Work Text:
I.
You read once that snakes, while being adept predators, have terrible eyesight. The man in the office eyes you the way you imagine a snake would eye its prey: with glee. Snakes disgust you. They slither across the earth, their blood cold and their tongue acrid. Foul creatures, snakes. The man in the office waves his hand in what he assumes is a beckoning gesture. To you, it’s a rattle shaking amid soil. You stand and walk toward his desk with an uncertain gait. You know he enjoys seeing you… rattled. But the knowledge of what’s to come weighs on your spine and makes your legs quiver in fear.
“I was about to leave, sir.”
“My dear, you work so hard. Come have a drink with me.”
The office is scarcely lit; you wonder if the absence of light is to hide his revolting behavior or to frighten you. Probably both.
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir, I’m driving home.”
He stands. He may be a soulless vermin, but he is tall and hefty. You stand near one of the chairs, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He walks around the desk and stretches out his hand, coarse fingers tangling themselves in a loose strand of hair.
“Such a beautiful girl shouldn’t be working as a meek assistant. You can do more than that, sweetheart.”
You recoil as subtly as you can. He has made advances a few times before, gauging your reactions, reveling in your discomfort and fear. He started with seemingly innocent touches, and your reticence emboldened him. He has clawed at your breasts; he has dropped pens on the floor to make you bend over and rut his groin against your ass. He has grabbed your shaking hand and dipped it in his pants. And he is the CEO of the company and a close friend of the mayor. You’re nobody. You’re nothing. A body to grope, to violate, to discard. You’re all alone in a dark office with a powerful man who has escalated his harassment with keen precision until he can culminate it with the ultimate violation.
He steps forward once, then again, then one more time. His sour breath reaches you. “My girl, my hard-working girl.”
You close your eyes. “Please, sir. I just want to go home. I’ll be in first thing tomorrow, as usual.”
You hate how pathetic you sound. But you cannot risk angering him. You cannot risk losing this job. This putrid snake before you rests every night upon piles of money and he pays you barely enough to survive. Yet you need his crumbs. An oily hand makes its way into your skirt, and a sob escapes you.
“Please, don’t.”
He lets out a lecherous moan, and you realize your helplessness turns him on even more. You open your eyes when you feel his mouth on yours, slimy and rancid. Just as you muster enough strength to step back, you spot a quick movement behind him. A glint catches your eye— no, there are two shimmers in the dark. One stationary, one whooshing downward. The man in front of you stumbles, and then there’s the glint again, crashing down on his skull. His eyes roll back, missing your shocked expression as you watch him fall on the ground with a dull thud. Somehow, you had managed to actually step back, avoiding being crushed under him as he fell. The glint is raised and brought down again, and again, and again. It’s a tool you recognize as a carpet tucker, held by a figure clad in dark clothing.
Their face is covered by a mask, and a pair of plastic-rimmed glasses rests upon it, framing eyes that slowly meet yours. They are breathing heavily, body casually straddling the dead man on the floor. You look into those eyes, your own frantic and wide. You realize the rapid breaths you hear are yours, not theirs. Your heart is beating so fast you fear it will pump right out of your chest. How have you not fainted? You’re paralyzed, but as you take in the figure in front of you, a realization hits you. You don’t feel afraid. Your inability to move answers more to the shock of witnessing a man being murdered in cold blood right in front of you. This stranger seems entirely uninterested in you. Still, you feel the need to ask. To confirm.
“Are you going to kill me, too?”
Your voice isn’t as steady as you wanted, but they heard you. They raise themselves off the body of the man who was going to rape you, tucker still in hand. You see that it’s a man, just as tall as the dead man. His clothes are baggy so his frame is ill-defined.
“No.”
His voice startles you. It’s deep and… morose. The voice of a phantom. You find yourself nodding, breaths still uneven, pulse still racing. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug, eh? It’s allowing you to stand across this ominous silhouette; it’s enabling you to look it in the eye and ask one more question.
“Are you going to rape me? He was going to rape me.”
It feels good to say it aloud. To vocalize his aim, to name his intent. Even if it’s just to yourself, and now to this almost otherworldly being. He steps forward, just once. He remains far enough to allow you a sense of security, which you deem much too thoughtful for someone capable of killing so viciously.
“You wouldn’t have been the first.”
You flinch, closing your eyes. Exhaustion sweeps across your entire body. Shit, you’re going to have to spend money on a taxi, cause you sure as fuck can’t drive in this state.
“I wish you wouldn’t have made it as quick, but I guess I can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” You turn away before he replies, shuffling out of the office.
“I’ll bear that suggestion in mind for the next one.”
You stop. The next one. Fuck it. If they’re all rapists, they have it coming. If not, well, not your problem. You’re alive. They aren’t. That’s all that matters for now.
II.
You had wanted to call your one friend, but decided against it. You felt so ashamed, so repulsive. The reek of the CEO lingered on your skin, his taste still attached to your mouth. You got home and spent forty minutes standing in your tiny shower, the remnants of hot water somewhere in the corners of the tiled floor.
The following hours are but a blur. You didn’t sleep, nor did you eat. You saw the news of the murder in your small TV, and opened the door to police officers indifferent to your wrecked state. They asked you questions about the murdered man, about the time you left his office, about any disturbances you may have noticed. One of them looked at you with a doubtful eye, but since the killer had been rather flashy in his endeavor, you weren’t really a suspect.
He called himself The Riddler. After you left, he took his time with the CEO, carving big, red letters on his skin. He also severed the CEO’s penis and put it in his mouth. You couldn’t help chuckling at that. It was the only respite you were able to get in two days. Your mind’s eye conjures all sorts of images: what would have happened if the killer hadn’t been there; what would have happened if he hadn’t shown you mercy. He was an armed man, a faceless man in a dark room with you. He could have done what the CEO was going to do, and he didn’t. He chose not to. That… kindness has given you a bit of room to breathe, to continue existing in this unkind world.
