Chapter Text
"Are you alone?"
The voice that follows your finger hitting the button to accept is familiar, warm, rasping. Unknown Caller be damned. You know he has to be careful, though, so it's expected, if not a little.. theatrical, sometimes. You're trying so hard not to smile. And failing. Miserably.
"Am I ever not?" You hum, and the sound of his breathing on the other end should be unsettling. If it were anyone else (if you were anyone else, too) you would hang up, freaked, disgusted, anything, but, no. This is your routine, this is him. Being so cautious yet still.. not. By taking the time out of his busy schedule to check in with you, call you up like a friend, stroke your head like a concerned lover. A pet. "Asking questions you already know the answer to? Sexy."
(He's always watching, you know. You'd asked before what purpose that could possibly serve, how it would help the cause, but he always got so irritated. Flustered. And you would keep pestering him, if it made him react like that.)
"Don't be a brat," he hisses, and you can tell he's wearing the mask with how it's wet, muffled. The Riddler is calling you.
You wonder if he's gotten to anyone else. If he's there, right now, at the scene. He's good about cleaning up after himself, stepping lightly, but the thought of him with the blood of some government parasite on leather-clad fingers makes your head spin. Not unpleasantly, either. You doubt it's the case, but, oh, you have a wonderfully vivid imagination. Always have, always will.
(Therapy is expensive.)
The heat coiling low in your stomach is seeping. Bleeding lower, muscles aching with need. You had a game plan for the evening, but you could put it on pause for him. You'd do anything for him, really. And he knew that.
"M'not, Ed.. Sorry, I-" You grunt into the phone when you shift, shoulder nothing more than a twinge of pins and needles from your position. "Sorry. I'm alone, yeah. As always."
The Riddler remains quiet on the other end. Not quiet, really, but wordless, shallow breathing hitching a little. Your head tilts, and when he speaks, it's a mutter.
"I.. I was thinking about you."
His voice sounds raw. It's a punch to your nerves, blood singing in your ears, heat crawling up your neck. And you can't help it; your ears perk up, intrigued and eager.
Maybe you wouldn't have to put your plans on hold after all. Perhaps you could get him to help. Participate.
"Were you?" You pause when you hear a soft, clothed grumble of tease. You're twirling an imaginary cord. "No, no, I'm.. Being serious, were you actually?"
"..Yes."
Your heart is hammering. The Riddler was thinking of you. Edward was. Your smile is dazed, elated, and it's all you can do to not shove your hand between your thighs again. Settling for thumbing at your own underwear, the waistband digging uncomfortably into the skin of your hip.
"And.. why is that?" You know you probably sound a little bit pathetic, like this, with your voice audibly higher, giddy and on the verge of a giggle. "Why were you thinking about little ol' me?"
He could very well say nothing in response, or change the subject. Just hang up on you, not entertain the silliness, the taunting. But he was never good about not listening to you, getting enveloped in you, your words, caught in a snare. He had his charisma, and you had yours. Which, he would argue, could be so much more potent than his, sometimes.
Something rustles. It's quiet, but your hearing has always been a little bit too good, keen, and you have to sink your teeth into your own finger to keep from making any noise. Telltale shuffle of fabric.
"You.. you-" It's a groan. A bite. "You're not being fair, right now."
How is that? you want to ask, with shining eyes and flushed cheeks. How am I the one not being fair when I'm here, alone, without you?
"I'm just sitting here," you say, instead, tone conversational, polite. Your eyelids feel heavy. "Just chilling."
"Why don't you.." His breath is shuddering, irritated, wanting. "...do something.. else?"
"Like what?" You ask innocently, and your chest flutters when he groans again, unzipping. "Not much I can do by myself, y'know. Very.. bored.. here.."
Lonely. Frustrated.
(As if he didn't know.)
"You didn't seem to have a problem with it the other night," he spits out, the words jumbling with how rushed they are. "When I wasn't there."
You hum, dizzy at the accusation and implications, knowing that you could easily slip and sink. But he liked it when you kept up with him, got the upper hand, circled. Just like you loved hearing him talk, he felt the same about you.
"Sorry, baby," you say, soothing yet teasing, and at the term of endearment you swear you hear him whine, unabashed and overwhelmed. Angry. "You know how hard it is.. just.. being alone."
Grumbling, on the other end of the phone. A blatant, warning grunt of your name.
