Chapter Text
His glasses are cracked. His hair is slightly longer, and his cheeks are sharper, but his skin is as soft and pale as ever; it nearly glows in the places where the early morn sunlight reaches him. He had kicked the covers off at some point during the night but had remained as close to you as he could. One socked foot rests on your own; his hand is still stubbornly attached to your waist, gripping it tightly even in his sleep.
He looks so young, so… unblemished. It had surprised you how needy he had allowed himself to be; back in Gotham, he was shrouded not just in danger but in poise. Perhaps the clothes do make the man. Strip him of his Riddler attire and he is just a man. He did tell you that once. Every interaction you had with him in that shabby apartment is seared in your memory; every word, every touch has been obsessively catalogued. The uncertainty of another encounter gave you no choice but to hold onto what you already had. Your mind became a projector for spliced images of your meetings with him, of the words exchanged, of the caresses given and received.
And then the city was flooded. You were already in Blüdhaven, renting this apartment under a different name. You saw the news and your mouth filled with a sour taste. This orchestrated attack was different; it targeted random citizens, people like yourself, people who couldn’t decide if surviving another day in Gotham was a victory or a burden. He didn’t carry it out himself, but he planned it. His equally deranged followers completed it. While he was doing his peacock dance for the Batman, normal people were dying.
The weight of his identity crashed upon you like a fucking meteorite, and your insomnia returned, more merciless than before. Was he really any better than the CEO? You had judged his misdeeds from your own skewed perspective, intuiting that your sense of morality was more aligned with his than you would have cared to admit. Corrupt businessmen and politicians and the dirty cops that protected them could be fed to the worms as far as you were concerned. Living, subsisting in Gotham can swiftly rid you of compassion. It’s a dog-eat-dog city that breaks you before eating you alive, and the ones at the top pick their teeth with your bones. The ones at the bottom are powerless, and their viciousness is aimed at each other. The Riddler managed to redirect some of that anger to the right recipients, but the flood marked a digression, at least to you. All bets were off, and that kind of chaos is hard to restrain once unleashed.
You saw how the Batman ceased to be a symbol of vengeance and became a beacon of hope for those the currents couldn’t wash away. That must have been a harsh blow for Edward, and your bewilderment at his actions, your suspicion of his true motives and the subsequent mistrust you’d started to harbor became an uncomfortable sympathy. If you could pity such a man, what did that make you? What would you be in the footnotes of Gotham’s grim history?
You still wanted him, that much was true. Attempting to make a distinction between Edward and The Riddler was futile: they were one and the same. Edward is not a persona The Riddler puts on, or vice-versa. They are intrinsically joined, they are powered by the same emotions. One just happens to be more direct with his methods. The more you rummaged these things, the easier it became to accept your own moral shortcomings. Yes, blowing up the seawall was fucked up, you knew that. In the end, however, you didn’t lose sleep because of that; you couldn’t sleep because you felt guilty for wanting the man who did it. For being willing to open your arms and your legs to him were he to reappear in your life. He is a terrorist locked away in a mental institution, and he is the man who comforted you when you most needed comfort. He is both those things and you cannot undo them, nor can you reconcile them. All you can do is accept them.
You left a trail for him to follow if he so chose. And he did. He showed up at your door here, in Blüdhaven. He could have snuck in, manifested amid the shadows, like he used to. Instead, he knocked. He had this fascinating look of vulnerability and resolve in his eye when you opened the door. Helpless enough to seek you, determined enough to get you. To reclaim you. It felt so good to undress him; you had wanted to do it for so long. His lean frame was yours to uncover, to delight in.
Arousal stirred in your gut as you touched him, but sexual satisfaction seemed to be the last thing on his mind. He wanted to be touched, to be stroked, and you obliged, how could you not? Each touch flustered him more, and you relished his openness, his pure, undiluted need. You retraced the small spot on his thigh, the one you had wanted to commit to your memory as a sliver of him, untouched by the outside world.
And then he broke down. His pain seemed to seep through his skin like sweat, and his wail made your heart throb in blood-thawing anguish. It sounded like unwavering despair, that scream. You held him as closely as you were physically able to, and even then he wanted to burrow into your skin, to take root deep within you. He was half on top of you, clutching you as if you were a piece of driftwood in a black, shoreless ocean. His sorrow slowly relented, hopefully eased by your soothing touches wherever you could reach. “Sleep,” you had ordered when he was slack against you. You caught his knowing smirk, and closed your eyes as well.