At the same time, however, you hate how vulnerable you are to men’s many violences. The Riddler may have spared you sexual assault, but he could have easily killed you. That carpet tucker could have ended up crashing against your skull, too. Your flesh is seen as fair game by all of these men: the patrons at the diner you worked at before; the fellow pedestrians on the street, your neighbors and your colleagues. A deranged killer in a predator’s office. But when your mind evokes his figure, all you can feel is… relief. Gratitude. You hate that, too. Being grateful for not getting raped or murdered!
You haven’t slept in three days and your stomach refuses any solids. You subsist on chicken soup and short moments of darkness when you close your eyes in the shower. People have called you insistently, but you disregard them. Your nerves are so frayed that the mere thought of seeing others, of being perceived by others makes you gasp and tremble. I’m fine, just tired. You don’t want them to call the cops on you, so you throw them a bone.
You sit in your living room, gloomy save for the glow of your laptop. You’re on the brink of exhaustion, but sleep eludes you. The CEO will loom in your mind as soon as you close your eyes. His foul stench and greasy touch haunt any attempt at rest. His taunting words echo deep inside.
“He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead…” your chant is your own meager attempt at consolation. You move to change the video when a shadow catches your attention.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you mumble when your brain recognizes it. It’s the same silhouette that killed the CEO four days prior. The same silver glint amidst the darkness. The Riddler. He’s standing unnaturally still, practically blending into the surrounding shadows.
“What are you doing here?”
He does not reply; he only steps forward, and you notice he has a toolbox in his left hand. You cannot deny it makes sense: you are a loose end. However, what stands near you strikes you less as a man and more as man-shaped apparition. What on Earth could you say about him? You have encountered him in under-lit rooms, and he sports an outfit that literally obscures all of his features. Gotham has no shortage of tall men. He is one in a pool of millions.
A tired sigh leaves your mouth. “What took you so long? You could have spared me three nights of insomnia.” If you’re gonna get fucking murdered, you might as well make the best of it. Fuck with him a little. Your mind tries to remember the riddles you learned as a child. You cannot think of a single one.
“I’m not here to kill you.”
His voice is almost pleasant. It’s a little unnerving, but you don’t mind that rough edge. It… suits him. The sudden awareness of his presence and proximity brings forth a memory, a feeling. As your weary mind grasps it, he takes yet another step toward you.
Safe. Seeing him strike the snake-man in that office, seeing him slay that beast before it gobbled you up made you feel safe. That’s why your skin doesn’t erupt into goosebumps upon perceiving him. That’s why your fight or flight instinct doesn’t kick in. Safety. The Riddler conveys, at least to you, what very few men manage to. Ha! How fucked up is that?!
“What are you gonna do with those tools?”
He sits in the armchair opposite the sofa you’re currently sitting on. He places the toolbox on his lap, opens it and starts arranging its contents. His movements are slow, measured. Your eyes start drooping. You grab a cushion from behind you and…
“You should start an ASMR channel,” you whisper as you lie down. He stops rummaging and looks at you. His glasses glimmer and you think you spot a dash of pale skin. His hands resume whatever the hell he’s doing, the resulting sounds soothing you into a descent. You fall into a pitch-black slumber, gloriously dreamless.
III.
Thirteen hours. You were gone from the world for thirteen hours. You ate some bread after you woke up, the first solid food you’ve eaten in nearly five days. You actually had the energy to leave the apartment and go to the bakery! The heaviness of that fateful night still weighs on you, but at least you have gotten some rest. You washed your hair and changed your sheets and ate more bread with a little bit of butter and then some carrots with salt and lemon. Not bad for a woman who feels more like a wraith than a human being.
He was gone when you woke up, naturally. Had he really been there in the first place? All you can remember is his frame folding as he sat down, the rectangular toolbox secured on his legs, the gloved hands moving methodically. Perhaps you hallucinated him; sleep depravation is no joke. Whatever the case, his presence, or the idea of his presence, alleviated your restless mind enough to grant you some deserved shuteye.
There is now a —disturbed— part of your brain that associates The Riddler with security. A shrink would have a field day with you. Maybe Arkham will host your messed-up ass soon. In the meantime, you shrug it off. Whatever helps you sleep at night takes a whole new meaning under the light of recent events, but sleep is the one thing you’ve managed not to lose in your life. If it takes a madman in a mask to help you keep it, then by all means.
You make yourself a simple dinner, you watch the news, you browse the internet for novelties on your acquaintance’s shenanigans. Nothing. As the hours pass you by, you realize you won’t be able to sleep. You sit on the sofa, eyes glued to the TV, mind absent. The sun catches you in the same position, and you peel yourself off the sofa to go to the bathroom and start over.
Your appetite is fickle; your awareness, scattered. Twilight arrives and you already feel the burden of nighttime between your shoulder blades. The glass of cheap wine you hold breaks into shards when you unknowingly grip it too tightly. You don’t bother cleaning up; you sidestep the mess and head to the living room.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Fuck!”
He’s in the same spot he was last ni— whenever the fuck he was here last. You take your place on the sofa, ignoring his remark. The cuts in your palm are —well, feel— shallow.
“A little bleedin’ never hurt nobody.”
He simply stares at you.
“I have a phone, you can at least text before you break into my apartment.”
You’re angry. You realize it suddenly and stupidly. You’re angry because he had the nerve, the gall to leave you alone the previous night. You resent his abandonment. A pitiful groan escapes you, and you lower your face to your knees, ashamed of yourself. Could you be any more pathetic? Of the two people in this living room, you aren’t sure which one is more unhinged.
He moves away from you, toward the kitchen. The lit kitchen. You raise your head, and there he is: The Riddler. He’s quite tall, actually. His clothes aren’t black, they’re dark green. The mask he wears doesn’t cover the back of his head; you spot sandy hair wrapped in… cellophane? He grabs a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water, then takes a few paper towels.
