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decaying-words · 20 days

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Threshold

All chapters Edward Nigma x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 5k words TW & tags: Permanent collar, leash, edging AO3 • All my stories

Only when his voice murmurs in my ear that he is done do I allow myself to release my hair, pooling like a waterfall down my shoulders, glimpses of shiny slivers piercing through the dark strands. My fingertips caress the icy metal with a pious restrain, the feeling bringing pristine tears to my glassy eyes, bottom lips aquiver with a divine emotion. In this instant of perfect peace, all stain had been wiped away from my sullied mind.

Threshold

My glassy eyes, reminiscent of two perfectly round marbles, study with unconstrained fascination the shiny object which Edward holds in his hands. He makes it roll and move between his fingers, offering me a complete view of all of its silvery surfaces, displaying a smile as proud as it is smug.

It is a metal ring, large enough to enclose a neck and rest on the clavicles but not enough to slide a head through, its appearance spectacularly smooth and polished to ensure the comfort of its owner, and of reasonable thickness, thin enough to be elegant despite its rather striking nature. A single perpendicular slit at the back, which I assume is made to lock the device with an instrument of some sort, is the sole notable feature on the otherwise unmarked appearance. This collar is made to be worn but not taken off, a permanent mark of ownership and control.

“Did you make it?” The question is closer to a whisper although it penetrates him all the same, his smile widening in unrestrained delight. Hidden in the inflection of my voice lies the second half of my interrogation, much more intense as well as much more intimate; did you make it for me? I do not believe that he is capable of perceiving the subtleties of the heart, instead accepting the balmy caress on his starved ego with an undisguised pleasure.

“I had the impression that this is what you desired; was I wrong?” His habitual playful tone perfectly conveys his fundamental need for control, the taunt putting a reasonable distance between my emotions and what he might be too afraid to crave, even though he is the one presenting the fruit of his own craftsmanship. I find his lack of honesty disconcerting, whereas the most elemental passions of my heart seem at times too grievous to bear; but showing a prideful reaction would be most unwelcome, I am sure. Instead, I give him my consent in a submissive fashion that he is always so fond of, in the form of a nod accompanied by a genuine smile.

My frustration is short lived and instead replaced with profound rapture when Edward invites me to turn around and hold my hair so as to give him a clear access to my neck. Behind my obedient form and sheltered from my gaze, he remains still, possibly weighing his imminent commitment. Does he feel like he has made a rash decision, answering an impulsive thought forged by an improper desire and now second-guessing himself? Cruel doubts and anxiety bite my stomach; am I not acceptable enough, willing and eager to endure his every treatment?

His heavy breath caresses the nape of my neck, my lower lip aquiver with a bitter sense of insecurity; the idea of losing everything we’ve had so far, as fragile as it might be, seems like a very much real hypothesis, and one I cannot afford, for I would undoubtedly lose myself just as well. Unfortunately, I will commit a great mistake in a hopeless attempt to defuse the thick and unnerving tension between us.

“You don’t have to…

– I know. You need not remind me.”

What I thought would be soothing words bruise his delicate ego instead. I should have expected as much. That was thoughtless of me. My body tenses like a bow with the grandiose inertia of a cadaver, muttering a quasi aphonic word of apology. Shame and embarrassment stir the depths of my mind and flush my face a ruby tint, warm tears pricking at the corner of my eyes. In the emotional storm, it is easy for me to drown and disappear, swallowed by the hostile waves of insecurity.

Edward’s footsteps are a lighthouse, grounding me when nothing seems to bring me stability anymore. A faint clicking noise is followed by the phantom presence of his hands hovering over my head then appearing in my peripheral vision as they lower at the level of my throat, the collar open on the back. The entire world turns silent, save for the supreme cacophony beating in the most intimate depths of my ribcage with the devastating strength of a hurricane. I notice the slightest tremor in his gesture when he envelops the shiny ring around my neck, the cold touch of the metal merciful on my scorching skin as it rests on my exposed clavicles.

Another click lets me know that the collar is closed. I feel a light pressure on the back of my neck as Edward is pushing, or rather inserting what I believe to be the key to lock the ring permanently, then tugging at the collar as to test its sturdiness and verify that all is correctly installed. During the entire process, my body remains perfectly immobile, arms raised in the air in order to keep the nape of my neck clear from my hair, gaze haggard and wandering nowhere. Only when his voice murmurs in my ear that he is done do I allow myself to release my hair, pooling like a waterfall down my shoulders, glimpses of shiny slivers piercing through the dark strands. My fingertips caress the icy metal with a pious restrain, the feeling bringing pristine tears to my glassy eyes, bottom lips aquiver with a divine emotion. In this instant of perfect peace, all stain had been wiped away from my sullied mind.

Edward moves around my flustered form, keenly staring at the proof of ownership, mind galloping in a land of complex thoughts. Emerald eyes look at me with a balmy warmth, his smile so faint I can only guess, a tender rosy tint blooming on his cheekbones. There is an unspoken question in his gaze, one that stems from the original desire to be reassured but that his cruel pride won’t allow him to voice.

“It looks absolutely perfect… Thank you.”

I wish words could accurately convey the pure euphoria my body is trembling with, but he seems pleased nonetheless, despite the situation being probably too intimate for his frigid personality; a polite nod and a restrained smile is the only acknowledgement he offers before he avoids my gaze, contemplating the way my fingers traces shapeless forms on my most precious possession.

“It is made of silver”, he states, tilting his head on the side, “it should be tender on the skin.”

I cannot suppress the bemused smile growing on my face at the confession of concern for my well-being; he notices it as if caught red handed in a most undignified position, his lips pressing together in a vexed line and clearing his throat as if to remind an imaginary crowd of his important stature. His expression morphs into one of playful cruelty, the luminous green of his irises turning deep forest; it is a gaze I know well and which usually reveals his desire to inflict pain and humiliation or, as I quite recently came to discover, his lascivious appetite.

“I made something else that might be of interest for our… pastimes.” His voice, playful and sinister, penetrates the intimate depths of my being. “Would you like to see it?”

My breath hitches, mind smothered with curiosity and with every kind of imaginable filth, pink lips parted in a way so subtle and yet so vulgar it only reveals my building desire. A sight Edward is particularly fond of, I believe, for it inflates his ego and makes him feel in control, towering over me and visibly expecting an answer, one that will flatter his intimate core.

“I would love to see it, please, Mister Nigma, Sir.” A mark of respect he takes great pleasure from, I know very well, and even if I didn’t I would now, witnessing his demeanor change into one of a proud feline, pearly white teeth sinking in his bottom lip as to contain a perverted smile, walking around me as if to better analyze and consider my being. Once he is facing me again, his right hand slips in one of the deeper pockets of his stained cargo pants, fingers hooking around an object still unknown and causing a curious metallic rattling noise that I am starting to guess with a feverish hunger.

One hand holds a green leather strap on which is embossed a small and subtle question mark. Attached to it is a chain about a couple of meters long at most and of delicate thickness; reasonable enough to seem resistant, yet still looking elegant and flowy. Edward pulls the length of the chain from one hand to the other, revealing a lobster clasp at its very end, a smug expression on his face and eyes sparkling with teasing mischief.

It is only when I hear Edward chuckle darkly that I become bashfully aware of the way I pant with honest arousal and anticipation; his amused gaze devours my vulgar demeanor, drinking in my every tremor and my every sigh. My submissive nature flatters his ego and pumps him full of crude courage, I believe, for his presence morphs into one of poise and confidence, reeking of control and lust. His tongue works the inside of his cheek for a brief instant, picking his next words, his next action with great care until the corner of his mouth twitches diabolically.

“You know, I seem to remember that you have seen quite a lot of my body already, with a burning fervor and voracious appetite I might add… And still, I have yet to see anything from you. This ends tonight. Please undress.”

And how could I ever refuse, when he is looking at me with such scorching desire, his smile so impertinent it twists and contorts my guts? How could I ever refuse him anything, I wonder, when I would have done it even under the pressure and the threat, even if his gaze wasn’t so forgiving and heavy with impatience.

I do not hesitate nor do I tremble when my fingers hold the hem of my shirt, the fabric slightly stained and dirty from a day of manual labor, and pull it slowly above my form, limbs stretching under his enthralled gaze and revealing the hidden softness of my milky flesh. His mouth is slightly agape, a pensive expression laced with carnal arousal adorning his beaming face; there is an honest excitement glowing in his eyes, and perhaps even a form of surprise which betrays the nature of his newly unrestrained desires.

The fabric falls on the floor in a very soft noise while my hands snake behind my back to unclasp my bra. I do not remove it right away, despite my vigorous heartbeat pumping my system of a renewed thrill; instead, I am savoring the complex emotions I can read on Edward’s face, as faint and controlled as they might be. It takes a few agonizingly long seconds to take it off, harvesting the fruits of the sensual anticipation I have been building; a gasp, deep and honest, dies on his lips at the view of my round breast, skin turning opalescent under the artificial light, rosy nipples not dissimilar to flushed berries.

Fingers unbutton my pants, in a movement slow enough to tease and grow his appetite while I kick one boot after the other as graciously as one can. Silence floats comfortably in the warehouse with the shared knowledge of what is implied, tension palpable and delicious between us; it feels heavenly to be the object of his interest, to witness a fire in his eyes which I am the only one to create. It makes me proud, I must say, holding such power within me, and for a blissful moment the borders between who dominates who is all but a blur; while I am answering his every wish with a voracious thirst only he can quench, he is the one swallowing my submissive form with an enthralled inertia.

Cold and cruel is the air biting my exposed skin, a not so delicate reminder of where I stand; this place used to be an orphanage, comforting and inviting, until the lack of funds made it impossible to maintain. Once abandoned, the Riddler claimed it back, turning the hidden floors, swallowed in the bowels of Gotham, into this metal-made paradise glowing under the fire of a green inferno. I do not fear this place anymore, for I see it as divine, working for a Deity who always treated me with indifference and disdain until very recently.

There is nearly no luxuries on this floor, and asides from a couple of dusty couches, used coffee tables and armchairs, remains of the initial place, the new home now looks like an iron forest, enveloped in a permanent buzzing noise and constantly spitting clouds of smoke, dust, or other miasma of filth. And yet, it is here, in the depths of this quasi diabolic place, that I feel most welcome and finally belonging.

As such, it is not difficult for me to stand obediently in the iron jungle, despite my state of almost complete undress, for all I need for sole motivation is the Riddler’s gaze on my weaker form, nibbling on his bottom lip as to suppress a lustful awe, sighing deeply in approval. The balmy comfort is as present as the burning bashfulness; having never been particularly fond of my body, my hands cross awkwardly over a thigh I always thought disgracious, or a breast I always judged too small. “None of that” Edward tuts, and I force my arms to lie as relaxed as possible on either sides of my body, eyes falling on the ground and feeling blood tinting my face a delicate albeit not very subtle ruby color.

He enjoys seeing the discomfort in my body language, honest and quasi touching but mostly revealing of the power he has over me, something he has always been craving; embarrassment washes through me, a cruel ocean licking the shores of my mind, but I am the willing participant of my own humiliation, for the pleasure of feeling desired and controlled is as intense, I believe, as my shame is profound. When he clears his throat to have my attention, my eyes meet his, glowing an indecent green; he points at my underwear with his chin, the corner of his mouth twitching smugly.

With the same languidness, my fingers slip underneath the elastic band of my panties; I see him holding his breath, which makes me feel a certain sort of feeling, scorching and dripping inside my core. Only when I present myself completely bare before him, wearing nothing but my prized collar, does Edward exhale, mouth slightly agape and eyes turning glassy with a restrained desire. He walks around me at a dangerously slow pace, taking in every curve and angle of my body, analyzing my bone structure, enjoying the vision of the wooly curls of my pubic hair and the soft arch of my waist. His expression is hungry, possessed by a desire to explore his most intimate needs, a smile growing ferociously on his face whenever his eyes rest on the collar he’s made for me.