Edward’s movements are always measured, you notice. His body is opposed to the mere notion of haste; you’d attributed this leisurely approach to motion to his work, to the type of violence he prefers, which requires patience and self-restraint. That’s just how Edward moves, it turns out. You watch him rub the sleep off his face, then reach for his glasses and put them on. You watch him remove his socks, and you watch intently as he lifts his hips to slide the boxers down.
“Wouldn’t have taken you for a voyeur,” he jokes.
You want to tell him how alluring you find him, how those green, baggy clothes turned his frame into an enigma, a riddle you were given but not allowed to solve. Until last night. He gave you clues in Gotham, but now you have finally deciphered what he carefully obscured.
“I like looking at pretty things,” you tell him. He whips his head toward you, surprised. You scoot closer and rest your hand upon his breastbone. “You look pretty and delicate like this, Edward. There’s nothing wrong with that. I like it.” It makes me wanna keep you all to myself, you finish in your mind.
He takes your hand and nibbles the tips of your fingers. “You know what people do with delicate things, don’t you?”
A sharp pang tugs at your heart. He is so accustomed to violence that he is incapable of conceiving the world in other terms. This man is broken, and there is nothing you can do to put him back together. “I know. But I like to cherish them, not shatter them. So just… just fucking let me.”
He senses your frustration and holds your face gently, thumb grazing your lower lip. You don’t know who initiates the kiss, and it doesn’t matter. His mouth is warm and you are so hungry.
As soon as you settled in Blüdhaven, you went to bars, scanning the patrons in search of someone to scratch the intolerable itch under your skin, somewhere your own hand could barely reach. You failed spectacularly, since none of them were Edward. You met a woman whose name you cannot recall, and she was so sweet and so lonely that you caved, less out of desperation and more out of pity. For her or for yourself, you weren’t certain.
It didn’t help that his face was on the news all of the time; that’s how you learned his surname and some of his history. An orphan, just like the prince of Gotham. A forensic accountant; that made a lot of sense. A nut-job; yeah, decidedly so. A figure in the darkness, checking in on you, tending your wound, helping you rest. A warm body, a roguish tongue, a sturdy hip to hold onto.
You climb atop him, knees on either side of his waist. The kiss has gotten feisty; he bites your lip and you grind against his hard cock, relishing the low groan he lets out. He tugs at your shirt and you take it off, and he wastes no time sucking one nipple into his mouth.
“Oh, fuck.” Was his mouth always this hot? He swipes his tongue over the other nipple, and you thread your fingers in his hair, gritting your teeth at the sensation. You go from being on top of him to being under him in a second. His tongue is leaving a wet trail down your sternum, on your belly, and suddenly his fingers are hooked into the waistband of your sweatpants and your underwear and now you’re as naked as he is.
“I thought about this every time I masturbated in that godforsaken cell,” he whispers before the first lick up your cunt. All of the pent-up appetite settled in your bones like silt dissolves with that single touch of his tongue. You feel yourself opening further, urging him into another caress. He drags the flat of his tongue again, and again, and then he sucks hard at the hood of your clit, coaxing a sinful moan out of you. He dips the tip in your cunt several times, mimicking penetration, before he moves it upward again and swirls it around your clit. It’s obscene how wet you are, how your flesh is pulsating under his mouth, how his large hands grasp the supple meat of your thighs and spread them wider, your unabashed desire on full display for him.
“Fuck, Edward, I’m gonna come all over that pretty face—“
He hums against you, bastard, he hums as if the pleasure was all his and you come hard, collapsing onto yourself, entire body vibrating with ecstasy. When you’re aware of your surroundings again, you notice he’s not wearing his glasses. When did he take them off?
“Can you see without your glasses?” You’re panting, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
“I can see you well enough.” He murmurs his answer to your hip, nose brushing it softly. How can someone so vicious be so tender? His softness doesn’t strike you as rehearsed; his concern for you has always seemed genuine, and he touches you with a care you would never expect from someone like him. His sexual experience is, for lack of a better word, ambiguous. Edward Nashton himself is a riddle you’re not sure you will ever crack.
“Come up here,” you beckon. You lick your way into his mouth and curl your legs around his narrow hips. “Wait.” You turn to lie on your side, and he settles behind you. “Remember when you watched me get myself off in my bed?”