Oh Lord. Holy fuck. You hold your breath, uncertain of how you’ll react once this man touches you. Will you finally come to your senses and kick him the groin, earning yourself a nice thump in the head with a carpet tucker?
He doesn’t sit. He takes your hand, making you raise your arm almost over your head. He examines it with those disquieting eyes of his. “No shards.” He pours the water over your palm then shakes it roughly.
“You would’ve made a terrible doctor.” Yes, you’re tempting fate, you realize that much. It’s just that seeing him so closely, seeing he’s a man, not an evil spirit, not a phantom, not a beast, a man. If you had to guess, you would deem him lean, wiry. His baggy clothing are a form of camouflage, of disorder. He is mayhem, turbulent and unrestrained. And he’s cleaning your wound.
He turns to his toolbox, which you now see on the armchair, and pulls out a roll of duct tape. He presses the paper towels against your palm, then secures them with the tape. You have the sense not to laugh. It wouldn’t be a mocking laughter, though. This gesture from this cold-blooded killer is endearing. It makes you want to hold his gloved hand in yours. You notice he has slim, elegant wrists. His fingers are long and swift in their movements, and you clear your throat and look away.
When he’s finished, he returns to the kitchen and turns off the light. He then sits on the armchair, spine as straight as before, hands as efficient. You lay your head on the same cushion, watching him. His eyes meet yours from time to time —he’s checking if you’re still awake. You try to stave off sleep as long as you can, just so you can watch him arrange his tools. When your gaze finds his, the hands in the toolbox still briefly. The serenity his presence affords you is too strong to resist. Just before your mind succumbs to the grace of unconsciousness, you murmur something to him.
“Thank you.”
His hands still once again. If he replies, you’re not there to hear it.
IV.
It becomes something you cannot quite name. A pattern suggests structure, which you’re not sure you have reached. A habit implies routine —out of the six nights since his last house call, he has shown up on four. A ritual insinuates order and… observance. You toy with the last one, finding it much too appealing.
The Riddler materializes in your living room and proceeds to arrange and rearrange his tools, sitting across from you, keeping a watchful eye on you. He hasn’t spoken since he cleaned your cuts, and you don’t need him to. The rumor of his clothes as he moves from shadow to armchair alerts you of his presence, and his breathing is surprisingly steady behind the mask, lulling you to sleep along the rummaging in the toolbox.
It is his mere presence what settles you, however. His movements are languid to the point of being suggestive, and you have caught yourself wondering how much heat he can give off through those clothes. You think about the light shade of his hair, a stark contrast to the darkness he favors. You know his skin is fair for you have seen his slight wrists. You fancy him slender and lithe, like a feline.
Yes, you have caught yourself wondering many things about your guardian. Perhaps now there is enough familiarity between the two of you to allow some inquiries. You formulate the question in your mind in different ways, with different words. You speculate about his answer and what it could entail. Do you really want to know? Riddles have never interested you. You were bad at them even as a child, when you still had a curious nature. He seems to save those for the police, so hopefully he’ll spare you the awkwardness.
The night comes with its comforting darkness. Your friend usually appears at around midnight; he certainly has a flair for the poetic. The clock strikes one and still no sign. At two, you sigh and head toward your bedroom. The sheets are clean and cold; you haven’t slept here since that dreadful night.
An idea comes to you. You lie on the bed, face down. Your legs end up half-tangled in the covers, but you’re comfortable enough. No, wait. On your side is better. You come more easily while lying on your right side, and you’ve never given much thought as to why.
People you have fucked dance around the edges of your memory: an ex-girlfriend, Rachel, and her fantastic rack. Daniel, a man with a beautiful smile and a truly gifted tongue. Your fingers brush your nipples, hard at the thought of Rachel sucking on them. You slip your hand into your underwear, a long exhale leaving your chest as you find the hood of your clit and rub it softly. Daniel would always stroke it with the tip of his nose, making you giggle. When your middle finger finds your clit, you moan lowly in your throat.
A plastic-wrapped head flashes before your mind’s eye. It sports a green mask, but now the mouth is free from its constraint and it’s licking your cunt slowly, methodically. Yes, you murmur. He takes that soundless syllable as encouragement, and he proceeds to open you up further, grunting at your exposed wetness. His fingers knead the flesh of your thighs, but you don’t feel skin: he’s wearing his gloves. You still reach for them, twining them with your own, beckoning him upward. He concedes, moving up your body, and he enters you unexpectedly, making you gasp. So wet, just for me. His voice is a seductive vibration in your ear, but then his naked mouth is on yours, kissing you, prying you open like he did moments before. He tastes like your pleasure, but there are also remnants of coffee, of something sweet, homemade.
Fuck me hard, please, the supplication barely making it out of your throat as he moves faster, harder against your body. At that, he moans, loud and unapologetic. You’re mine, you have been since that night. You come, nearly sobbing into your pillow, fingers slick and thighs trembling. Fuck, you hadn’t masturbated in eons, and now you’re able to remember how much an orgasm can make you feel like… yourself.
The familiar drowsiness starts to take hold of you, and just when the darkness begins to get thicker and your eyes start to flutter, a sound startles you. You have heard it several times before and recognize it immediately: the rustling of heavy fabric. You sit up just in time to catch a figure moving away.
“Hey!”
You’re about to run after him when you trip with the fucking covers, landing face first on the floor. “Fuck!” This is not how your night was supposed to end. Your reflexes saved you from breaking your nose or your teeth on the floor, but they cannot spare you the motherfucking indignity. A hesitant shuffle makes you look up.
The Riddler is standing in the doorway. For the very first time, he looks uneasy. He must have come to your bedroom after seeing the living room was empty. You wonder how you looked from his vantage point, practically folded into yourself, hand between your legs, breathing rapidly, moaning. Jesus. No way to disguise what you were doing. And he watched you. He watched you get yourself off to the thought of him. You don’t recall saying anything aloud, yet the heat of embarrassment glows on your cheeks.