(Hopefully this is a secure line. Knowing him, it was. Not like you can care about anything else besides the ache of being so wet and hot and empty, right now.)
"But.. but you're busy," you continue, words quieter, slower and heavy on your tongue. Sweet. Your hand is wandering. Pushing into the plush of your inner thigh, relishing the dull throb it makes of an old bruise and teeth marks. Still there from your last night together. "So.. so I understand, I just.. get so lonely, y'know? And I'm.. pretty good with my hands. Gotta make use of them. Because-"
The Riddler- Edward, Ed, Eddie boy- is cutting across you, harsh and rasping.
"Idle hands are the devil's workshop."
Your smile is warm and bright, dazzling, even if he can't see it. Maybe he can. You wouldn't be shocked if your room was wired, your apartment littered with various, hidden cameras, eyes on you at all times, everywhere. Not worth the effort or price tag, in your opinion, but who knows. He was a romantic, after all. Very.. involved.
"Yeah, yeah," you reply, warmth tinging the softness of your voice, emphatic. "Yeah. So."
It's silent, then, save for both of your breathing, your hands. Yours has already dipped down, lazily stroking, gathering wetness. With what you can hear, he's palming himself, skin on skin, jerking, and you want nothing more than to FaceTime, in this moment. See him. Let him see you. It's only been a week since you'd last been in each other's presence, but, still. You're not a patient person.
Never have been.
(Edward says he is, and it seems that way, sometimes. But it has to be situational, dependent on the circumstances. Because with how he's breathing, muffled and whining, you think he seems.. pretty impatient. If you do say so yourself.)
"Hey-"
"You're so desperate, aren't you?" The words are ground out between breaths, and you simply have to sink a finger into yourself, then. It's welcome but not enough. Like he can sense your squirming, his words get rougher. "So desperate for attention, any kind, I saw the way you were.. mmm, flirting with the cashier at the pet store, fluttering your eyelashes," you whine and he groans, "like a slut-"
"And you're.. writing love notes to Batman," you huff pointedly, dazed, curling a second finger inside of yourself as your thumb rubs your clit with no real grace or rhythm. Barely scratching an itch. "So.. we're even, I think-"
You could be more eloquent, maybe, but you're so turned on it's hard to focus. In any case, your response has him whining, the slick sounds getting faster, louder, and before all this, this wouldn't be for you. Not your cup of tea. Corny, almost, and unattractive, but now it's the hottest fucking thing, truly, and your fingers are trembling when you pull them out, focus solely on pushing up the hood and circling your clit at an increasingly frantic pace. So close. Good but not great. Not enough.
(You are desperate. But so is he. Perfect for one another.)
Fuck the grainy image of him on the phone. You want him here. Now. Inside of you, pulling you apart, sucking in your own stuttered breaths, unraveling-
"Ed," you say, and you feel like you either startled him or it was just convenient timing with the little, animalistic noise he makes. "Edward. Baby, I'm.."
"You're?"
The word is slurred but burning, radiating heat, and you're so touched that he seems to have slowed down despite needing release just as bad as you do. If not more.
"I.. want to see you." It's heartfelt, even with the dirt around it in a pile. Sweetness covered in filth, wanting the image of him fisting his cock, there. Physical presence. Threading fingers through your hair and yanking. "Here."
"Where's.. the fun.. in that?" Even though it's meant to be a jab, there's no real venom in it, just.. graveled breathing. It sounds clearer, like his mask is gone, off. His laugh is wry. You wonder if he's wearing his glasses. If they're fogged, boyishly round and soft features flushed, twisting. A mess, because of you. "What if.. I have plans?"
You want to laugh, but you don't, because you're aching. Between your legs and below your ribcage.
"Do you? Am I interrupting?"
(Like he wasn't the one to call you, probably already half-hard and playing with the button of his slacks when he did.)
But the man sits there, contemplative, battling, and you wish he would just speak, already. Give a definitive answer.
"..No."
"No?"
"No," he parrots, matching your amused tone, even if it sounds like he's wincing. In a daze. "No, I.. you're not interrupting anything. Never interrupting. Can't.. can't do that when you're.."
He shudders. It's so easy for you to tell, even if you aren't there with him. You can envision him doing it, too, whole body wracked with feeling. Your veins throb, skin tight, and even if you want to cum, with him, you want to cum with him with you, more.
