Archive of Our Own

Two emeralds glowing with disdain and pride, his eyes burning holes in your soul; a forked tongue spewing insulting contempt, when his thin lips aren’t twisted in a condescending grin.

There is so much arrogance on Edward Nigma’s face, so much insolence that it makes your core tremble. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so dirty; there is something immensely infuriating to be blatantly disrespected by a man caked in a miasma of grease and filth, reeking of motor oil, body odor, blood and fuck knows what else. 

The Riddler is loud, so fucking loud when he gloats and reminds you how infinitely superior he is; his ego is blinding, glowing in a shade of toxic green. There’s something undeniably pathetic about him, a man child crying for attention surely.

And the Riddler is even louder when you accidentally brush his shoulder or bump into him. Offended that you touched him, but this time his voice cracks, makes you cock a brow. He’s not annoyed, he’s flustered. That might almost be charming if he wasn’t so aggravating. Instead, it makes you want to touch him more, in a way it’d break him and his aching ego.

You’re glowing, that night. You prepared yourself, performed your own ritual in front of your mirror. Swore you heard a hissing noise somewhere out there as you articulate your body. You look like a praying mantis. Feel like it, too.

All mechanical noises cease when you penetrate his workshop. Two green orbs glare at you, annoyed, impatient and something else, much more miserable, but exquisite to you. The corner of your lips curl almost imperceptibly so, chest raising with anticipation. He furrows his brow and raises from the stool he was sitting on.

“I was not expecting you. However, your presence is not welcome. I am extremely busy working on something of the utmost importance, and I’m afraid you are merely being a distraction here” his words are daggers, meant to hurt, scare you away. You don’t flinch. He’s furious. 

His jaw is clenched, while you walk closer to him. You can see more clearly how messy and greasy his hair is, how filthy his clothes are. Soon, you are close enough to smell him —an acrid scent of sweat, coffee, oil and something else that you don’t care to identify. You stare at his frame. Tall, subtly muscular, threatening. He could easily hurt you, you think to yourself. But he won’t. You know he won’t.

“Did you hear me, or should I take you to the door myself?!” he snarls, throwing a hand in the direction of the exit. And as he’s about to growl some more threats, you put a firm hand on his chest, interrupting him. It feels like it sucked the air out of his chest, and he freezes. Not a word escapes his twisted mouth, you only hear the clanging and clattering noises of the machineries. 

You push forward, invite him to sit back on the stool. His flesh is burning and sweaty under your palm, his chest hair caressing your delicate skin, his heart is frantically beating under your fingertips. His pulse feels like a frail bird who fell on the ground, disoriented and terrified.There’s a faint anger in his eyes still, but it’s mostly fear and panic now.

“What do you think—

“You speak too much, Mister Nigma”

He silently gasps at your words. Appalled, surprised, appreciative; you don’t know which it is. He could easily push you away, force you out. But he won’t. Maybe he’s been secretly wanting it all this time. Yearning for someone to handle him, break him in a way that would feel good. You wonder, when was the last time the poor thing fucked anything else than his hand? The thought amuses you.

Painfully slowly, you remove your hand from his chest and graze your fingertips against his sunken cheek. His stubble tickles you. You trace his bone structure until your digits reach his chapped lips. Your index finger holds his chin while your thumb rubs on his delicate and thin crimson flesh. He naturally parts his trembling lips, allowing you to feel his quickening warm breath as he’s knitting his brow in a worried look, eyes shining with a confused feeling. A silent plea.

“You always. Speak. Too much.”

Pressing your thumb against his slit, your eyes absorbing his own with a feverish sense of control, you swear you heard a soft whimper. Edward slightly opens his mouth, and your digit invades his warm cavity. His tongue feels velvety and wet against the flesh of your extremity. You smile, as you push your knuckle deeper inside of him. He shivers, and there’s a look in his eyes, a mix of fear, shame and lust. New colors appear on his face, beautiful shades of red, carmine, and rose. Edward closes his mouth around your thumb. You feel his teeth wrapped around it, the wetness surrounding it. Oh . It feels good.