He moans softly in your ear, pressing his cock into the curve of your ass. “I went home and did the same, though I doubt I looked as enticing as you did.”
You slither down a little so you can align your hips. “Let me be the judge of that.”
He’s inside you in one swift thrust. You both release a sigh at once; two long breaths that contain all the complexity of this strange bond and all the simplicity of this raw desire. When he starts moving, he does so with the same slow cadence that you’re already familiar with —and fond of. You take his hand and press it to your fluttering heart, and he digs his fingertips into your skin, short nails scratching it lightly. Your own fingers are slipping between your legs, rubbing your clit in the same pattern Edward snaps his hips against yours.
“Do you think I can satiate your appetite?”
Your chuckle is cut by a low moan when you feel his hand replace yours. “Yes. But only in the flesh.”
You can only be forward while facing away from him. You know he won’t stay, you know he cannot stay. But knowledge and want seldom intersect when it comes to him. He picks up his rhythm, thrusts harsher and fingers more frantic. You feel the head of his cock brushing that sweet spot inside of you and you curl your toes and hold onto the hand between your thighs. So fucking close.
“You’re mine. Other cities, other people won’t matter. You’re mine and mine alone.”
God, hearing him vocalize that need, that fear you’ve had since you left Gotham with his scrawled heart in your pocket wrecks you. You come, head thrown back, body quivering with delicious spasms, cunt tight around his cock. Edward maneuvers you onto your back but remains on his side, and fucks you hard and fast. You wipe the sweat off his brow and lick your finger. He grabs your breast and kisses words into your mouth.
“I’m yours, too. When I’m here and when I’m gone.”
You nod or you shake your head, you can’t be sure; your eyes shut involuntarily, unable to look at him any longer. His words have etched themselves on your skin, and you can almost see them, searing and tender. Edward’s head dips as he comes, teeth sinking into your shoulder, cock twitching inside you.
The sun outside is brighter, and his skin gleams under its light. It’s mystifying, seeing him so vividly. He has no visible birthmarks, but there are a few scars on his left flank, some more on his right shoulder. He slips out of you but remains close, arm around you in a loose embrace. It’s as if the less physical distance he puts between you, the more the certainty of departure will fade. A commendable effort, but ultimately useless. Nevertheless, you enjoy this stasis.
You can feel his heartbeat and hear his breathing and smell his sweat, and you can see him. He was so wraith-like in your apartment in Gotham, almost like made of smoke. Now, daylight affords you the chance to notice the muted green of his eyes, the crook in his nose, his small teeth. His hair has reddish and blond strands, and it’s messy and soft. Your stomach growls, making him smile.
You sit up. “Do you cook?”
He stays for four days.
He makes simple meals that are somewhat lacking in taste but leave you full and spare you the chore of cooking, so you don’t complain. You notice he likes to be in the kitchen, the brightest spot in the apartment —you had liked the small skylight right above the counter when you saw the place.
“Arkham is eerie in its darkness,” he’d explained. His words on his stay in Arkham are scant; he talks about the tedium of it all and the tasteless food, but no more. He asks about your life in Blüdhaven, and your words are as sparse as his. You haven’t done anything other than survive.
“You look well,” he tells you. “I thought about you a lot.”
You smile. When was the last time you smiled? “I thought about you, too.”
The way you look at him —the way he looks at you conveys more than words ever could. The longing, the melancholy, the uncertainty are so hard to articulate that both of you are more comfortable relying on the reassurance that a shared space gives you. Brushing your teeth together, holding each other in bed in the nighttime, drinking coffee or tea in the kitchen, squeezed together to catch the sunshine.
You fuck under the kitchen skylight; he murmurs how much he likes the shimmer of your hair in the pale sunlight as he thrusts into you, his chest pressed to your back and his hand between your thighs.
You offer to cut his hair and he gives you a quizzical look. “I’ve had a lot of jobs.” He pays you by eating you out from behind right there in your bathroom, knuckles white as you grip the edge of the sink with one hand and his still-wet hair with the other. His hands leave imprints on the supple flesh of your ass as he spreads you open and laps at you, open-mouthed and eager. You’re lucky you don’t give yourself a concussion when you bang your head on the mirror as you come.
When you ask him to sit on your sofa and touch himself, he surprises you with his own question. “Would you like me to wear the mask?” A friend from Arkham had gifted him a new one.