“Are you hurt?”
You like the rumble of his voice. His words are so sparse that hearing him speak never ceases to be a novelty.
“No.”
You stand. He’s not as close as you thought he would be; he lingers by the door, and even though his posture is as rigid as you’ve always seen it, you can feel his uncertainty.
“Well, come on. I was just about to fall asleep when I heard you. And now this little tumble has me wide awake again.”
You take one step forward, and then another. He watches you, breathing slightly erratic. You had never sustained eye contact for so long. There is a full moon tonight, its light flooding the bedroom, revealing what he so promptly conceals. You can see the tip of his nose and the smooth skin around his eyes: he’s young. His eyes are light, like his hair. You try to picture the shape of his mouth, the size of his teeth.
In your ridiculous fantasy, he had kissed you, though you doubt this man enjoys kissing. You doubt this man enjoys human contact at all. He covers every inch of his skin; his clothes are not only a disguise, they are a barrier. You’re standing close enough to be able to bury your nose in his jacket. You want to fucking sniff him, like a dog. Instead, you gaze up at him, taking an almost perverse pleasure in the way he flounders, seemingly shocked at your proximity.
He inhales, as if to speak. You’re expecting a riddle to stumble out of that covered mouth, but he just turns around and marches away, into the living room. His boots are heavy on your floor, his gait less assured than in previous occasions. You’re dying to ask him what’s on his mind, what he thought when he saw you masturbating. You don’t.
You lie on the sofa and watch him grab his toolbox and rummage carelessly through it. His agitation is contagious; you realize you won’t be able to fall asleep if he remains all jittery. Lying down on your side —your right side, fancy that— you decide to make him relax.
“Give me some riddles. Easy ones, I fucking suck at riddles. Sorry.”
You fix your eyes on his gloved fingers. They’re what your mother would have called pianist fingers: long and nimble. The thought of his leathered fingertips running along your thigh pads across your mind.
“What has thirteen hearts but no other organs?”
“Ooh, I know this one. A deck of cards.”
You see his eyes crinkle at the corners. Dear lord, he’s smiling.
“I have many teeth but I cannot bite. What am I?”
Hmm, this one’s trickier. Do birds have teeth? Geese can certainly bite, those fuckers. His hands resume his perpetual task. How many tools can he fit in that box? Your mind begins to drift, trying to find an answer. If an animal has teeth, it will bite. So not an animal. Which means…
“Oh, a comb!”
“Good.”
That simple word makes you sigh, content. Good. Yes, this is good. The Riddler on your armchair, with his toolbox, smiling under the mask. Does he have a pretty smile?
“What do you bury when it's alive and dig up when it's dead?”
“A snitch.”
He laughs. The Riddler laughs, and it reverberates in his chest and echoes across your small living room, and it sounds so fucking winsome. Who is this man? How did he become who he is? Will he let you touch him? Why do you want to touch him?
“That’s not the answer.”
You chuckle. “No shit. Let me think.”
Your eyelids start to feel heavy. What do you bury… the rumor of the tools in their box lulls you further. Seeds aren’t alive, so…
“I was thinking of you. Before, in my bed.”
Stillness. Your eyes are closed; the tugging of unconsciousness grows more insistent. You hover above it, waiting. He lets out a long, quivering sigh.
“A plant,” you murmur before darkness claims you.
V.
There are rumors of an acquisition by Wayne Enterprises. The snake-man’s wife has taken over the role of Chief Executive Officer, and the announcement came with a 15% increase in all worker’s payment. Your leave was also paid, and she personally offered you a bonus.
“Emotional distress cannot be monetarily compensated, but it’s the least we can do.”
You weren’t sure if she was referring to her husband being a predatory rapist or him getting murdered in your vicinity; either way, you accepted the bonus with a nod. It’s been nine days since you went back to work, and your sleep has finally settled into a somewhat normal cycle. The new CEO is demanding and intransigent, but at least now you don’t have to worry about being groped or harassed in the workplace.
You know the company’s generosity obeys to the message your acquaintance left; WEALTH HOARDER is not just blunt but threatening. So The Riddler is also directly responsible for your new-found financial semi-stability. You haven’t seen him since the night of your confession. Going back to work has taken all of your energy, which is why his presence is no longer sorely needed. You get home and take a quick shower and plop down on the bed, falling asleep right away.
You do wake up earlier than you used to, than you need to, so you spend those two hours making meals and… hoping. No swishing of thick fabric catches your ear, no glint in the dark summons your eye. You have masturbated nearly every night since that first time, hand moving frantically between your legs, mind twisted around the memory of his imposing frame, his gloved fingers, his obscured face. You’re obsessed with fucking him in that menacing outfit he wears, face buried in his neck, inhaling the scent you know lies under all those layers. His figure is so impersonal it borders on the abstract, like a figment of one’s imagination. You want him to slowly unravel under you, to beg you to peel off his mask, to open his jacket, to touch his warm skin.
The possibility of not seeing him again lingers in the air of your apartment, in the empty darkness that surrounds you every night. Your orgasms are riddled —hah— with frustration; the lack of texture, of touch, is maddening. You want his fingers, naked or otherwise. You want him to say things to you, dirty things with that strident voice of his. You want the comfort of him, of knowing that he bulldozes morals and laws but still respects you, your body, your boundaries. Sure, watching you masturbate without your knowledge is a strong argument against that, but you like to think you caught him off guard, giving him no room to reassess, freezing him in place. How often does that happen, a bewildered Riddler? Maybe your raging loneliness is prompting you to judge his transgressions less harshly than you should. Or it is perhaps your desire to get close enough to smell him, to touch him, to have him rumble your name.
You kick off your shoes as you enter your apartment and grab a beer out of the fridge. You bought some takeout on your way home and are looking forward to doing absolutely nothing on the weekend. You put the bottle on the counter, realizing it needs a good cleaning. Just when you thought you could chill all weekend—
“Jesus!”