Edward faces me triumphantly, the faintest tremor in the hand that is holding the clasp of the leash; the metallic buzzing of the area is barely audible, rendered quasi aphonic by my heartbeat, so frantic even he can hear it, I am sure. I lift my chin to not only give him a silent consent but mostly a better access, to his greatest pleasure; the clasp closing over my collar makes the softest click, followed by a sigh, honest and profound. My eyes catch his, maintaining a deeply intimate contact, as if capable of communicating telepathically, reading each other’s emotions in the color of our irises. His are almost black, the pupils dilated in frank arousal; I suppose mine suffer from a similar condition.

The rest of the leash falls dramatically between our two bodies, maintained between my collar and the strap in his hand, not long enough to make the chain rattle on the ground. A dark chuckle vibrates in his throat, wolfish smile possessed by an honest amusement; he stares at my face, then my collar, following the chain that links it to the strap in the opposite extremity, hand flexing around the green leather.

“You look beautiful like that”, he compliments. “Befitting your position, wouldn’t you agree?”, he taunts. His words cause an emotional thermal shock, one that leaves me confused and dangerously aroused, biting my bottom lip in a simulacre of shame and embarrassment. Edward knows my heart, I believe, and knows that it requires much more for me to feel humiliated. I expect him to test and ruin my boundaries, and, in the same breath, discover the depth of his own.

“You have been acting most inappropriately as of recently”, his tone turns playfully sinister, a chanting inflection in his voice. “Yes, you have been… forgetting your place, I’m afraid.”

My breath hitches with excitement, mouth agape and twisted in a smile, eyes glowing with anticipation… of what exactly, I am not quite sure; the mere perspective of being trained, scolded or controlled enough to fill my heart with a growing fondness. His smile grows wider when I almost squirm in front of him, waiting for any instruction he will give me.

It comes in the form of fingers snapping while pointing at the ground. Not a single word is needed to understand this order, and my reaction is quasi immediate; crouching on the ground at a most languid pace, I submissively assume the uncomfortable position of an obedient dog, resting on my hands and knees.

The metal ground feels cold and cruel on my skin; covered in dust, in filth and in debris of all sorts of unidentified origins, it penetrates the flesh and burns it, the sensation painful and deeply unpleasant. I grimace, but quickly lift my eyes until my gaze meets his, elated and thoroughly satisfied; his smile is bright, so bright it tears my stomach open, the warmth it provokes concealing any distress I could ever feel. I wish he would never cease looking at me with such adoring eyes despite the belittling expression they barely hide. I wish he would never cease smiling at me in a way that makes me feel seen and desired, in a way that makes me feel useful to his own pleasure.

He moves backwards, pulling the leash with him in a sensual motion that means to invite, order me to follow. I crawl nakedly on the filthy ground, fully exposed in the most humiliating form, maintaining a feverish eye contact which he seems to drink and savor greatly. He gasps softly, almost imperceptibly so, when I move languidly and follow his steps, drunk with the power he has over me. His breath hitches deliciously as we progress together, the Master taking his Dog for a walk; I try not to show my discomfort too much even though it might be painfully obvious on my face, eyes blinking and head shaking when my knee crushes a particularly sharp debris. It is all part of the game, all part of the pleasure, but my heart still aches when I see the veil of worry on his face.

We do not go far, to my great dismay; Edward stops once his back hits one of the tables sitting merely a few meters away from our initial position, glancing once at the smooth surface before guiding his stare back at me, eyes gleaming with something evil. His fingers run on the metallic table, teasingly discarding the unimportant objects lying there until they fall on the ground in loud noises; a plastic cup and its curious content drop and spill on the already nasty floor, various papers glide and fly like dancing autumn leaves, and rusty iron pieces crash loudly, contorting during the impact. I bite my lips to suppress a soft giggle, an unrestrained amusement on my face, while I kneel in front of him, watching the items raining on the floor.

Edward looks triumphant, swelling his chest dramatically, a demeanor never seen before, joy radiating outside of him, pure and unaltered; and for a brief instant, I catch a glimpse of his gaze, feeling his euphoria touching me with pristine grace. Turning to me, he taps the now bare table, the demand clear and arousal even more apparent; so I stand and sit on the cold surface with a grimace before he gestures at me to lay down.

“Good girl”, he whispers while caressing my hair, the touch so tender it could make me purr. “I will take great pleasure in your training, believe me…” A promise that sounds like a threat, one that makes me shiver all the same, an indecent warmth pulsating in my sex. His demeanor, from the way he moves with controlled languidness to his intimately attentive gaze, reminds me of a panther, dangerous and elegant; his charisma holds a power that turns me into a water-like creature, morphing into his every touch and desire.

His fingers run over my face, gentle and tender, exploring my being; they brush against my lips, trace the curvature of my chin and caress my delicate throat with a possessed interest. His hand wraps around it, tightly enough to feel my lively pulse and the fragile tendons roll under his fingers, but not enough to be dangerous despite the delicious pressure that makes breathing more difficult. His thumb draws circles on my soft flesh, wearing a pensive expression; perhaps a little game for another time, I think to myself with a growing hope.

A gasp almost resembling a whine echoes the place once he releases his grip, fingers then caressing the silver collar resting on my clavicles with a satisfied smile. There is a soft ruby tint blooming on the tip of his ears when his eyes stare at my breast; I imagine a similar hue is probably flushing my entire face, my nudity feeling immensely more intimate, almost clinically exposed in front of him. My heart feels like it is about to burst from my chest, the burning anticipation shooting tremors down my thighs; a sight that Edward devours with a grandiose appetite.

His knuckles barely brush against an erect nipple, the faintest sensation already eliciting a devastating cry out of me, honest and uncontrolled. He chuckles, thumb circling the demanding nub with vicious interest.

“Sensitive, aren’t we? Had I known…” His voice drips with a delightful playfulness while I whimper needily, a wordless plea dying on my lips, one that he answers by pinching a rosy nipple between two fingers and pulling with a lascivious cruelty. A moan, loud and primal, under his elated gaze.

“You are incredible…” he whispers, giving the other nipple an overwhelming pull; the pain is as barbarous as it is exquisite, throwing my head back and body squirming on the table. The delicate torture continues briefly; he twists, pulls, tugs and taunts my now throbbing nubs while I wail and cry out. His expression is laced with a toxic arousal, mouth slightly agape as he drinks in all the noises my mouth forms with grand satisfaction.

I whine, sulking and delirious, when he releases my breasts; he coos mockingly at me, hand caressing my stomach, delicately covered in a thin veil of sweat. His face gets closer to me, mouth next to my ear, his warm breath tickling my cheek.

“Imagine all the things I could do to you, to this obscene body of yours, to mark it, brand it as if you were but a vulgar cattle. And you would like it, wouldn’t you? You would like everything I do to you, no matter how humiliating and embarrassing it is, I am certain. But not tonight, no, tonight I am merely getting acquainted with your being.”

My eyes roll in the back of my skull at the string of filthy promises which roll on his tongue, while his hand crawls lower down my abdomen, lower until his fingers disappear in my thick pubic hair, lower until they caress my outer labia and I moan with a renewed vigor, hips rolling and seeking more of his touch. Edward contemplates my sex, throbbing with passion and leaking with desire, sighing deeply with a tender expression on his face.

“Oh, you are open like a flower…” he muses gently, before spreading my legs wider, feet planted on the surface of the table to allow him a better access to my core. His fingers caress the plush flesh of my labia, the cushion of my pubic bone and my velvety inner thighs, marveling at the glistening opening between my legs, burning with impatience. I exhale and sigh loudly, my hips following each and every movement of his hand that taunts and mocks my arousal, avoiding the more sensitive parts of me and painfully building anticipation.

Edward chuckles when the two fingers he mercifully drags lazily over my inner labia make me scream in bursting relief. He chuckles when I roll my hips with intent, tentatively guiding his now slippery touch over my throbbing clitoris. He chuckles when I close my eyes in a quasi delirious state, moaning freely as I am using his own calloused hand to caress and stimulate myself.

And Edward chuckles when he retrieves his hand, depriving me of any more pleasure. I open wide glassy eyes, eyebrows knitted in a pleading expression, whining at his unprompted absence.

“You’ve been awfully greedy lately, haven’t you? Taking whatever you wanted from me when I’ve been nothing but generous to you… Do you think you’ve earned the pleasure only I can give?” His low voice is sinister and cruel, laced with a dangerous arousal, thoroughly enjoying my most submissive state, my face crimson red and nodding frantically.

“Please… give me more…” I whisper quasi inaudibly.

“Oh, you poor thing…” He coos mockingly, gaze heavy with lust as his hand returns between my legs to caress my messy cunt, fingers playing with my thick juices without penetrating me. I wail when I feel the tip of a finger circling my entrance, teasing my hole in an obscenely wet noise, a terrible tension forming in the depths of my stomach. My body response is natural, visceral, chest heaving and head rolling, thighs aquiver with a built up anticipation. Edward hums approvingly when I choke a sob, until I move my hips to make his fingers slip inside of me and… he removes them.

I cry out in frustration, and Edward cackles . My cheeks burn with embarrassment, looking at him with puppy eyes, but his smile remains smug and beaming with a cruel expression. He waits a few horrifyingly long and frigid seconds, long enough to make my heartbeat slow down, long enough to turn the waves of arousal smoother, until his fingers find their way over my clitoris. It is electrifying, really, the heightened pleasure akin to a ferocious bite as soon as the pad of his fingertips circles the throbbing nub with a constant vigor. He drinks in my every expression, my every moan, cooing at me when I seem to fight for air.

“Have I not been anything but generous to you tonight?” His question is poisonous, eyes burning like a green inferno as his fingers work quicker, shooting intense tremors in my thighs, my stomach flipping from an inevitable orgasm, one that I sense will be devastating.

“Yes! Yes, thank you… Thank you, Mister Nigma, Sir ” is all I can mutter, quasi brain dead as he fucks my clitoris stupid…

…And then, he stops.

I scream, body tensing like a bow and thrashing on the table and wailing in frustration. Edward’s laugh is diabolical, wiping his coated hand on my stomach with a content sigh.

“I believe I gave you plenty enough for today. We don’t want to spoil you, now, do we?” He leans against the table, his expression playfully cruel.

“But… I was so close…” I whine, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the intense frustration, thighs rubbing against each other as if to create some much needed friction. His palm rests strongly on my leg to make me still.

“From now on, only I decide when you can get release. No one else, not even when you are alone at night with your crude thoughts. And if you are being nice and good for me, then I will be merciful. But if you are not…

– Have I not been good to you?” My desperate question makes him bark a laugh.

“I would say that you have been rather bold and cavalier lately. While not all unpleasant, I must admit, I believe you need to learn some manners first. Do we have an understanding?”

I nod silently, heart aching from disappointment as it is swelling from excitement for the promising tone of his words. Edward looks at my scraped knees and cocks a brow, his smile faltering slightly. Holding my arm, he helps me sit down, taking a better look at the superficial wounds.

“Please take care of this, you know where the medicine cabinet is. Come back once you’re done fixing yourself, we have a lot of work to do tonight, and my projects cannot suffer from any delay.” He punctuates while removing the leash from my collar, squeezing my thigh gently and leaving me naked and unsatisfied on the table. I nod again, touching the silver ring as if to soothe my own nerves, to calm my anxieties. He marks a pause, looking at me pensively.

“It really suits you. Let me know if you notice any pain. I wouldn’t want you to feel any… unnecessary discomfort.”

My smile is positively beaming, radiating on my face with the power of a thousand suns, my heart singing praises only he can hear. Another shameful moment for him, I believe, as he again avoids my gaze and clears his throat, licking his lips nervously.

We spend the rest of the evening working together on an intricate machine, as if nothing ever happened between us. His orders are still curt and dry, his eyes are still ignoring my presence, his mind is still possessed by his intimate designs.