You nod. “All of it. Put all of it on.”
It’s like being back in Gotham during that long October. He shuffles toward the sofa with his heavy boots. The living room is dimly lit, but not as dark as the previous one used to be. You can see his bare hands as he unzips his pants and takes out his cock. You’re opposite each other: Edward on the sofa and you on a puff stool.
“Some… input would be appreciated.”
Your smile is sly. “Oh, my simple shorts and t-shirt aren’t arousing enough?”
The wrinkles around his eyes are the only reply you get. You take off your top and sit on the floor so you can rest your back against the stool. Your cross-legged position allows you easier, more suggestive access into your shorts, and Edward’s sharp intake of breath makes you smile again. His hand moves up and down, though never reaching the root of his cock. His thumb grazes the underside of the head, and you notice his slight shift in position: more reclined, legs spread wider. His gaze drifts from your eyes to your breasts to your hand underneath your shorts.
“I can’t believe you let me touch you. You’re so pretty, so soft.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. Its tone is that of a mere observation: not a reproach, not even a compliment. Just a remark. “I like it when you touch me. I like it when you kiss me, when you eat me out, when you fuck me.”
His grip gets tighter; his strokes are speeding up. You get on your knees and crawl toward him, and his rhythm falters. “I thought you wanted me to—“
“Yes. I want a lot of things. I’m greedy like that.” Before he can retort, you pull his cock into your mouth and suck, hard.
“Fuck. Fuuuck—“ Swear words only seem to leave his mouth when he’s overwhelmed by pleasure. He tangles his hand in your hair, but abstains from pushing downward. How thoughtful. Your hand is wrapped around his shaft and you twist it gently as you lick that band of tissue that runs under the tip. “Do you want me to come in your mouth?”
You glance upward, at the green jacket, at the leather mask. There is an incongruence between the outfit and the man underneath, yet you cannot fathom one without the other. You’re on your knees, sucking The Riddler’s cock, and Edward is gently asking if he can come in your mouth.
“Yes.”
You suck again, and again, taking him all the way in until the head brushes the back of your throat, relishing the little whimpers he lets out. He pulls your hair and takes his cock in his hand, tip sitting on your tongue as he comes, warm and gooey in your mouth, a savage grunt bursting from his throat. You rest your cheek on one of his shaking thighs, but Edward has another idea. He lifts you and lays you on the sofa and tears off the mouth cover of the mask. Your shorts land on the floor, and a sharp gasp escapes you when you feel his tongue on you. It’s as slow and hot as ever, prying you open, circling your clit, smearing your wetness and his spit all over your cunt. He slips his middle finger inside, then his index. The way he curls them has you digging your heels into his back and arching your back, desperate for more maddening friction. He sucks on the hood of your clit again and again until you stumble into that hot rift that holds nothing but mind-numbing pleasure.
He’s on top of you, nuzzling your neck, murmuring words you can’t quite catch in your post-orgasmic fog. This jacket is not new; it smells like gasoline.
“Can I fuck you?”
You nod, and he presses into you, filling you the way you love to be filled by him. He smells like fire, like chaos. What did he do to get here? To find himself on top of you, fucking you senseless into your sofa, telling you things you can’t bear to hear, things that sound warm and adoring and deranged? You want to rip off his jacket, but all you’re able to do is grip it tightly and shudder against it when he comes. He gives you a sloppy kiss; both your tongues are viscous, heavy. The drag of the leather on your skin makes it tingle.
You rip off the mask, gliding one fingertip across the thin film of sweat on his face. “Come, let’s take a bath.”
The water is warm and milky. “Did you burn down Arkham?”
He smiles, a gesture that makes him look even more boyish. “No. Why would I? A lot of my friends are there.”
“Why did you escape?”
He swirls his fingers in the water. “Unfinished business.”
You don’t ask any more questions. On the third day, he’s not in bed when you wake up. His mask is on the counter, his way of leaving an I’ll be back note. He knocks on your door at nighttime, a duffel bag in his hand. You don’t expect an apology, but you’d certainly like one. You have no way of contacting him, of knowing if he’s alive or dead or back in Arkham.
“Dinner is in the microwave,” you tell him as you head to your bedroom. You hear him take a shower before coming to bed. The grimness of your situation has never been so apparent. How much longer can you survive under its crushing weight?
He slips into bed and rests his head on your shoulder. “You know who I am. What I am.” What I always will be.