He tentatively steps toward the light. The object of your most shameful fantasies, in the flesh.
“I thought you were dead or something.”
“Why would you think that?”
A smirk tugs at your lips. “It’s just a joke. Cause I haven’t seen you in a while, you know?” You admire his ability to remain completely motionless.
“I have been busy. I… apologize.”
You can feel your cheeks flushing. “Uh, well, apology accepted.” A pause. “You don’t owe me anything. I have been sleeping better, though. I had to get used to your… absence.”
His eyes are a stormy green; you can see them perfectly in the light of the kitchen. Would you be able to recognize those eyes if you saw him on the street, sans disguise?
“I can be hot or cold. I can run and be still. I can be hard and soft. What am I?”
You rub your chin and quirk an eyebrow. “The Riddler.”
There they are, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. His laughter is soft and almost timid this time.
“Just kidding, it’s water. I’m not particularly good at riddles but that one’s like for five year-olds.” You turn to the fridge and open it. “Do you want a beer? Can you drink? Do you even require sustenance like the rest of us mortals?”
His gaze drifts from your eyes to your mouth. “I’m just a man.”
Your grip on the handle of the fridge tightens a little. He notices; you wonder if anything ever escapes his attention.
“I don’t frighten you. Why is that?”
The million dollar question. Why, indeed? Honesty is your best recourse; you’re not even sure you can get away with lying.
“You killed a man who was about to rape me. I’m no psychiatrist, but I gather that my brain associates you with safety.”
“What makes your brain think I don’t pose any danger?”
You shrug. “You’ve had plenty of chances to prove my brain wrong. Are you just biding your time, then?”
He sighs. Funny how that simple sound humanizes him so. “No. I am… strangely invested in your safety.”
You see the opportunity and you take it. “Is that why you come? No other reason?”
He steps back, retreating into the darkness of the living room. “I watched you. You looked unwell. I didn’t count on my presence being…”
You follow him into the living room, getting as close as he will allow, which is surprisingly close; you can see the light hairs of his eyebrows despite the dimly lit room. “Comforting,” you finish for him.
He takes a deep breath, as if he were about to plunge into an abyss. “You seem to want me, and that… puzzles me.”
You jump into the chasm with him. “Do you want me?”
His answer is a trembling murmur. “Achingly so.”
Your hands grasp his jacket as you sink your face into his chest. A broken moan escapes you, but you’re way past shame at this point. You open the buttons, fingers shaking. He’s wearing a hoodie underneath, and you grunt in frustration.
“How many fucking layers do you wear? Aren’t you hot?”
His legs fold and he falls onto the sofa, bringing you down with him. You spread your legs to straddle his, knees pressed to his hips.
“I want to touch you like you touched yourself that night.”
You nod, face still pressed to his chest, and you blindly seek the warmth of his neck. He smells like metal and gunpowder and bitter coffee. You catch a whiff of sweat, and it makes you grind against his groin, the hard line of his cock deliciously pronounced under the coarse fabric of his pants. His breath hitches at that, arms curling around you, fingers dancing along your spine.
You straighten your posture to look at him. The green of his eyes is a mere rim ‘round his pupils, glimmering through askew glasses. He brings one hand to your throat, one lone finger caressing your clavicle. You take his hand in yours and press your lips to the leather until you reach his naked wrist.
“May I?”
He nods. You bite the tip of each finger until you can pull the glove off. Long, slender fingers greet you, their paleness gleaming in the dark. You kiss the pads, the edge of your teeth meeting the edge of his nails. He shifts beneath you, adjusting his hips, making you bounce briefly and lightly on his lap.
“Touch… let me touch you,” he whispers, a hint of impatience in his voice. You run his fingertips down your neck, your breast, your ribs. He grazes the fabric of your skirt before reaching under, finding the flesh of your thigh and kneading it greedily, making you move forward, seeking more friction. You push your panties to the side and press his fingers to the heat of your cunt.
A dirty oh leaves your lips, eyes fluttering closed. His touch is measured, uncertain. Has he done this before? You could ask him, but decide against it. You would rather show him how to touch you, so you take his thumb and press it to the hood of your clit. He moves it in small, clockwise circles and you shudder atop him.
“Good, that’s so good, just—“ you bring his hand to your mouth and lick his index, middle and ring fingers, and when he resumes his gentle stroking, you can’t help but lull forward, moaning into the collar of his jacket. “Just like that,” you exhale, aiding his touch with a subtle undulation of your hips.
He burrows his masked face into your neck, his breathing deliciously irregular. “Is this what you imagined that night?”
“Yes. Yes, please.” You need to release the heat building under your skin, the heat that makes you itch and ache for him. “Put your middle finger inside,” you think you order, but in reality it’s more of a plea.
He sinks his gloved hand in your hair and makes you look at him. With a shaking hand, you straighten his glasses. He slips his finger inside you, curving it just so, and his eyes grow smaller. He’s smiling, he’s enjoying your undoing.
“So pretty, so needy, so primal.”
His voice is thunder vibrating deep within your ribcage, and you give him a sultry moan in return. You untangle his fingers from your hair and press them to your breast; he cups it, then squeezes it, then leans forward, resting his forehead on the curve of it, breathing you in. His thumb moves against your clit in the same fashion his hands rummage in the toolbox: diligent yet languid. The finger inside you ticks up its pace, thumb following along, dragging you closer to that lightning strike that’s going to set you aflame.
“Fuck, I—“ you hear yourself whimper as you come, face deep in green layers, red-hot pleasure surging through your nerves and seeping through your pores, engulfing you in its blaze. Fuck, fuck. It had been ages since someone else made you come, and you realize how hungry for human contact you are, sexual or otherwise. He’s right: you’re needy and primal in your hunt for heat, for warmth.