But tonight, under my clothes hides a collar, unique, permanent and crafted by his own hands; a mark of ownership, a cherished confession that fills my heart with euphoria and unaltered bliss.

#edward nigma x reader #edward nygma x reader #edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #riddler x reader #fanfic #my writing #the riddler #edward nigma #edward nygma #edward nashton

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decaying-words · 26 days

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Jonathan Crane • 18+ Explicit • 1k words TW & tags: Masturbation, masochism, autoerotic asphyxiation, filth AO3 • All my stories

"Jonathan shakes in anticipation, hisses in a grotesque and distorted voice that seems to come from the pits of Hell. In truth, Jonathan barely looks human anymore; body contorting and twitching at the measure of his growing pleasure and intense frustration, he looks dislocated. A Scarecrow in a field of obscene misery and filth."

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Broken moans like death rattle in a dry throat fill the cold and dark room. The smell of the basement, acrid and humid, sticks to Jonathan’s skinny body like a putrid veil, caressing his wrinkled flesh. The place stinks of mold, humidity, sweat and a faint odor of piss from the last victim he kept here. Fear, it reeks of fear.

A fatigued and bony hand is tightly grasped around his turgid member like a claw, and pumps unceremoniously. Each thrust is followed by a hideous and almost otherworldly moan. His voice is unharmonious; strained, suddenly skipping several octaves lower or higher, spewing profanities from his wretched mouth through the bloodied threads sewn into the dry flesh of his lips. Pathetic encouragements, but they are futile; his skinny hand painfully grips his modest cock, but the sensations are not nearly enough to satisfy his obscene needs.

His free hand crawls awkwardly over his body. His fingertips caress timidly the outlines of his chest over the grotesque fabric of his scarecrow costume, before reaching the burlap sack covering his sweaty face. His fingers tug at the stitches here and there, following their sinuous pattern as if they were dark veins. Jonathan shivers.

Dirty nails scratch and tease the thin threads piercing his lips; the sensation is uncomfortable, unpleasant and slightly painful. Jonathan moans loudly, his warm breath coating his fingertips as they penetrate the small empty spaces between two threads like one would spread the delicate lips of a cunt. He caresses the wet outline of his perforated flesh before entering his oral cavity further.

His fingers spread inside his mouth, stretching his flesh around the unforgiving thread; some crimson pearls of blood run over his chin. Jonathan trembles, a warm liquid pooling inside his stomach, his member twitching viciously in agreement. He delicately caresses his dry teeth, his warm gums and his wet tongue. He explores his most intimate anatomy, tastes the dirt and copper under his fingernails, dreaming of his entrails. Low moans and obscene noises fill the room.

The scarlet appendage feels viscous with a velvety note around his fingers, it reminds him of a small animal held captive inside of him. His lips wrap around his digits, and his wretched mouth starts sucking. High pitched sobs and slow hums vibrate in his dry and delicate throat.

The hand assaulting his angry cock is slippery and warm, but the sensation alone is not enough stimulation for the depraved man. His choked moans are pathetic and needy, as his legs shake and tremble against the dirty floor, begging for more. He squirms, his back rubbing against the decrepit wall, his mind playing all sorts of bizarre and dreadful scenes in a vain attempt to heighten his pleasure.

In a frustrated grunt, Jonathan retrieves his fingers from his bloodied mouth, lips slightly swollen from the painful strings, and reaches for the noose around his neck. The frail fingers play with the raw material of the rope, caressing each bump like they are another erogenous part of him —and they might very well be, as he hisses through his teeth, his fist closing more tightly around his begging sex, leaking profusely in his palm.

His emaciated hand and impossibly long fingers wrap around the two ropes at the end of the noose. He teasingly tugs once, testing the knot around his throat, a pleasing discomfort tightening around his windpipes. Jonathan shakes in anticipation, hisses in a grotesque and distorted voice that seems to come from the pits of Hell. In truth, Jonathan barely looks human anymore; body contorting and twitching at the measure of his growing pleasure and intense frustration, he looks dislocated. A Scarecrow in a field of obscene misery and filth.

Holding the rope firmly, his hand snakes above his shoulder, and in a sudden movement lifts his arm, effectively tightening the noose viciously around his raw throat. He chokes once, a strangled, loud and low moan echoing in the filthy cell. His tongue lolls uncomfortably out of his stitched mouth, coughing reflexively while a cold wave of intense pleasure and pain crashes over his body at the sudden lack of oxygen.

Jonathan’s sensations are progressively heightened; he suddenly becomes hyper aware of his frantic heartbeat, the delicious tightness around his throat, the burning sensation in his lungs, and how hard his cock is. The hand holding the rope is trembling, pulling harder at times, while the other, disgustingly wrapped around his angry member, now drenched in precum and the sweat of his own palm, pumps aggressively. His flesh feels raw, painful even. Which makes everything even better.

There is a burning pressure on his chest, and a light sensation of panic pooling in his stomach. Coupled with the exhilarating feeling of this masochistic pleasure, Jonathan’s eyes roll inside his skull. Strangled whimpers die on his scorched lips, as he suffocates violently, his legs twitching vigorously, his balls tightening. The dread is delicious, the untold promise of a violent terror makes his cock leak profusely.

When his vision turns blurry, and his throat burns beyond what is humanly reasonable, fear welcomes him, swallows him. His arm is fatigued, but he fights valiantly, choking for hair while mercilessly jerking off in the near obscurity of the damp cell. His legs shake uncontrollably, and his hips jerk in an upwards motion, fucking himself in his fist frantically, like a deranged animal, satisfying his most primal need.

Jonathan squeals as the pleasure takes over the burning pain in his chest. His vision turns white, his senses getting cloudy, a putrid sensation of dizziness consuming him, while a quasi electric feeling ruins his lower half, his stomach, his cock. He silently screams, suffocating, as he spills his mediocre semen on his hand and his soiled clothes. Soon after, he lets go of the rope, an immediate rush of oxygen filling his neglected lungs. He coughs and grunts like a beast regaining consciousness, before collapsing against the floor, weakly shaking and trembling from his orgasm.

Aside from his labored breath slowly calming down, the cell is otherwise quiet. The atmosphere is thick, caked in a disgusting miasma of humidity, cum, sweat and other various body odors. The stench sticks to Jonathan’s tired body, and as he closes his eyes, he mumbles incoherent thoughts.

Fear. He needs more. He needs to feel it. Needs to witness it.

Somewhere, the Scarecrow is hunting.

#jonathan crane #scarecrow #fanfic #my writing

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decaying-words · 28 days

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The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires.

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin.

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course.

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares.

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings.

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point.

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose.

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem.

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue.

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate.

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life.

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent.

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace.

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

#jonathan crane #the scarecrow #jonathan crane x reader #the scarecrow x reader #fanfic #my writing

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decaying-words · 28 days

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Lapdog

All chapters Edward Nigma x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.4k words TW & tags: Pet play, spit play, oral sex, leg humping AO3 • All my stories

"You are still here", he notes in quasi disbelief, an unreadable expression on his face. He must have been expecting that I had left hours ago, I am sure, and yet I have no explanation to give, not even to myself. Why did I stay here, I wonder, waiting patiently for him to come back home and comfort my raw nerves, like a lover would; yet a lover I am not. Not quite anyway.

Lapdog

Painted hands of a similarly stained clock move painfully slowly, the face glaring at me mockingly. The night is cruel in its loneliness, progressing at an agonizing pace and taunting my uninteresting tasks; collecting the misplaced tools with unnecessary care and caution, gathering the wandering paper notes and organizing them in a neat pile that I know will be thoroughly demolished in an infantile desire to illustrate my incompetence and ignorance, and, finally, removing the comical amount of empty coffee mugs abandoned on various and, at times, frankly bizarre and unexpected places.

Ever since my last fruitless experiment that ended in a copious string of creative insults resembling a degrading rosary in his ridiculing tone, the Riddler does not let me forge new projects, not until I “find the required brain cells to not waste his most precious time”, as he said. What little frustration and heartache I felt in my demotion died in a strangled whimper under his uninterested gaze, interrupting any protest I might have by demanding to leave the premises immediately. That time, I spent my sleepless night crying heavy tears, fingers grabbing my hair and tugging until my scalp felt sore.

The Riddler is absent tonight, and there is only so much to do once my mediocre tasks done. Pacing around the warehouse, my light footsteps echo in the green inferno; hand crafted machineries engulfed in a toxic hue stare at me with profound limpness, buzzing ominously in the otherwise aphonic place. Crudely painted symbols, equations and riddles adorn the fatigued floors and, more curiously, the impossibly tall walls. My interested gaze following the cryptic logorrhea ornamenting the area, my mind wanders in places I do not belong to.

I have always wondered what Edward felt during one of these manic episodes, of which I’ve witnessed quite a few times before, always quietly and with empathy, furiously writing incomprehensible thoughts, mysterious threats and other obscure formulas; did it feel like a lifeline at the time, cautiously grounding him when his mind grew foggy ?

I have never doubted for an instant that underneath the intricate layers of his great intelligence was a gravely sick man; beyond the burning pride and arrogance in his demeanor is hiding the weak ghost of a deeply confused man, a man profoundly afraid of the glacial emptiness of neglect, who at times struggles to recognize even himself. It is cathartic for him, I believe, when he frantically scribbles his thoughts, face perverted in anguish, eyes wide open akin to an animal, skin glistening in sweat; entire body aquiver as if terrified of forgetting who he is beyond the Riddler. Of course, he never notices my balmy gaze on him when I catch a glimpse of his broken soul; nor does he know of my intimate desire to heal him. He would find it inappropriate, I am sure, grotesque even. Foolish girl.

He did catch my gaze tonight, however, sharply dressed up for an important meeting with his peers, one I am not invited to, obviously –why would I be? He looks like a different man entirely when he abandons his filth covered shirt, sweat caked beater and stained cargo pants; his demeanor metamorphosed also, standing straight like a bow, chest swelling proudly, his gloved hands flattening his decorated tie. His tailored suit fits him beautifully, the color matching the green bowler hat that is tucked underneath his arm.

Edward is handsome, the most handsome man I have ever seen, and while his sunken cheeks and fatigued eyes are the only remainders of his declining mental state, he conceals his insecurities with a renewed, and perhaps slightly fabricated, confidence. The crimson tip of his tongue darts past his lips in the way it always does when he’s lost in his thoughts, and my heart opens and sings inappropriate songs that flush my cheeks a ruby tint.

This is when his eyes lay on me, cocking an amused brow at my flustered face, silently expecting a flattering comment, though he would never voice it. My mouth opens and closes, carefully picking my words so as to not upset him. You look magnificent, I confess; he seems pleased, a toothy grin spreading on his glowing face. Naively, I wish I could come with him, the insinuation of proximity, emotional or otherwise, public and absurd; the childish dream of being introduced as his assistant – his lover, a little voice in my head whispers.

You know, you remind me of a dog, is what he says; the words are meant to humiliate, a demeaning inflection in his voice, though there is no bite to them. I do not mind them; in fact, I find myself agreeing with him, smiling at him tenderly, face flushed. Edward cocks a surprised brow, as if not expecting this reaction, honest and quasi vulgar . He exhales a chuckle, a subtle twinkle in his eyes, pupils dilating slightly. I recognize this gaze, filled with a still unfamiliar arousal; he looked at me in a similar manner the last time we were intimate, when I lapped his body with a burning hunger until he came undone on my face, eventually fleeing the scene as if ashamed of his own desires. We haven’t talked about this event since, nor the one preceding it, a painful habit of his I’m afraid.

Edward shakes his head, the tip of his tongue licking his chapped lips, thinking of something indecent, I believe. To my great dismay, he will not act on these thoughts, instead putting on his bowler hat and smirking at me, bidding me goodnight, leaving me to my menial tasks.

