t have been able to do anything. Your lips feel numb.
“Footsteps.”
Before you slip out of consciousness, you see it. Him. A harsh, sinister smudge of green, eyes behind lenses piercing but dark, boring holes into you. It hurts.
And you hit the floor.
“Theeere you go, yes, just.. breathe-”
The voice is one you know. In another world, in another setting, you’d be elated at hearing it again. Some sick, twisted part of you does feel joy, some sense of relief, release— A jump. Fluttering. Pang of longing. Bile rises in your throat, and your vision is still blurry. Limbs like lead, thoughts sluggish, you’re… bound to your chair?
“I didn’t go the extra mile, didn’t.. cover your mouth.. because I.. figured you’d.. behave,” The Riddler begins, the words coming out in a excited sort of rush, like a child being reunited with their favorite toy. Muffled by the mask, but you can still hear him loud and clear. “I knew you would— ah, hey, now, easy, easy-“
You’re squirming, then, thrashing, breathing harsh, scream short and interrupted by a heavy, leather-clad hand snapping in place over your lips. Effectively silencing you. When you bite down, out of reflex, the man hisses, and it sounds more irritated than pained.
“No, no, no, you know better, don’t you?” His hand remains clamped to your mouth, and he’s speaking through his teeth, snapping. His voice drops, loses some of its acidity almost instantly, like he feels guilty. It’s softer, then. Chiding. More Edward. “Calm down— I can make you be quiet, you know. But I don’t want to. So please.. please don’t make me do that.”
With how he’s talking, it sounds like you’re hurting him. That this is hurting him. The sheer ridiculousness of the thought— the situation— has you losing it, dissolving into a fit of pitched, breathy giggles. His grip on you goes slack for a moment, caught off guard, body tilting in like he wants to absorb the sound from you. Keep it for himself. Hungry. Greedy.
(Right. Your laugh. He always liked your laugh. Your smile. Lucky, lucky you.)
Slowly, his hand moves. Your laughter dies down, and he hovers, hesitant, ready. But you just sit there, staring at him, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest, control your breathing to keep from hyperventilating again.
“There. That’s it-“ He sounds proud. Pleased. Relieved. “I promised you I would be back, and..”
A grand, sweeping gesture.
“…here I am.”
You’re certain you’re going to throw up.
The masked man continues, like he can’t let there be silence, like he has to speak, he has so much to say to you-
“It.. it took time, I know, but I came back,” he insists, and when he reaches out towards your face, you jerk your head away, eyes burning. “..I left.. little reminders, just.. just so you knew. I didn’t leave you. I’d never.. leave, but this is big, you understand? So, oh.. soo.. much bigger than.. us. This.”
When your gaze meets his, oh, if looks could kill…
(Passion. You’re so beautiful like that, like this, truly.)
“No. No, you don’t get to do that,” you say, throat raw, tone biting. “I kissed you, I… liked you.. Fuck, you disappeared, I was worried about you, then… you’ve been breaking into my fucking apartment, for your own weird, sick games, a break from when you weren’t killing people—“
“This isn’t a game!” He shouts, sounding genuinely offended. “Nothing- nothing about this is a game, and you know that. You’ve known. I know you have.”
This time, your laugh is quiet. Bitter. You don’t say anything. You can’t bring yourself to look at him directly, like doing it would make this worse. More real. Confirm what you already know. You can’t see his face, but you can hear the smile in his voice.
“…You have known, haven’t you? For how long, hm?”
When you remain silent, he heaves a sigh, and his grip on your chin is sudden, tight. Fingertips squeezing the skin as he makes you look at him. Your eyes meet, and his are familiar, but in that moment they look.. inhuman. Warped.
“Clever, clever..” The Riddler chuckles admiringly, letting go after he seems to gotten his fill. “Always been a clever little thing.”
“Not clever enough, clearly,” you snip, fingers flexing in your restraints. “Should have said something-"
“But you didn’t, did you?” His head tilts, and he sounds.. genuinely intrigued. Bemused. “No, no, you never said a thing. To anyone. Because you.. You agreed. We.. we shared that. We share it. You always wanted to be a part of something, didn’t you? Belong. Make a difference. I know it.”