In this moment, his body offers both. His hands rest upon your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh. When your breathing settles into a less agitated rhythm, you look at him. If his hooded eyes didn’t give away his arousal, the hardness under you certainly would. You find yourself hesitating on how to proceed. He’s making no moves to continue this sordid little tryst; he seems rather content just sitting on your sofa, fingers stroking your midriff absentmindedly.
“Can I… Can I touch you?”
He closes his eyes and nods. You scoot backwards a little, making room for your hand as it lowers the zipper on his pants and takes out his cock. You revel in its hardness, which fills your hand rather nicely. The tip is thick and flushed, and you brush your thumb over the tiny slit, wet already. He hisses under his mask, hips raising slightly off the sofa. One stroke, then another, then another until it becomes a steady pattern up and down the length of him, from tip to base.
“I thought about you and did this, too.” His confession is a bashful whisper, as if he were embarrassed.
You can remedy that. “What did you think about? What were we doing?”
A line of spit from your open mouth to the reddened head serves as incentive to be candid. A helpless fuck escapes the mask.
“Everything. I fucked you, and I tasted you, and you took my cock in your mouth, and I—“
Green leather is smashed against your mouth in a faux-kiss as The Riddler comes in your hand, growling his pleasure through the tiny holes that line the part of the mask that covers his lips. You feel the warm, sticky cum in your palm, but some of it landed on his hoodie. He’s still trembling beneath you, embracing you as his orgasm quakes through him.
It surprises you how tactile he is, how seeking of touch and receptive to it he is. The realization is sour: you’re both extremely lonely people. Is that why you’re so drawn to one another? Have you been brought together by violence and yearning? You rest your head upon his shoulder in an attempt to store his scent in your memory. He still has one arm curled around you; his right hand —his naked hand— is stroking your thigh with idle touches.
His overwhelming proximity makes you fall into an old habit: you start drifting off, consciousness waning. At some point, when you oscillate between vigil and sleep, you feel the fabric of the sofa beneath your back. You know he’s still nearby for you feel the lure of his body like a gravitational pull. A warm exhalation lands on the curve of your neck, unobstructed by his veneer. He has taken off his mask and is murmuring something against your skin. A riddle? A promise? A warning? You will find out when you wake.
VI.
The photos have been leaked online. They’re gruesome, yet you can’t look away. NO MORE LIES. The mayor’s thumb had been cut off —while he was still alive, comments said—. He left a riddle, but that tidbit of info hadn’t made it to the forums yet. The CEO is scared shitless; presumably she has left Gotham.
“Looks like fate doesn’t want me to work,” you had mused in front of your laptop. As freeing as not having a job can be, your limited funds won’t last long. The worry of starvation and homelessness hasn’t settled in your belly just yet, though. You’re more concerned about the perpetrator of this crime, about his next steps. You don’t have it in you to care about a corrupt politician getting murdered. You feel for his son, who had to see him like that, but the mayor and his chums can die a thousand deaths for all you care.
I have been busy, he had said. Now you see. The last night he was here, you woke up at 1 am on the sofa, alone. There’s a white stain on the fabric, a reminder of what transpired between you. The memory has become fodder for your masturbatory fantasies these past nights. I fucked you, and I tasted you, and you took my cock in your mouth. The thought of his head between your thighs is enough to make you slick with desire. You want to tug his hair as he eats you out; you want to grind your cunt into his face, making that fair skin all wet.
Is he handsome? The enigma of his identity heightens your attraction, and at the same time it makes it impossible for you to attribute any specific features to him. You know he has green eyes, but that’s the extent of your certainty. He seems young, but the mask can be misleading. When you stand near him, he towers over you: that’s the only unambiguous fact. The rest of him is up for speculation. You still suspect him willowy underneath all of those fucking clothes he wears. Would he let you undress him? Ridding his body of his vigilante garb, exposing the vulnerable flesh beneath also makes your toes curl as you touch yourself, trying to mimic the flick of his fingers on you, in you. It seems your sole existence is centered around lounging in your apartment and masturbating to the memories of a cold-blooded killer. There are worse hobbies, you console yourself.
Three days after the mayor’s death, he materializes in your living room. You see him as you make your way into your bedroom after taking a shower. Your bathrobe is a raggedy piece of mint-green cotton. You feel silly in it, with your hair dripping down your back.
“Please take my number so I can at least be presentable when you show up,” you joke.
He bridges the distance between you in four strides. Your arms instantly wrap themselves around him, head lulling to the side as he sinks his leather-clad forehead into the crook of your shoulder.
“You smell like cheap soap. I like your smell better.”
He’s pressing you into the door frame, and one of your legs is already snaked around his hips. “That’s the kind of stuff you could text me, you know?”
His face hovers above yours; he has such pretty eyes but they are obscured by his mask. “I can’t risk that. You have to remain… unsnared.”
It’s moments like that one when the reality of who he is crumbles upon you like a collapsing building. Try as you might to compartmentalize it, the man before you is a murderer. Your desire for him is as intense as it is worrisome. Who’s to say he wouldn’t hurt you?
“Let me see you.” Your request is a puff of air on his mask, a sheepish murmur part apprehension, part hope.
He snickers. “I was starting to think you had a thing for masks.”
You run your fingers up the back of his neck and realize there’s no plastic wrap. “I do now.” His hair is unfairly soft. You pull it slightly, and he hisses like a cat.
“I wanna fuck you. Do you wanna fuck me?” Bluntness is the only tool at your disposal at this point; it’s the only thing that gives you a semblance of control.
He grunts, head nodding his answer. “I have to push that thought out of my mind if I want to concentrate in my work. You are a distraction, this is a distraction, this—“ he finishes his sentence with a desperate roll of his hips against yours, grip tight on your waist. You should feel trapped, yet you feel shielded. You’re so fucked up.
“Only one way to ease that worry,” you whisper. You can admit, at least to yourself, that your answer obeys to your own desire to fuck him, not to a wish to soothe him.