Hours pass and undesired thoughts pile and overflow in my bored mind, cruel and anxiety inducing. I wonder, wholeheartedly embarrassed, if someone else will collect the fruits of his short-lived desire, if this will mark the end, then, of what did not even have the time to mature in this closed space. Inappropriate jealousy turns to dread and sorrow as I curl in an emotional ball, slumped in the worn-out couch, tears growing in front of my glassy eyes.

Despite the light tremor of my bottom lip and the cruel knot building in my closed throat, I remain still with the perfect inertia of a corpse, mind turning absolutely blank, drained and hopeless, as if I ceased to exist the moment Edward left; and perhaps it is the case, the grandiose emptiness inside of me begging for him to come back.

Suddenly, the mechanical noises reverberating in the metallic Hell become inescapable, spiteful and intolerable; the aggressive lights turn caustic, loud and vicious; all I can hear are the agonizing thoughts, the barbarous internal monologue, chest heaving as my breathing turns erratic, broken sobs strangling in my throat, body aquiver with what seems like a fatal panic attack. This place, once perceived as an embracing and loving cocoon morphs grotesquely into a diabolic pit for which I feel only hatred and disgust. My tortured mind screams in horror, heart beating furiously in my chest, and as I feel the crushing weight of time passing, I wonder when will Edward come back, and why did he leave me alone in the first place.

My body jolts in a whimper when I hear the colossal metal doors of the elevator creak, spitting a dusty cloud on the ground as it lands heavily. My weak frame contorts, alert and hopeful, craning my head to stare at the iron cage; I imagine my face being twisted in desperate relief, brow knitted tightly, eyes wide open like a traumatized animal, panting as I emerge laboriously from my panicked state. Edward quirks a brow, a perplexed frown on his closed face, considering me for a minute; he must find me disgraceful, I suppose, viciously gripping the leathery arms of the couch, the flayed expression on my face morphing into one of profound happiness.

Edward reeks of cigarette smoke, a filthy habit that conceals his natural scent. He seems surprised to see me, glancing at the watch on his wrist then at me with a questioning look, yet I offer him no answer. You are still here , he notes in quasi disbelief, an unreadable expression on his face. He must have been expecting that I had left hours ago, I am sure, and yet I have no explanation to give, not even to myself. Why did I stay here, I wonder, waiting patiently for him to come back home and comfort my raw nerves, like a lover would; yet a lover I am not. Not quite anyway.

I swallow meekly, and answer the only way I know how; with a smile, genuine and kind, happiness glowing on my face, while a dumbfounded expression shadows his. Through his round glasses, his eyes contemplate me for an instant, an impossibly green ocean licking the shores of my mind. There is a storm hiding in the horizon, even I can tell, and so I offer him an excuse, sheepishly. I missed you . It is the truth.

His reaction is immediate and what I sense nervous, barking a laugh; not quite cruel, not quite amused, but instead coming from a place of insecurity, disdain and indecision. His expression contorts, pupils dilating enough to obscure the emerald of his irises, and I feel my guts twisting. Carefully putting his bowler hat on the nearest surface, revealing his now slightly sweaty hair, Edward turns his back at me, looking in the distance, gears grinding in his mind. He reaches for his leather gloves next, long fingers fiddling with the pressure buttons, and then stops. He does not remove his gloves.

“You truly are a dog, aren’t you?”

My entire body shivers, a burning pit gnawing at my stomach with confusing feelings, all of them caustic, perverted and exquisite. I mouth aphonic words of which I ignore the intent. There was a playful element in the inflection of his voice, and when he turns his proud silhouette to face me, there is an indecent smile on his face; one that reeks of contempt and desire. I stare at his grandiose form, lips parted and cheeks flushed from a somewhat familiar hunger; he appreciates seeing me so submissive and needy, I am sure, for he tilts his head on the side and grins wider, the question, unanswered, floating in the air still. “Well?”

There is so much left unsaid, so much left for him to create and define as he sees fit, when I realize that he looks at me expecting an answer that comes quickly, as if foolishly obvious, and yet one that sounds like a permission. “Maybe I am.”

Edward bites his bottom lip frankly, doing a particularly poor job at suppressing his wolfish smile; his gaze holds the power of a storm, breathing heavily through his flared nostrils. When he walks in my direction, each one of his steps sends a spasm to my cunt, shamefully awake and interested, until he stands in front of me, my eyes at the level of his stomach, the memory of the coarse hair hidden under his neatly tucked shirt making me salivate.

“Oh, I know you are. With how easily and quickly you were to drop on your knees, indulging in rather vulgar activities with this obscene tongue of yours.”

His voice is low and dark, the tone dripping with disdain and arousal, his words carefully crafted and picked; he takes great pleasure in seeing me squirm on the couch, muffling soft gasps when his eyes look down on me with a carnal appetite. My expression is one of false shame bordering on inappropriate satisfaction, silently confirming my crude desires. Edward’s voice is husky, shivering with an unconcealed, unmistakable thrill when he asks a question laced with all the neglected lust he once buried deeply in the graveyard of his humanity.

“And what does that make me, then?”

He wants to hear it from me . He wants to feel powerful, wants to dominate me. Taking immense pleasure in my submissive nature, breath hitching even more as his darkened gaze drills burning holes in the back of my skull, a delicate vein on his neck throbbing expectantly. Under his perfectly cut suit pants, I am certain he is hard. I hardly recognize the man who ran away from me after his uncontrolled orgasm; I wonder how much of him is still treading carefully, inexperienced and hesitant, discovering his limits, toying with mines. There is nothing less than adoration in my eyes, hoping to give him the silent reassurance and comfort he seems to seek, heart beating frantically in my chest when I mouth the desired words.

The master.

His shoulders twitch in response, a delicate flush tinting his cheeks, flustered, uncomfortable but positively euphoric . Long seconds pass before he emerges from his enchanted inertia, contemplating the possibilities, evaluating his desires; he looks beautiful in this bemused state, getting acquainted with his most intimate cravings. A part of me wants to guide him, encourage him, reassure him that I will not break easily, though I know how quickly his ego can get bruised; instead, I watch him intently, obediently, lips slightly parted. I believe he needs to be treated with patience and care, more than he needs the control; although it might be wishful thinking from a lovesick deviant.

I follow the gesture of his hand immediately as he snaps his finger and points to the ground. Of course. A dog doesn’t sit on the couch. I cannot help but notice the light tremor in his thighs when he takes my place, spreading his legs wide enough that I can crawl and kneel in between them, hands folded on my lap devotedly.

The profound exhalation is probably louder than he expected; as if releasing an unknown tension, his body slumps in the couch, contemplating my weaker position. It takes him a few most necessary seconds to collect himself, towering his frame above mine with the glory and poise of a panther. Flexing his still gloved hands a couple of times, visibly debating his next move, he decides to lay his elbows on his thighs, bringing his hands towards and cupping my face, the tender touch eliciting a needy whimper. Under his delicate and short chuckle, I lean my face against the warm leather, embracing his hold with closed eyes, focusing on the complex sensations, all of them delicious and dripping with liquid desire. His thumb draws circles on my cheek, fingers experimenting with the softness of my flesh for a blissful instant in a quasi silence. Elbows securely laying on his thighs, body slightly lurched, his voice is a whisper, a caress against my face.

“Will you be a good dog for me?”

I nod.

“Will you be loyal to me, will you wag your tail for me?”

I nod more frankly, a rush of blood pumping in my system, tinting my cheeks a delicate shade of rose and making my core throb; my hips jerk once, reflexively, as if every single atom constituting my being was yearning for him. Then, said so softly I almost didn’t hear it despite our close proximity. Good girl.

The strangled sob in my throat comes immediately, a built-up feeling that makes my heart ache and swell as I sink my half-lidded eyes in his, desperately searching for approval, squirming on the ground uncomfortably. His thumb brushes against my parted lips gingerly, the intent clear as I open my mouth wider to invite his gloved digit in the warm cavity. A stifled groan shakes in his throat when he caresses my fleshy gums, teasing my crimson appendage. Greedily, I close my mouth around his thumb and suck crudely, bobbing my head along the length of his digit under his mesmerized and lustful gaze. His languorous hums are quasi pornographic, hissing through his teeth when he forcefully removes his thumb in a wet noise, brutally shoving instead his index and middle fingers inside my welcoming mouth.

The sucking noises I make are obscene and vulgar, licking the trembling leather digits, penetrating eagerly and hungrily the space between them with my appendage. His moans are low and choked, a single strand of hair dropping on his forehead, glasses slightly askew, and oh does he look beautiful with his face distorted with a shameful lust that he is just now allowing himself to discover and explore. I feel his fingers thrust inside my throat in wet gagging noises, a foamy pool of saliva accumulating on my pink lips; I do not miss how his hips buck involuntarily, my hands then reaching for his clothed thighs, muscles tense like a bow. When my fingers brush against the outlines of his hardened bulge, Edward removes his fingers from my mouth in a drenched noise and grabs my face with a renewed vigor, the both of us panting in unison, a lewd blend of labored effort and burning arousal.

“You’re so eager, so… hungry . You would take anything from me.”

His voice is low and coarse, akin to a groan, dangerous and feral, and shooting tremors in my thighs, my sex pulsating as I whimper and nod positively, face flushed and beaming. He chuckles nervously, beautifully , looking down at me before working the inside of his mouth with a clear intent, one that makes me sob and weep, opening my mouth wide and sticking my tongue out expectantly, obediently.

Edward spits a big, heavy glob of saliva on my welcoming tongue, watching me with bewildered eyes when I swallow it greedily before opening my mouth again, excitedly presenting him the glistening cushion of my tongue, eager and prepared. He chokes a flustered chuckle, face flushed with quasi embarrassment, his voice trembling and laced with lust. “Incredible.”

His fingers release the soft skin of my face and migrate to my hair, grabbing it enough to feel held in place but not enough to hurt. His flush spreads from his cheeks to his neck giving him an almost bashful look; I see him work his throat again, collecting as much saliva as he can produce, while I pant under him, squirming on the ground like a starving animal.

When he releases another generous glob of spit that lands perfectly on my tongue, the offering promptly and greedily swallowed, he moans lewdly, emerald eyes clouded by a thick arousal. He pants loudly near my face, his breath smelling of coffee and cigarettes, and I wonder if his lips taste the same, if I will ever be able to know.

My body squirm uncomfortably on the ground, desperately searching for friction, and perhaps even release. My curious dance does not get lost on him, as he smirks at me with a renewed confidence, fingers grabbing and tugging viciously at my hair, eliciting a mean grunt out of my used throat.

“Are you still hungry, pet? Do you want more?” His voice is a taunting snarl, an amused inflection in his tone, and I whine stupidly, unable to move my head still tightly held in his unforgiving grip. He wants an answer, I understand, cocking his head to the side with an exhausted grin; I believe he too wants, needs release.

“Yes, please. More, I want more.”

My scalp is sore when he releases my hair, looking at his gloved hands with a quasi hypnotic interest when they are unbuckling his belt with trembling fingers, quickly untucking his beautiful, perfect cock; the tip angry red, length flushed in a delicate shade of rose, delicious veins rolling under the flesh. Generous beads of glistening precum drip from the glans in an obscene invitation; one I answer with the crude spectacle of my tongue licking the lips of my already open mouth. Before I can even taste his heavenly flesh, I feel his hand grabbing fistfuls of my hair, preventing any further movement. My frustrated whimpers make him bark a cruel laugh then coo at me, taunting me and mocking me. He is taking great pleasure in my vulgar despair; pumping his cock with his free hand, Edward smiles smugly, humming lowly.

“Beg for it.” It’s almost a murmur with how breathy his voice is, panting loudly as if he were the one begging for release really, and I humor him; of course I do, for I want him with a desire I had never felt before, certain I will die if I don’t immediately swallow his cock.