You gently thrust your thumb inside his mouth, caress his tongue, rub his gums, feeling your own breathing deepening, and you hear more pathetic whimpers. He then ceases being passively invaded and timidly sucks on your thumb, swirling his tongue around your extremity. Tasting you. You cock a brow, pleasantly surprised, and smile. 

“You’re doing so good, Edward” A whisper, a murmur, a praise that makes him open wide eyes and strangle a soft moan. There’s something intoxicating about the noises he makes, about his vulnerable state. 

His body however remains infuriatingly still. Whether he doesn’t dare to touch you or doesn’t want to is unclear. You’re standing between his spread legs, his hands clawing at his thighs, knuckles turning white. Your free hand crawls on his dirty hair, he flinches. You firmly tug his hair, he loudly moans. Delightful sound. Shameful. Your thumb leaves his mouth in a wet sound, and he almost whimpers, missing its absence. Still gripping his hair, you make him look at you. His eyes are pleading with you, a thin veil of lust softening his usually harsh stare. He looks pathetic, in a beautiful way.

Adjusting yourself, you straddle Edward and sit on his lap. He gasps in protest and looks away. Too close, too intimate. He doesn’t relax his grip on his dirty pants. Looks painful. As painful as the erection you can guess through the bulge of his pants. The sweat makes his chest look shiny. You think that he’s quite handsome underneath the filth; under other circumstances you’d lick his torso clean. If he wasn’t such a cunt. His breathing is labored, his skin turned crimson, he’s tense. You put your fingertips on one of his hands, he flinches and looks at your invading touch

“Such big hands…” you run your fingers on his, pull on his hand until he lifts it, looking at you quizzically. You lay your palm flat against his, showing him the clear size difference between the two.

“Much bigger than mine… I wonder how they’d feel…” Edward swallows hard, and hums, unable to form any word. Unusual. But he’s shaking, oh, his whole body is shivering in anticipation. Makes you wonder what happened to the so pretentious Riddler. Yeah, doesn’t look so intimidating now, does he? Rock hard from sucking your thumb, panting under your most simple touch. What a mess.

“Would you like to show me?” you whisper, your eyes glowing like two diamonds. In your head, you hear the buzzing hiss of a praying mantis, and you swear you feel the skin of your back cracking, peeling, revealing a pair of wings. You feel fucking beautiful in the reflection of his eye-balls. Green mirrors, distorted with lust and fear. Edward shyly nods, and you put his hand on one of your covered breasts. He whimpers, and gives the soft flesh a light squeeze. His fingers crawl, rub, massage, explore. Edward moans. Shivers. Pants. Your hand caresses his scalp, and you sigh each time his hand moves. Your body is burning, and you want more.

You rock your hips impatiently against his clothed erection. He groans, loudly. 

“Come on, Edward. Give me more…” it’s not quite a plea, not quite an order either. He curses. Lovely. His hand grab the hem of your shirt, lifts it to uncover your breasts. He wraps both of his hands behind your back, fights against the clasp of your bra. He gets impatient, he curses some more, whimpers. He’s shaking. You giggle, run your hand in his hair. Until he succeeds, frees your breasts from the last piece of clothing covering them.

“Good boy…” you praise him, and his eyes sparkle at the validating words, an impossibly big smile on his face. He almost looks cute.

His hands are holding your breasts, thumbs drawing circles over your nipples. A warm touch on your burning skin. Makes you feel dizzy, as you close your eyes and surrender. A light pain shakes you, as he pinches your sensitive nubs. Pulls at them, twists them. They’re fully erect, they look like flushed pistils. 

He sinks in, swallows one of your nipples in his warm mouth. The surprise makes you moan, and you grab his hair, encouraging him. He’s sucking at them as if he’s starving –and he most probably was. He’s moaning as he’s sucking, licking, nibbling on your sensitive nubs. Smearing the filth of his face on your clean and soft skin as he’s eating your breast, stroking your collarbone with his tongue, nibbling and sucking on your flesh in a way that will surely leave marks. 