“You.. don’t know shit,” you hiss, eyes feeling wet. “Don’t.. put words into my mouth. You don’t know anything about me.”
So much damage has already been done. It’s a month ago, and you’re beside him at a bar, leaning into him, emphatic and comfortable, enjoying yourself. Enjoying him. Commiserating over the state of the world. Fantasized about a city that shined, where the underdog thrived, where people who deserved their due could live.
The Riddler— Edward, under that mask, human, with a boyish smile, unsteady hands— shakes his head, tongue clicking in disappointment.
“I know your full name. Your birth date. Social security.. Where you were born.” The more he lists, the worse you feel, but the happier he seems. “Favorite drink.. Shoe size.. Why you came here.. I know you’re so.. painfully sentimental, that you saved a useless, plastic lemonade cup from the fair you went to three years ago, because that was the last time you felt really, truly happy..”
His fingertips ghost along your jaw. Gentler than before. Fond. Knowing.
“I know you’re so kind, even when the world has been nothing but unkind to you.. Ohhh, are you kind. Giving. Never met someone so giving.”
Your lips twist, face burning at that, at the memory, your own words echoing in your mind. Your stomach shifts, and a singular tear rolls down your cheek, only for the man before you to wipe it away with his thumb. Humming.
“Fuck you. Fuck you, I fucking hate—“
“No,” The Riddler interrupts, jarringly peaceful. Calm. Full of adoration. “No, you don’t. You never said a single thing. Didn’t report it. Never so much as whispered your suspicions aloud. Because you knew I was right. And- and that I wouldn’t hurt you. I haven’t hurt you, have I?”
When he inhales, it’s long, labored, like he’s shuddering. The rest of his words sound almost.. frenzied, a dazed sort of melodic. He’s pacing, then, desperately, and your eyes dart to follow the movement.
“I knew… I knew you were special. I promised.. promised myself I wouldn’t slip up, but, oh, you’re not east to forget. No, no, no, you’re so good at worming your way in. Permeating. There were so many times I came so close to breaking. But.. Everything has its time and place, don’t you see? All of this… planning.. it’s necessary. You’re a piece, you just have to.. accept it. Welcome it.”
“So, what then?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself, hating that you sound hurt. “That’s it? I’m another tool? You always get this up close and personal with all your pawns, or is this a fluke? Just wanted to see how much use you could get out of a random, useless—“
“Stop that.” The Riddler commands, and it’s there. Right on the surface. What you’ve seen glimpses, clips, snapshots of. Rage. “Don’t do that. Devalue yourself. Twist what we have into something ugly, superficial..”
With his hands on either side of you, bracing against your forearms, you’re forced to look at him. You can’t go anywhere. You want to spit in his face.
“You know me. I know you do. You saw me. You see me.” The words are coming out purposefully slow, for emphasis, and his last sentence is a crawling, punctuated murmur. “Just like I see you.”
You don’t know it, but he wants nothing more than to untie you. Release you from what’s binding you, physically and in the figurative sense. But he can’t do that. That’s something you have to do yourself. He wouldn’t force you. He can’t.
(Oh, he wishes. Wishes he could kiss you again, too. He’d thought about your lips on his an ungodly amount of times. It wasn’t productive, so damningly distracting, but it always crept up on him when he least expected it. Had him wistful, whining into his fist, his pillow-)
Your eyes stay locked for an uncomfortable amount of time. Only when you blink first does he sigh, the anger dissipating like steam.
“We need to work on that. Your.. self-worth problem.” You want to hit him. “…You haven’t been sleeping, either, I know. So rare for you to get a good night’s sleep lately.”
Wonder why.
“I could get you something for that, you know.”
When his hand slips down the column of your throat, searching, you inhale sharply. His fingertips dip past your shirt, into the curve of your collarbone, furrowed brows shining through his voice.