“Please, please I want you, I need you.” A truth, on more levels than one, but I do not believe he can see all the subtleties of this confession when he presses the back of my head, guiding it towards his hardened sex; or when he cries out in pleasure when I take his entire length down my throat, gagging loudly at the sudden, yet delicious pain. I am quick to work my jaw and bob my head up and down his glory; he tastes just as good as I remember, perhaps cleaner than last time. I do not mind. For a little while, he allows me to swallow his shaft, swirling my tongue over the underside of his cock, passionately sucking at his rosy glans, at the measure of his most indecent moans, loud and primal.

A ferocious groan is all the warning I get before I feel his hands at either side of my head, locking it immobile before his hips start thrusting at a punishing pace, fucking my throat mercilessly. I let him use my fleshy hole wholeheartedly, one hand finding purchase on his clothed thigh, gagging and choking every time the glans hits the back of my throat, foamy spit and precum pooling down my chin; a sight he finds most alluring, I believe, as I feel him throb fiercely.

My other hand snakes down my body, unbuttoning my pants, fingers sinking in my wooly curls until I reach my drenched core and my swollen bud. Edward then snarls and releases my assaulted mouth, maneuvering a booted foot to lay it right between my legs, making me straddle the cold hard leather with his shin pressed against my chest.

“Go on then, dog.”

A broken moan dies on my lips, fingers grabbing at his strong thigh, positioning my clothed cunt perfectly right on his boot, the ankle brushing against my swollen clit. His fist is pumping himself earnestly in a crude and wet noise, his breath labored and quasi pained. There is a pang of hesitation in my chest, one quickly erased when I lift my eyes and find his gaze; there is arousal there, and something akin to tenderness.

And then, I start thrusting.

The friction is electric, his body warmth pressed tightly against my core as my hands clench around his thigh. I feel the rough fabric of his pants rubbing against my cunt as I hump his leg, shattered moans and heavy cries echoing in the warehouse. We maintain eye contact, his face red and glistening with a thin veil of sweat while he’s fucking his hand, panting like a feral beast, chest heaving under his now uncomfortably tight shirt; he is beautiful.

My hips rock more earnestly, his shin rubbing against my throbbing clitoris while the buttons and laces of his leather boot bump and stroke my fluttering cunt; the mixed sensations are otherworldly, experimenting with angles and pace until I find the right combination, the right amount of friction, under his entranced gaze. I do not recognize my voice when I sob stupidly, my cunt clenching and tensing as I near my orgasm, eyes still on his, always on his, never leaving his. He seems to pick up how close I am, for his voice is a fractured murmur.

“Come for me, and I will reward you.” A promise.

A particular stitch of his boot is what ruins me. Or perhaps is it the way he looks at me, with a carnal adoration when I am fucking his leg. Either way, I feel myself clench, the orgasm devastating, unexpected and exhausting. Every nerve, every muscle tense and burn, stomach flipping painfully as I ride the last waves of this intimate climax.

Pressing my cheek against his knee, almost drooling on the green fabric of pants, breathing heavily, I search his eyes for approval, with the pure desire to become his property, to belong in the most intimate way he can offer.

Edward is nearly there, his fist pumping his angry cock at a frantic pace until all I hear is a strangled sob, a cue I immediately identify as I prop myself on my knees and swallow his cock tenderly, sucking him until I feel him spurt heavy strings of semen down my throat. He cries out, hips bucking as much as he can, fucking the last of his orgasm in my mouth, emptying his seeds in my stomach. He tugs at my hair gently once he feels so overstimulated it begins to hurt, and I remove myself graciously, wiping the remainder of our body fluids with the back of my hand.

I brace myself for the possibility of him leaving the premises again, leaving me empty and emotionally flayed, but am surprised when he does not. Slumping on the couch, head tilted back against the seat, his hand lays flat on the top of my head, caressing my hair aimlessly. Closing my eyes, I lean against his touch, almost purring, a profound feeling of happiness pooling inside of me. I wonder if dogs feel as elated and content from the simple pleasure of sitting next to their master; I wonder if they too feel an unconditional love, as long as they can lay their heavy head on their master’s lap. In the stillness of the night, life seems perfect as long as I am near him.

Sitting back on the couch and buttoning his pants, Edward looks at me, his face adorning a somewhat torn expression; something between exhaustion, insecurity and doubt. His fingers trace shapeless lines on my face, slipping down my neck where the fingertips stay for a while, a contemplative and pensive look on his face. I offer him a smile, tender and mild, and for a fraction of second I see the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. My heart sings. He inspires deeply, collecting himself and working his throat until he finds the right words, ones that come in his naturally detached tone.

“It’s getting really late, I think you should go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I nod, running my fingers through my hair and massaging where my scalp feels sore. When I stand up, my knees burn from the uncomfortable position, my inner thighs feel sticky from my orgasm. Collecting my last belongings, I nod at him politely, bidding him goodnight. His smile is tired but genuine.

Goodnight, dear.

#Edward nigma #edward nigma x reader #edward nygma x reader #edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #riddler x reader #fanfic #my writing #Edward nygma #Edward nashton #the riddler #riddler

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Venus in Furs

All chapters Edward Nigma x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 2.7k words TW & tags: Body hair, body worship AO3 • All my stories

"A pleasure foreign and unknown, I believe, one that frightens him as much as it burns him, this scorching desire to be worshiped in a way he never dared to intellectualize or even rationalize, too primal and vulgar for his status, but always dreamed of, secretly, underneath his complex neural system, where his most carnal designs rest, neglected and ignored."

Venus in Furs

Edward sighs profoundly, suffering a heartache no one can really understand the nature of, contemplating his multitude of screens as if he were a firefly during the midsummer night, too captivated by the foreign lights to decide whether they could be harmful or not. A green inferno licks his marble pallor, giving him a look reminiscent of a deity, otherworldly and unreachable; his forehead lays heavy against his closed fist, body slumped on his throne, defeated and discouraged.

Is there a sight more painful, I wonder, when his eyes, usually so bright and expressive, remain still on the ground while his lips, thin and chapped, twist in anguish and disappointment. I need not to ask what happened, for I can easily piece it together; through the screens, the once carefully and meticulously crafted room is now thrashed and broken, chaotic and desecrated. Splinters of green glass lay limp on the ground, last remains of a spoiled and ruined trophy. It is without a doubt the doing of a man who has not an ounce of sensibility; a bull, grotesque and cruel, who took great satisfaction, I’m sure, in the destruction of Edward’s art. I do not say his name, as it angers him; only he does, although always with violence, contempt and fury.

In fact, I try not to make a single noise, for it would no doubt disturb his thoughts; the Riddler’s brain never ceases to gallop in the grandiose lands of his intellect, and I sense that already he is plotting his new masterpiece.

We haven’t talked about last time’s incident, I suspect he prefers it that way. I notice, however, that he looks at me more often now; a development that brings me immense joy. At night, when my fingers are quick and my breath is hitching, I drink the memories of his broken moans and the taste of his semen on my tongue. I wonder if he thinks of me also, I wonder if he looks back at that time with pleasure and fondness, or, on the contrary, with fear and disgust. It is hard to tell what really is on his mind, impenetrable and undecipherable, especially with his mercurial demeanor, as if ardently occulting his most intimate emotions.

I do not believe for an instant that he bears the same tenderness and adoration as I do, and I would be foolish to mistake his pity for care; yet, my heart sings all the same as with a lover when in his presence, simply lucky and grateful to assist him in his dream.

His fingers, covered in dust and paint, nervously drum on the metal of his desk, betraying an internal conflict that I regret not knowing intimately. Instead, my demure eyes stare at the muscles working in his throat, tensing the skin and revealing a perfect Adam’s apple.

The thin flesh adorns a capricious stubble, uneven tones made of beige, blue and rosy hues, and sinuous patterns of wrinkles forged with age. Following the contours of his sternum, I observe his exposed chest, the hair there viciously dark in stark contrast to his milky skin, moving at the measure of his agitated breath. A salty veil of sweat makes his skin glow eerily under the artificial light, not dissimilar to honey covering the fur of a wild beast. There is a palpable shame that knots my stomach when my mind wanders to darker places where passion and adoration collide and break, creating a sinful and unsatisfied need.

In a similar manner, his toned arms are covered in the same opaque yet more sparse, more delicate hair; when his muscles roll beneath his skin it looks like the waves of a beaming ocean. There is no doubt in my mind that his hair must feel thick and coarse on the touch, coated in the grime and dirt of his workshop, caked with soot and sweat from his diaphoretic efforts. I feel an obsessive growth in my soul, similar to the bud of a depraved fruit, a reprehensible desire to sink my fingers in the wooly locks and smell their perfume until it is all I can feel and think of.

When I accidentally clear my throat a bit too loudly for the quasi silent room, he turns his face to me, almost surprised, as if not expecting my presence. I believe my capacity to conceal myself is a quality he appreciates, or perhaps does he simply not care enough to notice when I’m around. The thought upsets me. I wear a timid smile on my face, my posture impeccably straight, hands clasped together and resting on my stomach in a submissive position reminiscent of a dog waiting for permission to move. He furrows his brow, a glimpse of discomfort in his eyes, as he massages his forehead. He opens his mouth, visibly about to say something, but decides otherwise, changes his mind and looks away; there is so much hurt and discouragement on his face. My smile falters.

He doesn’t have the right to take away his light, I think to myself. He doesn’t have the right to mock and humiliate the Riddler, to disrespect everything that he represents and ruin his design. How dare he . My jaw clenches, apoplectic with the certainty that Gotham doesn’t deserve him, his creativity, his talent; at times, I am quite convinced that only I fully grasp his importance; a thought that gives me both satisfaction and disarray.

Edward looks in the horizon, as if lost, sighing once more, chest sinking and gaze dull; I wonder, is he feeling insecure right now, is he doubting himself? My heart grows heavy with the foolish desire to cup his face and comfort him like one would with a lover; but my lover he is not, and I know that the intimate touch would be most inappropriate.

His fatigued form is sunken in the large armchair with the grandiose limpness of a cadaver; his legs are spread widely in disinterest while his elbows are resting on the arms of his throne with a hand almost completely occulting his eyes in a dramatic manner. His position and the raw anguish it exhales is not dissimilar to a somber painting from the Caravaggio, heavy and powerful in nature, yet utterly heartbreaking and so humane. It is hard to consider him a man amongst other men when everything about him screams of a God, and how does one even comfort a God, I ask myself. Two beaming emeralds interrogate me silently, his intense gaze giving my heart frantic tremors. He cannot understand you, I murmur. Not like I do, I confess.

“You? Understand me?” He cocks a brow and inspires loudly, a taunting inflection in his venomous words; there is an arrogant fire in his eyes, one that seems to mock me and my feelings. He knows that I do not mind his insult, nor do I fear his humiliation; but he has yet to realize how loyal and devoted I truly am. Perhaps will he care more then, knowing that I am an unbreakable toy; perhaps will he show vulnerability and find in me someone he can trust, if he cannot love –anyone else but himself, that is.

I assume a position he’s already been acquainted with once before, kneeling between his legs. His demeanor shifts slightly, the muscles in his jaw relaxing, as if now familiar with what is about to happen to him, even though the same certainty isn’t clear to me. There is a subtle flush tinting his cheeks, I am unsure whether it is out of discomfort, shyness or arousal. It could be all of them at the same time.

“I don’t need your help, I don’t need this…” he spits, justifying himself from an unknown and imaginary accusation of weakness. I know, I say. You allow me. He smirks, satisfied with my answer, comforted in my submissive nature, which he seems to be particularly fond of. His entire body seems to ease slightly, his legs spreading wider to better accommodate my weaker form, an expectant look on his face. He’s changed since the first time; he seems more eager to receive, more detached also. There is in his demeanor a visceral need to regain control, to forget tonight’s complete humiliation and feel anew again. I expected as much. I can give him the balmy reassurance his aching ego so desperately craves, the soothing attention his bruised pride so voraciously demands.