“I know.”
“Your morality is quite gray. I find that fascinating.”
“I feel like that’s your way of calling me a coward,” you sigh.
He shakes his head. “You’re a survivor, like me. We all cope differently.” He kisses you, a soft, almost chaste brush of lips. “But if you ever feel… less gray, just say the word.” He scoots down and kneels. “May I?”
Can he sense your turmoil? You thread your fingers through his hair and nod. His hands rid you of your shorts and pull your thighs apart. It takes you a little longer to come this time, but Edward is committed and thorough. His mouth doesn’t stop until you’re thrashing about, chest flushed and damp with sweat. He lies next to you, and when you reach for his cock, hard in his boxers, he chuckles.
“You’re not greedy, you’re voracious.”
“And you aren’t?” Your tone is defensive; you’re not quite sure you like the underlying accusation in his statement. Maybe because there’s truth to it.
“Will you miss me when I leave?”
You look away, exasperated. “What does that matter?”
His fingertips brush the space between your breasts then move lower until his hand spans your ribs. “Because I’m selfish. I want you to think of me when you fuck other people.” He bites your nipple through your shirt, and you hiss and close your eyes. “I don’t expect faithfulness from you. I know I don’t deserve it. If others are to satisfy you when I’m not around, so be it. Just make sure you spare me a thought or two.”
You turn to look at him in the eye. “Is that what you will be doing? Satisfying your appetite with the touch of your unhinged groupies?” You’ve spent enough time online to learn that The Riddler has plenty of very willing fanatics.
Edward smirks. “My hunger is different.”
You snort. “Then why are you in my bed?”
He runs a finger down your belly until it reaches your still-wet cunt. “Because knowing that you want me makes me feverish with lust. You wanted me because I made you feel safe. You saw me, you saw The Riddler as a source of comfort. That is a puzzle far greater than any riddle I could ever conceive.”
He lowers his boxers and lifts up your shirt, exposing your breasts. He sucks your nipples into peaks and tugs at the flesh greedily. Your moan when he enters you is low, choked.
“Your desire is the one I need. Yours, only ours. You will seek empty encounters, strangers who will fuck you like this—“ the snap of his hips into yours is harsh and his pace is careless “—and they’ll get on their knees and eat this perfect pussy of yours, and I know, I know you will be thinking of me. You belong to me as much as I belong to you.” His teeth are sharp on your shoulder, leaving marks that will be noticeable. “And I’ll be thinking of you when I set a building aflame, when I kill men who stain the people around him with their foul touch.” His kiss is as violent as his thoughts. “That’s how I’ll satisfy my hunger, that’s how I’ll show you my love. By destroying everything that needs to be destroyed.” He withdraws and kneels between your open legs, his hand pumping his cock until he comes on your stomach, hot and thick. His fingertips smear it around, and then he licks the cum off of them and leans forward to kiss you.
Edward’s idea of romance is so obscene it’s almost endearing. You indulge him, eagerly licking the cum on his tongue, drinking in his little moans. He collapses by your side and snuggles into you, his skin sticking to yours with sweat. There’s a delicious ache in your body from your orgasm and his. The words that poured out of him, however, are far more taxing than any physical exertion could be.
He was always deliberately vague back in Gotham, a needless precaution considering how the two of you met. Now, he is so transparent that it throws you off balance. Violence is a mean to an end, but he delights in it, in its anarchy. You’ve seen it firsthand, so this shock you feel is not just disorienting but disingenuous, and yet the undisguised fervor of his words makes you both wary and electrified. That’s how I’ll show you my love. The idea of mayhem born out of love is so alluring in its disturbance that the mere thought makes you tremble the same way his touch does.
You get up to take a quick trip to the bathroom. When you return, he’s lying on his stomach, completely naked. You can’t help but admire how pearly his skin is; you bet it has never come in contact with direct sunlight. The thought saddens you.
“Come here,” he slurs, half-asleep already. He throws one arm over you when you settle next to him. “Do you fear me?”
Do you? No, not really. You fear your own inclinations, your eroding sense of right and wrong. You fear what you might do for him. “No. Not yet.”
He opens his eyes. “I’ll never give you a reason to. It’s the only promise I can make to you.”
You move closer and bury your face in his neck. You can’t shed tears if you don’t open your eyes.
“What’s in the bag?”