"I miss you," you say, earnestly, pure even with your hand still between your thighs. You're just toying with yourself, now. Skimming through your folds mindlessly, whimpering when you feel something course through you like electricity. It sounds like Edward lurches forward on the other end of the phone at the sound. Like he was shocked, too. "Miss you a lot, y'know. Always.. miss you when you aren't here."
You can picture him rubbing his face, groaning, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing his glasses up so he can scrub at his closed eyelids. Huffing. Overstimulated and wanting. You've memorized the way his face looks when he's concentrating. It's one of your favorite things, really. So, the thought is comforting. Not too far off, either, most likely. You know him too well.
There's the obvious sound of him rising, then, to his feet. Stretching, balancing the phone. Muttering something away from its speaker as he gathers himself, tired but very clearly hungry. Resolved.
"... give me fifteen minutes. Mm.. maybe twenty."
(He knows you too well.)
"I'll be here."
The line goes dead and you nearly trip over your own feet getting out of the bed and untangled from your sheets. There was time to shower, but you didn't see the point. You could always drag him in there with you afterwards. You were persuasive like that.
(And you liked washing his hair. Which he didn't seem to mind one bit, if the noises he mad when you did it were any indication. He would always pretend to be annoyed about having to bend down then left in a moaning, sudsy puddle within seconds. Putty in your hands.)
You just brush your hair. Fix your misbehaving bangs as best you can. Wash your face. Don't bother with changing your clothing. The man lets himself in without even knocking, which is so funny, to you, because it means he really is in trouble. In deep. Normally, even if he had a key, he'd still rap his fingers against the door a few times, but it seemed that he was simply just.. too eager. Impatient.
(Windswept hair, jacket damp, collar unbuttoned, bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, pupils impossibly wide behind the thick frames of his glasses.)
Made even more apparent by how he unceremoniously shoves you into the wall, nosing at your pulse point, fingers digging into your hip, other hand bracing. His teeth are attached to your neck soon after, mouthing, and when he sucks, your head automatically tilts, giving him more access. The chuckle he lets out is dazed but pleased, vibrating against your skin, chased by incisors sinking in even more as he bites harder.
(It's too much, for some people. But you've always liked the kind of love that left marks. Adored the rougher, lingering touches. The sting is good. In the moment, it makes you needy, and later? Serves as a reminder. Something you could admire in the mirror, fingertips ghosting along the color that had blossomed. A garden, all for you. Planted with intent and care.)
"Hello to you too," you manage to say in between breaths, and your laugh is high, pitched and fluttering. Even if you'd.. cooled somewhat, the spike of arousal at the gesture hits hard and hot.
Edward just grunts into your neck, nails short but still digging into your sides, scratching. One of your arms winds around him, pulling him in even closer. Your other hand runs through his hair. It's thoughtful, gentle, until your fingers catch on the tail end of a stroke when he nips at your throat. Tugging. Then he moans like he's the one who's been bitten, caged against the wall.
"God-"
"Lord's name in vain," you say, practically sing-song, grinning when his gaze meets yours.
His green eyes are alight. Burning.
(For you.)
His grip on your chin is surprisingly gentle, too, but there's force behind it. Even if he isn't exerting it, it's there, and you already know you're going to have to call out of work tomorrow. Wouldn't be leaving your apartment for awhile. No, not with how his hand is sliding down, digits making you tip your head back, expose your throat further. To kiss and to bite. And to hold.
(All for you. All because of you.)
"I don't think you're.. one to talk." His words are an affectionate mutter as his thumb brushes against your collarbone, appreciating the way your throat flexes with a breath, mesmerized as you swallow. Fascinating. "Considering.."
Your hum is quiet, lips settled into neutrality but quirking.
"What can I say.. My tongue is a fire, blah.. blah... blah."
Edward looks fond. Amused. Adjusts his glasses, drags his hand down your chest, your stomach.
"And how great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire."
"Yeah," you reply, feeling his hips press into you, hard, erection straining and begging to be acknowledged. You're so empty. "Bad.. bad, awful muscle. Also restless, so-"
No man can tame the tongue. But that didn't mean his couldn't find the shell of your ear, curling, whispering. Or yours couldn't wind around his finger, suck, sing to him. So much to be done with something so small and simple.
And the two of you had all night.
(You really hope he brought the gloves.)