My hands run over his clothed thighs, carefully considering my next action. There is an evident possibility, an obvious answer that comes to me akin to Pavlov’s dog, my mouth watering in an organic reaction to my thoughts; but I refuse to be a passive tool that will bore him. I need to show, and prove to him that I am the best follower, the only one he needs, the only one worthy of his time. There is a shameful glimpse of hope beneath the surface; a yearning desire to be held and considered, to feel unique in his eyes. Am I being too greedy, I wonder?

My trembling fingers hold the hem of his dirty, torn and ruined beater as if akin to some precious silk and not a disgusting rag; his expression is one of amusement and curiosity as he observes my pensive gaze. He cocks a brow when I lift the wrecked fabric, uncovering his stomach; finely toned underneath a small and fatigued pouch betraying his age, the skin is covered in sweat, grime, and, oh! more of his exquisite dark hair. I sense his quizzical gaze upon me as I approach my face, smelling his natural essence, lost in the miasm of filth it’s been soaking in all day long. It’s strong and salty, a humid stench from his intense labor, one that makes my legs shiver and my sex pulsate with a well known desire and appetite. I press a chaste kiss on his hairy stomach, feeling his coarse hair tickling the thin flesh of my lips as I taste his filth. His skin is warm and soft, dipping graciously when my mouth brushes against it, my nose sinking in the ocean of his glistening fur and inhaling his acrid scent, too tempting not to taste and absorb. My desire for him is philosophical, spiritual and carnal; and I would be foolish to miss an opportunity to express and confess my intimate affection.

His eyes widen in surprise, and perhaps something close to arousal when he sees my tongue, red and glistening, parting my lips and lapping his burning skin. I notice the way he shivers when I draw a path amongst the dark fur of his stomach with the tip of my appendage, the sensation clearly foreign and confusing to him. Holding entire strands of hair between my lips, I suck pearls of sweat and filth; it tastes awfully salty and acidic, and smells just as strongly. My head spins, drowning in his distinctive scent, intoxicated with the sensation of his fur on my wet organ; warmth and pleasure build up in my guts when I catch him sigh softly in surprise when my tongue brushes a particularly sensitive part of his lower belly.

His grip on the arm of his throne turns knuckle white, his gaze heavy with lust and desire, yet I wonder what exactly overwhelms him so; is it my submissive position, kneeling between his legs akin to a dog begging for its master? Is it the complete and total control and power he has over me without even trying? Is it having his body in its integral form, in its most intimate and purest shape, worshiped and desired? All I know is that he hisses through his teeth at each flick of my tongue, and exhales loudly when I bury the appendage in his navel, where the taste is stronger and his hair rolls in my mouth.

Propping myself up on my knees, my mouth leaves a trail of burning kisses over his stomach, lifting his beater revealing his aging chest, the flesh soft and tender, and covered in swirled fur; a thick forest with two rosy fruits where his nipples are, erected and beaming under the artificial light. I stare at them through half lidded eyes before my glassy eyes sink into his, curious, uncomfortable and viciously aroused; a pleasure foreign and unknown, I believe, one that frightens him as much as it burns him, this scorching desire to be worshiped in a way he never dared to intellectualize or even rationalize, too primal and vulgar for his status, but always dreamed of, secretly, underneath his complex neural system, where his most carnal designs rest, neglected and ignored.

With the finesse of a feather, my trembling fingers reach for his pectoral muscles, delicately defined with effort and softened with age, caressing the coarse hair under his encouraging but still timid hums. His breath hitches deliciously when I kiss the plush flesh, finding his velvety nipples and feeling them with the pads of my fingers. When my mouth closes around an hardened bud, Edward chokes a noise akin to one a wounded animal would make; it’s organic and devastating, and only fuels my own feverish desire, sucking lovingly on his sensitive fruit, nibbling the flesh tenderly and rolling the other between my fingers. His hand is hesitant when it slips his fingers in my hair, pressing my head closer to his chest; a quiet plea that I immediately answer with a renewed passion, merciful and infatuated.

My body rolls languidly, hands roaming over his burning flesh, while my tongue laps his grime covered chest; the taste is acrid and feels sticky in my throat, the coarse hair drenched in salty sweat that I swallow and mow like a starved animal in the Heavenly Garden, and oh his taste is divine, reminiscing of the Earth, the life pumping in his veins, the boiling hormones that make him so real, so human, so perfect and real under my touch. His scent is primal, raw and caustic, shooting tremors in my thighs, pheromones that make my cunt flutter and clench on the cruel emptiness of my womb.

My hand grips his thigh, body aquiver with lust and desire, crude moans muffled in his flesh when his fingers grab my hair, pulling then pushing, unable to make up his mind; terrorized of the foreign and agonizing pleasure I give him but incapable of fighting his carnal urges. He groans, animalistic and bestial, when my teeth bite his collarbones, free hand sinking in the wooly hair of his stomach; and I feel him shiver, high pitched and strangled sobs in his throat, when my tongue, flat and balmy, licks the last drop of sweat off his pectoral muscles.

My body rolls like a snake, sensual and inviting, while my lips, burning and swollen, kiss every inch of his torso; his face turns crimson red, eyes rolled in the back of his skull, overwhelmed and inebriated. Sinking back on the floor, my intent is obvious, dragging the tip of my tongue lower, caressing the rim of his navel, drawing swirls on his lower stomach, jerking and flipping, until his strong hands stop me in a frenzy, removing his belt in a sudden fervor, a string of loud curses breaking his throat until he releases his throbbing cock, red, angry and so perfect, that he pumps viciously and with no particular rhythm, no more than a couple of times until, finally, in a broken moan, in a last tremor, his orgasm comes, devastating, cruel and overpowering; long ropes of hot cum spurting on my face, my chin, my throat, without a warning and without ceremony.

I pant heavily, fingers scooping and collecting his milky semen that I swallow greedily, my glassy eyes looking for his approval, and, dare I say, his affection. To my dismay, his gaze is panicked and distressed, body tense and eyebrows knitted in anguish. In a sudden hurry, Edward tucks his cock away and stands up, accidentally shoving me on the ground and barely muttering a quasi aphonic I’m sorry before leaving, or rather running away to his quarters, a part of the warehouse I am not allowed to penetrate.

The place is cold again, the green lights licking my pained face and turning my disappointed tears into emeralds, rolling down my face and crashing on the floor. Unfortunately, no light is colorful enough to sublime my heartache, and no trophy can fill the cruel emptiness inside of me. Edward does not leave his quarters for the rest of the night, and I go home silently.

#Edward nigma #edward nigma x reader #edward nygma x reader #edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #riddler x reader #fanfic #my writing #Edward nygma #Edward nashton #the riddler

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decaying-words · 28 days

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Ambrosia

All chapters Edward Nigma x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 2.7k words TW & tags: Dubious consent, oral sex, broken mind AO3 • All my stories

"Muscles tense and roll under his fatigued and sun-deprived skin, his mouth contorting viciously resembling an enraged snake as he hurls abuse, his voice loud and penetrating, surgically detaching each and every single syllable he uses as if they were ammunition.

He won’t look at me."

Ambrosia

Muscles tense and roll under his fatigued and sun-deprived skin, his mouth contorting viciously resembling an enraged snake as he hurls abuse, his voice loud and penetrating, surgically detaching each and every single syllable he uses as if they were ammunition.

He won’t look at me.

Edward never looks at me when he’s furious with my work, its quality paling in comparison of his own; and he never misses an opportunity to remind me of my weaker position, towering over me with words I haven’t tamed, with expressions I haven’t grasped the meaning of, taking great pleasure, I am certain, in signaling his superiority.

Edward never looks at me and it’s a shame, I say to myself, caressing the dream of his green eyes finally laying on me if only once, be it in a sneer and with disdain, as long as I can penetrate his gaze and contemplate all that he represents. His mercurial temper is nothing compared to my burning desire to be seen and acknowledged; if only he knew how much I need the pleasure I cannot give myself.

The heavy wrench crashes and ruins the egregious sight of what I’ve created in a final act of an humiliation that is threatening in nature. Perhaps should I feel frightened by the pure vigor and ease with which he manipulates and shatters what he desires, but all I can feel is sheer jealousy for the pile of debris laying inert on the ground, for it must have been considered and witnessed before ceasing to exist.

Loose screws roll aimlessly on the patterned floor, wicked parts of the abomination I birthed; if he turned to me he would see my lips trembling in a sentiment he would believe is fear, and no doubt would he feel pleased and satisfied to hold such power over me. If only he knew that what I feel is not fear but sadness, for I also would flounder and writhe on the ground like a rusty screw if it meant he was the one tearing me apart. Would he look at me then, if I confessed my most intimate desire to become a domesticated object, malleable and disposable? Would he ruin me then, if it meant that my ephemeral existence served a purpose, as insignificant as it may be?

Warm and round tears roll down my cheeks when I mouth quasi aphonic apologies that he repeats in a mocking manner, voice falsely high pitched as a simulacra of my own, and my entire being shivers and trembles at the indignity I endure, knowing this will never be enough to fulfill my needs. Defeated and apoplectic, Edward throws his hands in the air, convinced that even primates at the zoo wouldn’t be such a disgrace, expressing his bitter regret about his precious time, wasted and vanished.

I once thought I was more evolved than a primate, worthy of praise and interest; that was before my ridiculous vanity led me to work for the Riddler, a man I once considered an equal. Was I wrong and delusional.

The day we met was the only time he looked at me, with indifference and contempt; I struggled to hide my annoyance back then, certain that I would walk away the very same day. How foolish of me to think I deserved care and esteem when I was nothing but unqualified. A few weeks of heated arguments was all it took to work on my misplaced pride and the absurd desire to be respected, replaced by a voracious design to please and be noticed.

It came to me that the greatest achievement I could reach was to be nothing short of remarkable; unfortunately for me, Edward Nigma held high expectations of his assistants, and none of them before me were ever worthy of his importance. Even then, I carried in my heart the curious hope to finally be the one to surprise and please him adequately, something I had yet to be successful in. The constant disappointment on his face made me question my own value, until a terrible and abhorrent realization came to me: the strong possibility that he might get tired of me, like he did with the others. I still remember the raw panic I felt the first time I imagined the inevitable, clutching my chest in horror, waking up from nightmares, out of breath and drenched in sweat.

It is the same panic I feel right now when Edward turns his back to me, walking to his desk and glancing at plans discarded there, abandoning me. I cannot afford to be abandoned, not when my sole purpose in life is to contribute to his design, when my entire being was made to serve him; what would happen to me then? I scream in terror and run after him, begging him to forgive me, to forgive my ignorance, promising that I would do better, that I would make him proud this time, just don’t leave me, please.

He pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, and the cruel realization of being a nuisance is unacceptable, intolerable to me. My heart aches and beats frantically in my chest, aquiver with extreme fright, as if spiraling in a second state, every fiber of my mind shrieking and breaking, longing for a word, a reaction, anything showing me that I am not completely forgotten. If only he would punish me, flog me until the flesh breaks and bleeds, asphyxiate me with his bare hands until my face turns blue, then I would know that he showed me mercy and not indifference. I cry harder when his fingers drum on the table, his stern voice ordering me to leave and come back once I’m in an adequate state. My heart, heavy and painful, drops and shatters somewhere in my psyche; he sees in me someone improper , unworthy of being in his presence.

There is nothing glorious or noble about me when I grab the hem of his shirt and force him to face me, his fury now renewed, glaring at my shaking hands and inquiring whether I have lost my mind.

Perhaps I have.

No words could ever describe the respect, the admiration, the love I feel for him, but maybe actions can. I sob pathetically when I drop to my knees in front of him, eyes fixed on his disapproving face, begging for his forgiveness in a voice laced with hiccups and despair. I confess my feelings for him, tell him that I love him, that I would do anything for him, and his expression changes to one of horror and confusion. This is not good enough, I think to myself.