“You seem.. smaller, too.” Concern. He’s not taunting. The bastard is genuinely concerned. And he has no right to be. “Haven’t been eating. Not smart. Affects the body..”
His hand retreats. Index finger lightly taps your forehead.
“… and brain. But you know that already. You’re not stupid.”
Edward, not The Riddler, is scolding you.
(But, then again, aren’t they one in the same? It’s all him. Always been.)
You’ve never wanted to punch someone more. Your eyes still sting, and you don’t even realize more tears have fallen. Hot, hurt, ashamed. Emotions swirl, and your voice sounds so pathetically small but firm. Unwavering.
“What do you want?”
The man draws back, jacket rustling as he seems to contemplate his answer. He’s humming again, thoughtfully, and you don’t know what to expect. Maybe you’ll get out of this alive. Or you won’t. Is there anything else? Does anything else matter? Do either of those things matter, really?
“That is the question, isn’t it?”
His chuckle is heavy, reverent, and the sound hits you, hard, seeping into your blood, your bones.
“Change,” he starts to say, but you cut across him, not ready for another monologue.
(Impatient.)
“Cut the bullshit.” Your ankles ache, and when your hips shift, try to alleviate some pressure, you see his eyes fall. Watching. “What do you want from me?”
“And here I spent allll this time thinking you liked the sound of my voice,” he drawls, feigning offense, gloved hand drumming against one of your wrists. “Ouch.”
(You do. You did. You’ll never tell him that, though. Not again. You’d admitted it, buzzed, giggling, in a moment of shining, fond sincerity. But that wasn’t for him. Not anymore. He has no right to throw it in your face like this. You couldn’t let him have that-)
“I just want you, I think.”
You weren’t expecting him to say that, sounding like that. Heart-wrenchingly genuine. Quiet. Human. Lost.
“Yes.. you. Just you. That’s all. All I.. want. From you.”
“Is.. me?” You laugh in spite of yourself, but your cheeks are in flames, again, and your head is spinning. “That’s.. bad, fuck, that’s.. such a cliche, Edward, Jesus Christ-"
“Just Edward is fine. Or Ed. Whichever feels better for you.”
Even though you can’t see his face, you know he’s grinning, smug, even in the softness. Saying his name was a mistake. There’s hope yet. You’ve given him hope. You’re getting close, even if you aren’t aware of it. His thumb is brushing against your lower lip, then, and it’s so strikingly similar to that night you shared that you tremble-
“I did miss you, you know.” Pained and longing. Sickeningly so. Insisting. “I did.”
“…I know.”
“You missed me, too.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You can’t. Edward remains silent, just staring, and when you feel him loosening the ties on your wrists, your eyes widen. A questioning noise slips out, but he shushes you, pausing in his ministrations when both your hands are free. Your eyes narrow, but when his fingers delicately brush your bangs out of your eyes, your confusion rises along with something else. Something you don’t want to recognize or give a name to.
“I think there’s something.. broken in you. A hole that needs to be filled.”
You just watch as he unbinds your ankles, knowing you have the chance to hit him, do something. You could drop him. Maybe. Probably not. Stun, distract, at the very least. You could run.
And you don’t.
You just sit there, blinking up at him as he stands back, surveys you, head cocking to one side. Like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“That’s why I won’t take anything from you. No, the more you take, the emptier a hole gets, see..”
The door is right fucking there.
Go.
“I could never take anything from you.”
How honorable.
When you taste copper, you realize you’ve been biting your tongue. Hard. It’s such a small wound, a tiny cut in comparison to everything else.
“But you want me to give.” Your laugh is wry. “Because it’s in my nature. Right?”
His hollow shrug has your hands balling into fists. No, he doesn’t get to be cavalier right not, fake or not, not about this, not after saying that. Fuck him for even trying. Pretending.
Yes, you can run, but where will you go? What will you do?
“Even…” You hate yourself. It’s wrong. This is wrong. “Even if I give, you know, that’s.. still depleting. Just taking with extra steps. Taking but being.. pointlessly polite about it. Still empty.”