His reply all but confirms he’s well aware of that fact. “You’re selfish in your wants, aren’t you?”
His question has sharp teeth, and rather than yield, you strike. “Yes, but at least I’m not a murderer.”
He narrows his eyes, fingertips digging harshly into your skin. “You’re insolent with me, but were spineless with that pig who abused you.”
You push him off, pulling your bathrobe tight around you as you make your way to the living room. “How dare you. You don’t know what that’s like. How fucking dare you. Get out of my apartment.”
The front door is wide open, though you doubt he’ll casually stroll out of your place in full Riddler gear. You have no clue how he gets into your apartment, but it’s too late to give that any thought. You’re shaking with rage, an undercurrent of trepidation flowing through the muscles of your legs. Did you open the door for him or for you?
He stands in the living room, watching you. “Close the door,” he breathes out.
You hate how, despite the dread creeping its way into your chest, his voice still makes heat bloom in your lower belly. “Or what? You’ll bludgeon me to death with that fucking tucker?”
His gaze moves beyond you to the half-lit hallway. There is no rumor of steps, no sounds made by neighbors. He walks toward you, slowly, as if not to startle you further. He pushes the door closed with two fingers. This is probably the worst time to have your back turned to him, but you can’t help but rest your forehead on the door, a broken sigh leaving you.
“Turn around.”
You cannot tell if that’s a command or a request. You obey regardless. You meet his eyes, aware of how pitiful the unshed tears must look. Unhurriedly, almost solemnly, he kneels in front of you. He curls his arms ‘round your hips and presses his face to your stomach, letting out a pained sigh.
“I may only be given, not taken or bought. Sinners seek me, but saints do not. What am I?”
Whether it’s conscious volition or proximity-based reflex, you fist the collar of his jacket and push him closer to your body. Your fingers twist themselves in his hair, and his reaction is a low moan that ripples right through you, from your ribcage to your cunt.
“Forgiveness,” you exhale.
His nod is accompanied by a long caress of his hand up your left thigh. You unfasten the straps that hold his mask together. He removes his glasses and when the mask is loose, you fling it across the room. He puts the glasses back on and looks up at you. Your living room is in its state of perpetual darkness, but you see him. You see him. He has a wide nose and messy eyebrows, and the green of his eyes looks murky in the gloom. His mouth, slightly open, looks soft and inviting. There is beauty in his face: it may not be conventional, but it is beckoning. It shocks you how young and innocent he looks, and you wonder if he would look as innocuous in the hues of daylight.
The ridge under his nose is very pronounced, and you brush your thumb over it. He takes the opportunity to suck it into his mouth, making you gasp. He looks so good on his knees, gazing up at you with undiluted desire. He burrows his face into your belly again, gloved hands running up the naked flesh of your legs, ascending further until he can pull your bathrobe open and bare you to him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs almost to himself, a note of reverence in his voice. He cups your breasts and grazes your nipples with his thumbs until they harden; he lays a wet kiss on your belly button and drags his lips downward until they brush your pubic hair. “You’re mine, all mine.”
You nod, muscles already taut in anticipation. Before you can ask him, he removes his right glove. His fingers are warm and the way they spread you open has you tightening the pull on his hair. His hot breath reaches you and you moan loudly as soon as he closes his mouth around the hood of your clit. A tentative suck, then another. One more and he speaks.
“Is this good?” You look down, half-shut eyes meeting his.
“Have you eaten a girl out before?”
He presses his thumb to your clit, like he did countless nights before. “No.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“Yeah, that’s good. Keep doing that, please.”
His mouth is furnace-hot and sinfully wet. His gloved hand squeezes the back of your thigh; his naked one presses down on your hip, keeping you in place. He has learned that flicking the very tip of his tongue under the hood while he sucks on it gives you a full-body shiver, and he does it repeatedly, like the eager pupil he is. You have banged your head against the wall behind you several times now, body entirely oriented to the warmth of his lips, to the slick of his tongue, to the edge of his nails on your soft flesh.
“Fuck, you’re a fast learner, you’re so fucking good oh my g—“
“Edward,” he says, voice raspy, needy. “My name is Edward.”
He punctuates his statement with a swirl of his tongue on your clit and you gasp for air, prickles of pleasure blossoming on every inch of your skin.
“Edward, my Edward,” you moan, frenzied, hips pushing toward him, as if seeking even more aching contact. You want to be devoured, to be consumed. You need him to pull the thread holding you together and unravel you.
He groans against your cunt, and when you feel the absence of his hand on your hip, you glance down. He’s touching himself; he has undone his pants and has taken out his cock, stroking it with the rhythm he excels at: unhurried and methodical. That sight, coupled with the nigh-unbearable heat of his mouth on your cunt shatters you. Your orgasm thrashes you like a wave, bending you forward then backward, body at the mercy of its ripples.
Your fingers are harshly twined in his hair, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Your lungs feel afire; your breathing is loud, laborious. So is his. He’s resting his cheek on your pelvis, taking deep breathes of air. You feel his fingertips —covered and nude— digging into the meat of your thighs.
“Edward,” you murmur. He whimpers, and the sound makes you smile.
“Don’t say my name just yet.”
He’s trying not to come. The sight of him is breathtaking: kneeling before you, face inches away from your wet cunt, arms wrapped around you. He is a sinner and you’re the deity his silent supplication falls upon. In the state you’re in, you would forgive all of his wrongdoings, as long as he makes you feel the way you feel right now. You are both divinity and acolyte in his wretched endeavor.
He finally rises to his feet. The way his face glistens in the dark is absolutely obscene. You decide to tease him a little.
“So when can I say your name?”
He leans closer, lips almost upon yours. “When I’m… when I’m fucking you.”
You kiss him, opening your mouth to his, inviting him to taste you once more. The remnants of your pleasure linger in his spit and you lick them avidly, relishing the softness of his tongue, the eagerness of it as it twirls around your own. He kisses you the same way he ate you out: wholeheartedly. What he may lack in practice he compensates in fervor.