My hands grab the belt holding his pants, he freezes in shock for a few seconds before reaching for my wrists with his impossibly strong hands. The warmth radiates in my entire body; it is the first time he has touched me. My eyes go to his calloused hands, his scarred knuckles, and I cannot help but lay my cheek, wet and burning, against the back of his hand. He spits his incomprehension, questioning my motives, but all I can mutter in response is please, please, please…

His eyes are distorted with a feeling akin to fear, mouth agape, his hands still securely locked around my wrists. I shush him, promise that I will make everything better , and I see him swallow thickly, bottom lip trembling. I press my lips on his fingers like one would worship an idol, and hear him shudder. It is difficult to unbuckle his belt when he’s still holding tight, but the lack of true strength and the absence of protest gives ground for the belief that he does not want to interrupt me. His voice is low and weak, only whispering “This is wrong, this is so very wrong…” as I focus on undoing his pants enough to reveal his plain underwear.

My stomach knots instantly, barely realizing the unique and invaluable position I am in, face merely centimeters away from his crotch. Never have I allowed myself to dream of this moment, having always considered myself as an improper match for him, and yet. My heart is open, swollen with the thought of him, ready to explode, and the only way I can properly show him my devotion is to make him feel as good as he makes me feel for tolerating my presence, despite my flaws and inefficacy. Edward yelps, his hands tightly grasping the desk behind him, tense and nervous, when I bury my face in his crotch, inhaling his scent, strong from a miasma of filth and sweat accumulated over the day, or perhaps even days. I wish I could drink this essence, this odor that is so unequivocally his, I wish I could consume his flesh, his blood and feel him inside of me in a way that nobody else could.

I rub my face on the soft fabric, my face and nose drawing the outlines of his flaccid anatomy, while my eyes are searching for his; unfortunately, his face is turned away, cheekbones flushed and eyebrows knitted together, a fist pressed tightly against his lips. There is a cold look on his face when I breathe in the warm fabric and hum appreciatively, the tip of my nose caressing the still soft flesh of his sex. I wonder if any other of his assistants ever got down on their knees for him. I expect not. I expect to be the only one worthy of worshiping him. The thought pleases me.

My mouth presses chaste kisses over his clothed sex, my lips brushing and tasting his now throbbing flesh. Edward whines softly, akin to a terrorized animal, screwing his eyelids shut, as if ashamed of the fact that he’s getting harder. I feel his length swelling, filled with blood as my lips part around it, my jaw opening to better accommodate him. His smell gets stronger too, slightly saltier as well, and I recognize a wet spot near the tip of his cock that makes me salivate. My tongue drags over his still clothed length up to the constricted tip, tasting the pearl of precum imbibing the cotton of his underwear. Edward mutters a curse, but lets me continue. His turgescent organ reminds me of a heart, engorged with blood, almost beating; and I am the one it is beating for.

Trembling fingers hook around the elastic belt of his underwear, while I cover his bulge in featherlike kisses before I release his perfect sex, now hanging low in front of him. There is a slight protest that I accidentally interrupt with a gasp, completely absorbed and mesmerized by the heavenly sight of his shaft, generous in both width and length, the skin adorning a rosy tint and beautiful protruding veins. His reddening glans is only partially covered by his intact foreskin, looking like a tempting and delicious fruit. The smell is strong as expected, filling my nostrils and remaining safe in my stomach, guarding it preciously. If there is anything else more beautiful and perfect than his cock, I have yet to witness it.

Enough of that , he whispers in a voice that does not convince me. My bruised ego is disappointed that I cannot find neither curiosity nor lust in his voice, but I decide to beat myself up later for wanting him to want me , when all I want to do right now is to show him my unconditional and total devotion.

He exhales loudly when I roll the tip of my tongue on one of his purple veins, looking up at him while his eyes are wandering on the ceiling, carefully avoiding my gaze. He tastes heavenly, as expected; it’s salty and musky, and my eyelashes flutter when I swallow a thin layer of sweat, feeling it slip down my throat and going to my stomach. The way he grabs the metal desk turns his knuckles white, and I cannot help but wonder if it is due to restraint, shame or control. The flat of my tongue laps and cleans his length, tasting every bump and crevice. I am consuming him and making him mine, a prideful and undignified feeling that makes my stomach burn; I am worshiping him and tasting all of his glory, dripping in heavy pearls of milky white precum.

His voice contorts into broken moans when I take the sensitive tip inside of my warm cavity, my tongue pushing back his foreskin; I am the only one who can hear those noises, the only one who can see him coming undone this way, the only one who can give him such pleasure. His hand covers his eyes, occulting his gaze entirely as to hide and conceal his arousal; but his body is infinitely more honest, his hips rocking subtly in a pressing invitation to take him deeper. Of course, I do as he desires.

His length slips comfortably down my throat as I progressively take more of him, until I feel my mouth full of him, encouraged by his canorous voice singing unintelligible praises. All my senses are assaulted, basking in his scent, the taste of him invading me, yet this is not enough, this will never be enough for me. Working my jaw to swallow his cock as deeply as possible, fluids start pouring down my chin. My eyelids flutter, my head bobbing up and down his glory at the measure of his curses, a comfortable heat reddening my face. I love you , I think to myself, closing my eyes.

A gentle pressure on the back of my head, his hand finding its way in my long locks. He guides me clearly, giving me a rhythm that he punctuates with the movement of his hips, crashing his pubic bone against my face. Yelps and moans die in my throat when his pace gets too quick for my scalp, simultaneously tugging and pulling at my hair. I choke on his cock, spit and precum pooling on the ground before he grabs my face completely and forces me to stay still. I open my eyes and search for his own.

He looks at me.

There is a storm in his eyes, a look that is close to disgust and contempt, yet also laced with adoration; a look that brings tears of joy to my eyes. Edward starts rocking his hips while I remain still, accepting him in my mouth. It does not take him long before he vigorously fucks my throat, eyes glued on me, never breaking contact. His expression metamorphoses into something immensely more dangerous, feral and carnal. His shy moans turn into animalistic groans when his hand painfully grabs my hair and he ravages my hole. Look at me , he mouths; and how could I ever stop doing so?

His punitive rhythm is erratic and irregular, his grunts grow louder and shakier, and my heartbeat turns frantic in anticipation for what is about to happen. His pupils are dilated, dark orbs covering most of his green Eden, and I am sinking in them, grasping at this intimate contact.

Finally, I feel him spurting long ropes of cum deeply inside my stomach in a loud groan, I feel his cock throb and spill its last drops of essence, coating the walls of my mouth with his strong taste. I moan in an unhidden pleasure, greedily swallowing everything he offers me, sucking his tender glans until there is nothing left to milk.

When he removes his sex and tucks it back in his pants, I am certain that my face is ruined. His eyes are still on me, now less wild and more relaxed, his hands laying back on the desk, looking for what to say next. His breath is labored and strained, mine is in a similar state.

Thank you , I whisper. Edward cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything, only nodding at me. He runs a hand in his disheveled hair, his chest lifting up and down, then clears his throat. “Go now. I’ll see you tomorrow” is all he responds, finally breaking eye contact and looking away. My heart aches for an unknown reason yet I feel strangely serene, like floating on a cloud.

Tonight, I will be dreaming of him. And in my dreams, he looks at me.

#Edward nigma #edward nigma x reader #edward nygma x reader #edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #riddler x reader #fanfic #my writing #Edward nygma #Edward nashton #the riddler

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decaying-words · 28 days

Text

Freaks

Victor Zsasz x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 3.3k words TW & tags: Dubious consent, scarification, wounds, blood, virgin AO3 • All my stories

"His body is a beautiful abomination, adorning monstrous scars like discolored veins on his marble flesh. They roll with his muscles, hideous and protuberant, and all I can think of is my desire to taste them all, read the stories his body tells with the tip of my tongue, until there is nothing left in the world but a cacophony of pleasure and moans. My hands caress everywhere, fingers tracing his tally marks, but I do not see the corpses, I only see the life pumping in his veins."

Freaks

Gloved fingers, frigid and dispassionate, trace sinuous patterns over the trembling features of my face, smooth and silk-like in appearance, a stark contrast to his, marked and scarred with conscious volition. His marble pallor adorns vicious cuts, the more recent ones reminiscing of crimson snakes crawling over his visage, disfiguring his traits and expressions; they sink deeply in the flesh and split his lips, discolored and cruel. There is a perverse design behind them, a morbid compulsion that makes it difficult to avoid and occult, so I don’t, or can’t really; my eyes are locked on his scars, frightened and terrified. He takes great pleasure, I believe, in seeing me anxious and petrified.

His leather thumb, demanding and inquisitive, caresses my lower lip, opening my mouth and revealing the warm cavity. He tilts his head, pensive and silent, while my eyes search for his, search for a reassurance I know I won’t receive. Truthfully, I’m unsure why I came to him willingly; or perhaps I do, and this frightens me even more.

I used to timidly stare at him from a distant booth of a questionable bar we would both happen to frequent, our unknown encounters going from coincidental to deliberate; and while I have never even approached him, I couldn’t help but detail his striking appearance. Always impeccably dressed in elegant leathery and velvety pieces, his body, gnarly and marked, seemed oddly sublimed. A bizarre charisma that would keep my thoughts racing at night, fingers working quickly on my engorged nub.

Days turned to weeks as I obsessed and yearned for his touch, foreign and forbidden, knowing full well who that strange man was and the crimes he committed, not dissimilar to visiting sharks at the aquarium. I would pretend to be busy working on some undefined task on my laptop, nursing drink after drink, always strategically positioned in a booth in front of him, creating wild and fantastic scenarios in my head on how I would seduce him and how he would make tender love to me; scenarios that would content my inexperienced soul, while occulting the harsh reality of his character.

I suppressed a yelp when he found me in the bathroom tonight, blocking the exit door, toned arms crossed and dark eyes drilling holes in my mind. I’ve never been so close to him then, and I vividly remember the raw panic I felt standing in front of Victor Zsasz. If you keep looking at me like that, he said in a deep and surgical tone, I might well turn to stone. Face flushed with shame and fear, eyes laying inert on the ground, I could barely find the strength to mutter a quasi aphonic apology.

Cocking an hairless brow and tilting his head, he considers me for an instant, impatient and expectant. Perhaps I had too much to drink tonight, or perhaps I was driven by an unknown divine intervention, but in a soft and timid voice I murmured what could have been a confession. You fascinate me. He smirks, smug and proud, reminiscent of a demon luring a soul, and I am the willing participant of my own downfall. We leave the bar together that night.

His gloved thumb moves from my parted lips to my throat, his fingers tracing the contours of the rolling muscles underneath the delicate skin. Nothing and everything feels right at the same time; while my romantic nature imagined my first time under different conditions, I cannot ignore the tremors in my thighs when his knuckles brush my pulsating flesh. How bad could it be, I ask myself naively, my heart beating frantically at the foreign and completely new touch.

One word, sharp and glacial, that annihilates the last hope of romance I could have and makes me question my decision to bring him home. Undress. I do as I’m told, moving in a way I imagine would be languid and sensual under his unappreciative and disinterested gaze; instead, it feels humiliating and bitter. He stops me when I reach behind my back to unclasp my bra, leaving me in my underwear. Lay down.

The air feels cold on my heated skin as I lay with the grandiose limpness of a corpse on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, waiting for something, anything to happen. I do not think much when I feel the mattress dipping next to me, then a sharp yelp breaks the otherwise quiet room as the cold touch of his leather glove caresses my bare thighs. Having now removed his coat, Victor wears a rolled up shirt, exposing his viciously scarred arms, the tally marks too great to count. One for each person he’s killed, I think to myself; and the thought shouldn’t make me feel so warm but it does, as much as seeing his dark gaze exploring my pristine flesh while his fingers massage my plush thighs. I feel a cruel shiver when he removes his gloves languidly, revealing two perfect hands, delicately defined and marked like the rest of his body. My breath hitches and he notices it, cocking an hairless brow at me with an amused light in his eyes, building up a sinful anticipation, one that makes my sex pulsate instinctively.