Edward’s eyes are shining. A blaze that can’t be contained, too big for one man.
“Not if you get something in return,” and it almost sounds like he’s pleading with you. A killer, there, a visionary, prostrate, on his knees, begging. Mad but wanting. Needing. “Not if I give you something. More.”
(You haven’t moved.)
“What, exactly?”
What could he possibly give?
“Me.”
It’s instantaneous. Edward, The Riddler, they’re one in the same, and he doesn’t have to think twice. You should’ve known, expected it; it’s honest and predictable. Not money. Not power. Not protection. Him. That’s what he was offering. You could give and give and give, and he’d be there to give back. Replenish.
“I won’t leave you again.”
Everything sounds like it’s underwater.
“I promise.”
The lights are too bright.
“This city is going to change.”
You’re sinking.
“And you’ll be here. With me. I’ll.. I’ll be here with you.”
It’s not clear who kisses who. Either way, the force of your lips against once another is quick, bruising, a hurricane. Your arms are around his neck, pulling, and you’re not thinking of tomorrow. Or of Gotham. Or The Batman. You’re thinking about belonging. Warmth. Meaning. What it would feel like to no longer be alone. For once in your life.
(Selfish, selfish, selfish-)
Isn’t that what everyone wants? you think, breathless, as this man, this amalgam of ideals, difference, weird, twisted hope is shuddering against you, saying your name, letting you rip the mask from his face. His teeth are pinpricks against your neck, drawing blood, marking, but his tongue is quick to chase them. Soothing. Gloved hands are holding your hips like a vice, pressing you into the back of the chair. A sense of purpose?
Maybe he’s right about you. Or horribly wrong. You can’t be certain. You can’t focus with leather-covered fingers curling into your waistband, digging, going between your thighs. Shame should be all you feel when they’re quick to make you slick, pliant, whining. Disgust. But it’s Edward. Edward, who’s called you inspired, pretty, known you, walked you home, given you his jacket, mouthing at your pulse point. All you feel is him. Huffing, grinding the heel of his palm into you messily, coveting, words slurring.
“That’s it..”
(There’s more. There will always be more.)
“…yes…”
Neither of you bother with clothing. It’s a nuisance, but barely. Fabric can be yanked down, unzipped, shoved aside, and when his hips jerk, he’s stretching you open. When he’s fully sheathed inside of you, his forehead presses against yours over, eyes meeting. The smile he gives is beautiful and terrifying. It’s unfair for someone to be able to sound that fond.
“There you are.”
(You didn't go anywhere. You aren't.)
There’s no real rhythm to the movement of his hips. His hair is damp with sweat, strands sticking out, against him, hanging, and when your hand cups his cheek, he keens.
“I see you.”
Those three words seems to do it for him. His thrusts are quick to get sloppy, frantic, and he’s buried deep when he cums, hot, too much. Your own bliss is there, inches away, thighs and chest aching, and you know there are tears mingling with sweat. It shouldn’t feel this good. It should feel wrong. But you’re full, full of him, and even though his movements have started to get shallower and slower, you feel leather against your heat, circling, determined, crazed, almost and your release crashes over you completely, legs clamping around him when you whine his name. You both remain there, like that, for awhile. Just.. breathing. No coherent thoughts, just... Inhale. Exhale. Again. With feeling.
When he finally pulls out, you can feel something leak from you, start to bead down your burning thigh, but long fingers are quick to chase it. Guide it back. Stuff it (him) into you, once more. Like another reminder. A brand. Your own fingers wrap around his wrist, bringing his hand to your lips, lapping at leather, cleansing him, and he watches with pupils blown so wide you swear you don’t even see a hint of green anymore.
You see him.
And he sees you.
(He kisses your forehead before he leaves, wordless, shoulders squared, sated.)
The takeout menu you threw away a few days ago sits on your nightstand. There’s a URL, information that would be crucial, imperative. But there’s also a message. Meant only for you.
See you soon.