You don’t even mind his body odor; he feels like a starved dog grinding against you, panting, drooling on your flesh. In fact, his smell is animalistic, and so is his behavior, groping you, groaning, worshipping you. You’re not even sure anymore who is moaning as he’s sinking his teeth in the tender skin of your neck.

You rock your hips, grind against his painfully hard erection, to encourage him. He moans against your neck, lower his head to give your nipple the same passionate treatment while his hands slip the long of your back and cup your ass, accompanying your rocking movement. His touch, his tongue, his body heat make yours rise, needing more. Soon, he grabs the flesh of your ass hard enough to leave marks, making you grind against him frantically. 

Your clit is deliciously stimulated, and God you could fuck him right here, right now, but you don’t want to give in yet. The pressure of his warm clothes shaft rubbing frantically against your swollen folds makes you dizzy.

Where your name used to sound like an insult in his mouth, right now it is a mantra, a broken moan coming from his agonizing ego. 

You firmly push him back, he looks at you with a painful look on his crimson face; eyes deformed by lust, need and shame. You tightly grab his hair, he grunts in pain, and you smash your lips on his. It’s not pleasant, it’s passionate. All teeth and wet flesh. You devour his lips, bite them, suck on them. 

Force his mouth open, slide your tongue inside. You moan in each other’s throat, chins soon covered in drool, desperately trying to deepen the kiss. He tastes like coffee, his touch feels dirty, but in this instant you embrace it all. Your hands slip down his belts; after a short frantic fight you successfully remove them, unzip his pants. Edward pants and curses, until a faint plea escapes his mouth.

“ Please– ” he chokes on his words, then buries his face in your neck. You tug at his hair tightly, force him to look at you.

“Please what ?” you ask, firmly, coldly. Edward grunts, knits his brow. Feels ashamed. His green eyes turn blurry –are those tears? He whimpers, rocking his hips. 

“ Touch me ” Edward whispers, no, sobs. He sobs, and you release your grip. He buries himself back in your neck and shakes. You caresse the back of his neck in a comforting manner, while your other hand lifts his wife-beater to caress his sweaty stomach, tracing along his defined muscles. The touch makes him squirm and gasp miserably. 

You follow the dark hair of his stomach, and slide your hand in his underwear. His cock is so painfully hard and drenched in precum, burning and trembling. He lets out a loud moan and sobs some more as you wrap your hand around his shaft.

You pump him passionately, unceremoniously. The noises he makes are the ones of an animal, a loud mix of groans, grunts, moans. You feel him gripping your waist —some more marks tomorrow. A sharp pain —you feel his teeth sinking in your neck, concealing the unholy noises he makes. His hips moves, fucking himself in your hand, encouraging you. Mercifully so, you pump him faster, your grip tightening against his flushed dick.

You love the way he moans your name, begging you to not stop, drooling on your shoulder. It feels so good, you feel so good.

His breathing is labored, his body is drenched in sweat, convulsing and jerking under your torture, and it’s all too much for the Riddler. Running your hand through his disheveled hair, the softness of your caress contrasting with the frenetic rhythm of your other hand, you pull his head closer to your neck. Comforting. Soothing.

“Can you come for me, Edward? Can you be good and come for me?” you whisper in his ear, granting you a low sob.

Yes, God yes , he yells. His voice grows louder in a pleasured crescendo until you feel his grip tensing on your waist, his entire body jerking one last time, one last moan, and then a warm sticky liquid spurting, coating your hand and your stomach. And God, there’s just so much of it, you wonder when was the last time he orgasmed.

His drenched forehead still pressed against your neck, his irregular breath, warm against your flesh, you feel him getting softer in your hand. His body relaxes slightly, as he’s miserably and heavily crumbling against you. Your body is burning still, yearning for a touch, some friction, some release. But as you wipe your soiled hand on his pants and caress his hair almost tenderly, you think that this might be all he could offer you tonight.

Perhaps there will be a next time.