A broken moan dies on my lips akin to a hiccup when his bare hands, warm and surprisingly soft, caress my legs up and down. There is a faint smile on his face, lips slightly parted, as a somber thought darkens his gaze. I like your thighs. I want to mark them. This is not a suggestion, I understand.

Wiggling on the bed, panicked and terrified, Victor then grabs me by the waist and immobilizes me on the mattress, towering over me. His face merely a few centimeters away from mine, he presses his index finger over his mouth, shushing me. Heavy tears threaten to run and spill, and Victor sighs softly, brushing them away from the corner of my eyes with his thumb. You won’t be another tally mark, he promises. I’m unsure this will be enough to calm me down. Not when his hand slips in his pocket and retrieves a butterfly knife that he opens in front of me. The blade, delicately and tastefully engraved, beams in the dim light of the room; it is perfectly clean and cared for.

His scarred lips find my neck, the sensation as devastating as it is confusing. His kisses are passionate and hungry, licking the sensitive flesh there and progressing slowly. Each and every one of his kisses drag a string of breathy moans out of my throat, almost making me forget about my previous panic, the overwhelming sensations disorienting. His mouth is on my collarbone, then my sternum, then my covered breast… Never have I ever experienced such fire inside of me, my legs quivering with desire, my stomach knotting and twisting, as Victor draws a path with his mouth on my body, until finally does he reach my thighs, where he stops and contemplates the skin.

Desire turns to fear again, an emotional rollercoaster that seems to displease him. I’m not the burlap guy; I don’t get off when you’re scared, he scoffs. No, I imagine not. I expect him to get off to my ripped flesh. Nonetheless, I swallow my tears and nod at him, unsure why I am even humoring him. When he smiles, looking up at me, dark orbs shining like stars, I feel my sex throb shamefully. He then presses a chaste kiss on my immaculate skin, murmuring a word dripping with honey and that makes my heart race. Good girl.

The pain is stark and burning but not unbearable I realize; a stark contrast with the intense and unique horror my mind is feeling right now, hissing through my teeth, screwing my eyelids shut and squirming on the bed. I feel his hands holding me still while his breath caresses my scorching flesh, shushing me to no avail. When I feel the cruel blade leaving my skin, warm blood dripping from the fresh wound and running down my inner thigh, I pant heavily, a brief sense of relief soothing my nerves. But I was wrong to relax that soon, as a renewed agony, more vicious and noticeably deeper assaults my flesh, dragging a frank shriek out of my throat. I cry honest tears, begging for him to stop, thrashing on the bed while his free hand immobilizes me. If you keep moving it’ll be worse, he warns. But how could it be, when my entire mind is screaming bloody murder and my body is tearing apart under his brutal instrument?

The torture lasts for an eternity, hot tears ruining my face and heart beating so frantically it could give up at any moment. It burns, the acidic pain radiating in my entire body, my ravaged thigh throbbing ferociously. It feels nightmarish, so much that my brain seems to numb me, in a last act of mercy and love. Until I hear the butterfly knife close, and his voice, soft and deep. Wasn’t that bad, was it? Yes, yes it was.

Through wet eyelids, I tentatively peek at my leg, my heart sinking instantly at the bloody mess of torn flesh. It is hard to even decipher what he marked through the crimson ocean covering the skin and soaking the bed sheets underneath. Propping myself up on my elbows, I take a closer look at my lover from Hell, nestled between my legs and admiring his art; Victor pants heavily, face delicately flushed with an unmistaken arousal. Something boils in my stomach, a lighter feeling that makes me heave. Do you feel it now? he asks. The endorphins? You’ll feel real good very soon. I do not understand.

It burns again, atrocious and vivid, when his tongue, warm and wet, laps my wound; yet this time, there is something much more insidious, more sinful following the depraved sensation. The feeling is confusing, overwhelming, but a heinous pleasure replaces the discomfort and washes over me, making my sex throb and my nipples harden, a voracious desire to touch him, and be touched by him. Victor moans lustfully as the tip of his tongue dips into the cuts like one would lick a cunt, his fingers caressing the exposed insides, and through the agony I swear I can feel it in my core, can feel a soul-crushing liquid bliss building up inside of me.

Victor kisses my cuts, his fingers rubbing them open, and in a quasi delirious state I regret that they aren’t deep enough to be fucked. It feels numb, my brain doing a stellar job at occulting any pain and pumping me with relaxing and pleasurable hormones, and now I understand. Rolling my hips, I stare at his scarred face devouring me, begging him for more, more of this perverse and obscene pleasure only he can give me. He smirks devilishly, dipping his tongue in one of the deeper cuts he gave me, tearing the flesh open, and more burning pleasure follows as I throw my head back and wail.

My hand reveals my breasts, toying with an erected nipple, while the other slips inside my underwear, surprisingly soaked, and caresses my engorged, swollen clitoris in a familiar pattern. Victor slides his thumb inside the now almost translucent fabric, pulling it to the side to have a better view of my glistening cunt. I feel two fingers caressing my vulva, stimulating my lips, while the flat of his tongue licks the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh.

I feel it coming now, a devastating orgasm, sinful and immoral, about to crash and break me, one that will without a doubt forever alter my mind, distort my heart, and ruin my definition of pleasure, as I shriek and scream incoherent praise, filthy curses and his name.

Legs quivering and now a panting mess, I gently push him, beg him to stop, and he does, thankfully, after pressing one last kiss on my raw thigh. Nothing and everything feels right at the same time, but I can’t complain, not when I just saw the stars of a doomed sky with the force of a tsunami, despite the permanent marks he just gave me. Oh God, he marked me.

Through half lidded eyes, I can clearly see Victor’s positively feral state. Breathing heavily, an exquisite flush on his face and a vicious tent in his pants, I understand that we are not done yet. His fingers hook under the elastic of my underwear and remove them while I squirm to unclasp my bra, presenting myself completely bare in front of him. His reaction is immediate, passionate; he bites, until the skin breaks, until blood spills and I scream and shriek, thrashing on the mattress, mourning my pristine and untouched flesh, pushing him when he forces himself on me, scratching his skin even though it makes him moan louder. He defiles me, marking my breasts, my hips, and everywhere his teeth can sink in, sucking and licking blood, leaving less permanent souvenirs of his presence. The pain is shooting now, throbbing and lively, but he shushes my sorrow, kissing my new tears, murmurs sweet praises as if I was a lover, while he undresses.

His body is a beautiful abomination, adorning monstrous scars like discolored veins on his marble flesh. They roll with his muscles, hideous and protuberant, and all I can think of is my desire to taste them all, read the stories his body tells with the tip of my tongue, until there is nothing left in the world but a cacophony of pleasure and moans. My hands caress everywhere, fingers tracing his tally marks, but I do not see the corpses, I only see the life pumping in his veins.

His cock, untouched and intact, stands proudly, his glans a delicious shade of carmine; the first one I’ve seen in real life, but my inexperience does not prevent my feverish mind to crave it. Wrapping my hand around it, it is warm, throbbing and full of life; loud breathy moans break his throat and make my sex throb, but his hand presses gently on my sternum, keeping me on the mattress and making me understand that he’s reaching his limit.

His fingers caress my stomach with a tenderness that feels alien from him, before dipping lower and caressing my sensitive clitoris. I whine and moan softly, but manage to find the strength through my clouded mind to warn him. I’ve never… Victor looks at me quizzically before fully comprehending what I just confessed. There is a dark glow in his eyes as he bites his lip, a wolfish, devilish grin on his face. Staring at my sex with curious care, his thumb delicately opening my untouched hole, revealing my intact hymen; he hums deeply, his cock twitching with interest.

Victor spits a generous globe of saliva in his hand before spreading it on his cock, rubbing its head against my folds. The sensation is warm, soft and foreign, as I grab the sheets next to my head, humming appreciatively. A gentle pressure against my hole, and I look at him with slight panic. Aren’t you going to prepare me? I ask, but he chuckles darkly. Oh, no, don’t want to waste it. Waste what, I wonder? But before my mind can process his words, I feel him push. Oh God, he’s pushing, mercilessly, with no preparation, and it hurts, oh it hurts.

I hit his shoulder, tell him it hurts, beg him to stop, a now familiar circus it seems like; but Victor does not care, does not listen, or perhaps he does and enjoys hearing me suffer, in a true sadistic manner; he shushes me, encourages me somehow, until his cruel cock is completely sheathed deep inside of my pulsating cunt, splitting me in half, every single nerve of my body screaming and shrieking. I clench my jaw, staring at the ceiling, until I feel him remove himself in an equally painful movement. Victor hisses and moans, looking at his now bloodied cock, my blood on his cock, as if it is the most beautiful sight in the world; that viscous blood glistening and beaming on his angry cock. He pants loudly like a wild animal, a thin veil of sweat covering his burning body, watching his sex spearing my insides, defiling my most intimate parts, tormenting my anatomy, blood, precum and other fluids dripping down my ass.

He rolls his hips surprisingly slowly and smoothly, but it is still too much and too painful for me, whining and yelping when his tip brushes against a spot too sensitive, or when my walls tense and refuse to welcome him willingly. His voice trembles when I protest, I know, I know it hurts; I believe he likes it when I’m suffering, maybe because he thinks that pleasure transcends pain.

After an eternity of torturous thrusts, I finally feel my body easing slightly, muscles relaxing around his cock, until, beyond the waves of agony, I can feel liquid bliss pooling inside of me, reminiscent of my earlier orgasm. I moan frankly, allowing my body to relax, welcoming all of his vigor and brutality, and Victor hums, caressing my face and kissing my forehead. Good girl.

His pace quickens now, thrusting fiercely inside of my aching hole, his hand lifting my knee to give him a deeper angle while he groans like a wolf and I wail and cry out, entire body sore and all of my senses assaulted, unsure what I’m feeling, unsure if this is the proper way to do it, all I know is that I have too much of it and also not enough, that I need it to end but also need it to continue, with the wounds on my thighs viciously throbbing again as his sides brushes against them. He looks at my blood, splattered on his lower stomach, on my inner thighs, cursing under his breath, in a quasi delirious state, proud and aroused. He moans louder when his thrusts get more frantic, more irregular, choking the air out of my lungs when his hips give up and his orgasm comes, devastating and brutal, in an animalistic groan.

He stills, spent and panting, almost wheezing, body covered in sweat, until he removes himself, slowly, carefully. His come drips out of my hole in a pink shade, his cock glistening and crimson; his trembling hand pumps himself, spreads my blood on his length in breathy moans. My cunt aches and throbs in agony, used and open for the first time by Victor Zsasz.

He does not roll over and hold me like one would expect from a lover. This bothers me, somehow. Instead, he leaves the bedroom with his clothes in his arms and goes to clean himself, leaving me bare and shaking on the bed, with the limpness of a corpse; and truthfully, I am not sure he didn’t kill me, metaphorically speaking. There is a cruel clarity unveiling my vision, one that should make me feel awful, ashamed even of this aberrant night, but I feel content, satisfied, as if this improper desire, this filthy pleasure was always inside of me, all it needed was a Victor Zsasz to nurture it.

When Victor comes back, he looks as impeccable as he normally does, dry and freshened up, holding his coat over his arm. I cock a brow at my phone in his hand, typing something, while I’m wondering how he found it and how he unlocked it. I should be upset, but I am too drained to protest. He throws my phone on the mattress, right next to me, offering me a polite smile and nodding in my direction.

Call me if you want to play again is all he says before leaving my apartment, leaving me with an agonizing body and much to think of.

#victor zsasz #victor szasz x reader #batman rogues #fanfic #my writing

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