You lead him to the sofa, mouths still hungrily attached. He tastes not only of you, but also of something sweet. His hands —big and svelte— cradle your face, and the gesture strikes you as strangely romantic. Your bodies dally by the sofa; he’s entirely focused on the kiss, on the tug of your lip by his teeth, on the brush of his tongue against yours. It’s in this insistence that you realize the finality of this encounter. The inkling of farewell is hidden in the way he presses you to him, as if trying to commit you to his memory. To learn you by touch, by taste, by heart. It becomes almost unbearable, this suspected ending.
“Fuck me.” You want to concentrate on something else: on his body, on his warm skin. Your hands have snuck under the jacket and the hoodie and are stroking his waist, his chest, the small of his back. The heftiness of his attire conceals how slim he really is. He settles you on the armrest of the sofa.
“It’s higher,” he explains, panting a little.
You open your legs and curl them around him, nudging him close. Since he has made no moves to remove his clothing, you don’t ask him to. You do wonder how thin the line between himself and The Riddler is, but now is not the time to ponder those things.
“Touch yourself. I liked seeing that.”
He obeys, gaze traveling down your body until it zeroes in on your cunt. His wrist undulates up and down, and you eye the flushed head, the vein that runs along the shaft. He’s got a nice cock, you think. Mindful of your precarious position on the armrest, you lean forward and suck the tip into your mouth.
“Fuck, fuck,” he whispers above you. You coax a little more into your mouth, then a little bit more until nearly his entire cock has disappeared from his view. You suck lightly, not wanting to make him come just yet. You release him with a loud pop and smirk.
“You said you’d fantasized about everything. Just wanted to cross that off the list.”
His mouth crashes down upon yours in a violent kiss. “Our paths crossed at the most unfortunate time,” he rumbles.
You nod, brow furrowed, an uncomfortable pull in your chest. He spreads your knees and pushes himself inside you, bending at the waist so he can rest his forehead on yours.
“Fuck.”
It’s more of an outline of a word; a silhouette of a sigh. You feel it more than you hear it: a puff of breath on your face, sweet and desperate at once. You lick your lips and tangle your fingers in his hair. He retreats and then slides back in, slightly harder this time. By the third thrust he’s found a pace that has your hips swaying back and forth, tuned to the rhythm of his desire. He widens the distance between your bodies just a tad: he wants to see himself disappear deep inside you.
You latch onto his waist for balance, and your other hand unbuttons his pants and lowers them just past his hips. The skin this partial undressing reveals is smooth and pale, almost specter-like. You rub the pad of your thumb over a sliver of upper thigh. You too want to memorize him, to tuck all these little details away in a safe place in your mind.
Edward is pounding into you now, and you love how fucking well he fills you, how his cock makes you ache inside. His thrusts are getting more frenetic; he’s gonna come soon, he’s gonna come inside you and you aren’t against that at all. There are measures you can take afterward, but now all you want is him, bare and wanton.
“Come for me, Edward.”
He dips his head and kisses you hard, a savage grunt tearing itself right out of his throat and into your mouth as he comes, shuddering against you. His hold is unyielding; his fingers are digging almost painfully into the soft flesh of your hips, breath like steam on your skin. The plastic rim of his glasses pokes your cheek, but you don’t mind it. You simply revel in the contentment this closeness offers. You stay like this for a few moments, tethered to one another by an invisible thread, one that will tense until it snaps when he steps foot in the villainy that awaits outside your apartment.
He finally moves, disentangling himself from you, fixing his clothes. You close your bathrobe around you, aware of the cum that’s starting to drip down your thigh. I’m just a man. That he certainly is: he has made a mess he has no intention of cleaning up.
The warm comfort that cocooned you moments before has shifted into awkwardness. He goes to retrieve his mask and places it back on. You use the robe to clean some of the dripping. He notices and you see his eyes crinkle. Smug bastard.
“I don’t know what to say. ‘Take care, stay safe’ is a bit disingenuous, don’t you think?”
He shuffles toward you and cups your face in his hands. You like his hands, you like this gesture, way too much.
“Things will get hectic. Gotham needs a thorough cleansing, and there will be pushback. I’m not the only one, though. I’m not the only one who wants to wipe away the grime. Someone else understands what I’m doing, what I need to do.”
You shake your head. “Who?”
He directs his gaze to the high window. You spot the yellow light in the sky, cut by the shape of a bat. Ah, yes. Gotham’s other costumed vigilante. This city can’t catch a fucking break, can it?
You sigh. “Okay. Just…”
You do want to say ‘stay safe’. Stay alive. You want to see him again, to touch him again. But the odds are not in your favor. They never have been for the likes of you. “Good luck,” you murmur into the leather of his mask, wishing you could kiss him one last time.
He reaches behind his head and unlatches the mask, then presses his mouth to yours in a sultry kiss. You sink your hands in his hair, trembling as you hold onto him. He kisses your cheek, your earlobe, your neck, before pulling at your mouth once more.
“I can be broken without being dropped; I am a drum that booms without being touched. What am I?”
Your fingers ghost over his cupid’s bow. “I don’t know.”
You get to see his actual smile this time, not just the way it wrinkles his eyes. It's much too lovely for a man like him.
“Be ready to run.”
He walks toward the front door, shoots you one last glance, and leaves.
VII.
On the day D.A. Colson gets his head blown off, you find a duffle bag in your kitchen. When you open it, you see what has to be at least one hundred thousand dollars.
“What the fuck.”
There is also a note with a question mark on the front.
Go to Blüdhaven. Maybe we’ll meet there some day. I like that thought.
Burn this note.
There’s a poorly drawn heart at the bottom. The answer to his last riddle. You’d figured it out long after he left. You read the note ten times before turning it to ash. You keep the scribbled heart.