On his last day with you, Edward makes French toasts for breakfast. The choice surprises you, since taste is his last concern when it comes to cooking. And they’re quite good. You sit opposite each other at the tiny kitchen bar.
“Tools. Oh, and clothes.”
You sip your coffee, eying the bag and the tools it could contain. You shake your head. What’s the point in worrying about things that don’t involve you?
“I leave tonight.”
You look at him, at his tousled hair and long fingers holding the cup of coffee near his mouth. You nod. “Okay.”
His presence, while unobtrusive, has left vestiges in your apartment: two toothbrushes in the plastic cup, a heap of clothes on the floor of your living room. His scent in your bed, the smudge of his fingers on the night table when he reaches for his glasses. All of it gone within the next few days. Edward Nashton was here, and then he wasn’t.
“I may not stay here in Blüdhaven.”
This city is a failed metropolis, which is what has allowed you to save most of the money Edward left you. You’ve worked menial jobs to cover basic expenses like gas and groceries, jobs that are easy to get and easy to leave. It’s not a bad place to live, a bad way to live, but you’re not sure you want to stay here.
It’s Edward’s turn to nod. “Okay. This city is as doomed as Gotham, so I’d suggest heading west.”
Yes, head west, away from this troubled existence, from this ill-fated entanglement. He will find you if he so desires, regardless of the distance you put between you. A part of you hopes he never does. A part of you wants to shackle him to the radiator and never let him leave.
You gather the dishes and put them in the sink, reaching for the rubber gloves. When you’re done, you find him in bed, hair wet, tiny droplets of water on his chest. You brush your teeth and shower almost mechanically. He’s not gone yet and his absence is already weighing down on your bones. It will be good, however, to reclaim your space as your own. To be alone again. Whatever this is thing is between you and Edward, it cannot sustain prolonged closeness. It’s a fucking black hole in the making, one that won’t spare a single atom of yours. Or his.
As you search for a pair of panties, you feel a finger grazing up your thigh until it follows the curve of your cheek. Rather than underwear, you grab an old head scarf from the drawer. “Arms up,” you order, scarf in hand.
He looks at you for at least ten seconds before silently raising his arms. You straddle him and move slightly up so you can tie his hands. He takes the opportunity to pull the towel open with his teeth. You throw it on the floor when you’re finished binding his hands.
“Sit on my face,” he breathes.
That’s a command you don’t mind obeying. You hum in appreciation when his tongue makes contact. Edward eats pussy the same way you imagine The Riddler works: undistracted, centered, devoted. His mouth is hot and slick, just like your cunt. Your attention is focused and fragmented at once: you see him under you, between your spread legs, tongue keen and unwavering; but you also scatter across the room, eyes now open, now closed, chasing that flash that’s going to set you ablaze. Your left hand is fisting his hair while your right one is flat on the headboard. You grind your cunt against his face, moaning every time he swipes his tongue up to your clit, eyes rolling to the back of your head when he sucks the hood into his mouth. You arch backward and sway your hips without any sense of rhythm, sprinting toward a climax that rests on the flat of his tongue. Your orgasms hits you and breaks you into a myriad pieces.
“Good boy,” you pant when you’re half-conscious again. Edward lets out a pathetic little whine. Hmm. Your thighs are trembling still, but you manage to move down his body until you are smearing your wetness on his belly. “My good boy,” you sigh again as you sit astride his hips.
His cock twitches, impossibly hard. He nods, and you see him wiggle his fingers, as if he wanted to touch you. “Yes, fuck, your good boy.”
You wish you had the patience to tease him, the predisposition to make him submit. You don’t, not at the moment. Domination has never really appealed to you; neither has submission. Edward’s soft, pliable body sure makes the former enticing, though.
“Fuck me already,” he rasps.
You smile and grab his cock by the base and sink down onto it, savoring the way it fills you inch by inch. Your hips begin a slow undulation that soon turns into vigorous riding. The scope of your world has narrowed to a single bedroom, to a green-eyed man that moves his hips in tandem with yours, his skin gleaming with sweat and the sunshine that peeks through the curtains. You lean forward to untie the knot of the scarf and as soon as his hands are free he locks them on your hips, pushing you down harder onto his cock.
“Fuck, Eddie—“ your body curls and writhes and you’re suddenly torn apart from the inside, hands clawing at his stomach, mouth crying out in bliss. The way your cunt tightens like a vice pushes Edward toward his own orgasm, and you admire the curve of his spine as he comes, hands tight on your hips. You collapse on top of him, spent.
“I’ll use duct tape next time,” you pant.
He grunts. “The last thing I need is getting an erection whenever I need to use duct tape.”
You order takeout and eat it in bed. The topics of conversation are mundane; it seems that, in regards to your… liaison, everything that needed to be said has already been said.
“You’d never called me Eddie before.”
“You don’t like it? Edward is such a serious name.”
He lets out a childish giggle you had only heard when you watched the video of Gil Colson admitting how much of a crook he was. “It is. But I like it when you say it. Though I like better the idea of you moaning Eddie when you masturbate.”
You chuckle. “I’ll make sure to save a video of it on my computer.”
His smile makes you want to close your eyes and not open them until he is gone.
You fuck three more times: he fucks you on your hands and knees, and he gives your ass a few tentative smacks that make you smirk. You ride him again, this time more languidly, with Edward sitting up, breaths blowing you forward into soft, wet kisses, his hand between your thighs, touching you like the first time he touched you, a lifetime ago.
The last time, you’re both lying on your sides, like the first time in this apartment. All of your firsts and all of your lasts coalesce into one moment, one glide of skin against skin, one alignment of hips, one shudder, one whimper. His hand is steady on your chest, fingertips pulsing with your heartbeat. Your own hand is reaching back, fingers twined in his hair. His thrusts mirror the cadence of his hands rummaging through a toolbox.
“I’m gonna come inside you, and then I’m gonna taste your cunt when it’s full of me.”
He delivers: his cock is not even soft before he slips out of you, opens your legs and starts licking you. It only takes a few drags of his tongue to make you come, a string of barely coherent words leaving your mouth. He kisses you, slowly, with intent, purposefully mingling your cum and his. It’s only when his body slackens next to yours that you remember he’s leaving.
“Come. Let’s take a shower. You don’t wanna go all sweaty, do you?”
You brush your teeth, reflections not fitting entirely in the small mirror. There’s an air of domesticity in the way you take turns to spit out the toothpaste, in how he passes you the soap or lathers your shoulder blades. He traces the various marks he has left on your body, and you take this opportunity to smooth your thumb over that spot on his hip. He closes his eyes, head lulling forward, onto your shoulder.
“You have branded me. I feel… overtaken by you. Do you want me to find you wherever you are? I’ll follow you like a dog, I swear I will.”
Yes, no, I don’t know, I feel the same, please stop, this is sick, let me go, don’t you dare forget about me, I own you, you’re mine, I am ruined, just like you.
Your arms encircle his frame and your forehead rests on his chest, right above his drumming heart. His hands are firm on your lower back, locking you to him. You stay like that until the water runs cold. You exit the shower and he heads to the living room, where he's kept the duffel bag.
You throw on a clean pair of shorts and t-shirt and sit on the bed, waiting. For what, you can’t be sure. For the door to open and shut, perhaps. The inevitability of goodbye becomes a smoke you inhale with every breath; why vocalize it, then?
There are five steps to the living room; you had never counted them before. You see him in the blue parka he was wearing when he knocked on your door. Blue suits him: it softens him, disarms him.
“I’ve got a riddle for you. A parting gift, I guess.”
He smiles and you feel so tender, like an open wound.
“You cling to it the dark and let go in the light.”
He steps away from the door and cups your face in his hands. “That could easily be a pillow. Be more specific.”
He already knows the answer, you can tell. You chuckle. “I told you, I suck at riddles.”
The palm of his hand lands on your clavicle, and he traces the bone to the curve of your neck. His lips follow his fingertips. “Try again.”
You hold onto his body, eyes shut tight. “If you need it, things are dire. If you don’t, you already got what you desire.”
His kiss is nothing but sorrowful. When your tongues touch, he lets out a pained moan. His mouth is salty, like sea water.
“I ruined our goodbye, didn’t I?”
He shakes his head. “You and I are beyond ruin.”
You bite his lip hard enough to see dots of blood on the pink flesh when you break apart. “Go.”
He licks the bite and drags his tongue over your mouth and your cheek, staining you. Marking you. His gaze lingers on you for a few more seconds before he grabs the bag, opens the door and closes it behind him.
The second time is no less heartbreaking than the first. Your mind can only fathom what the next time will result in.
Third time’s the charm, they say.