#Arkhamverse fanfic

[lawful-evil-novelist]

For anyone wondering before Arkham Aftershock gets really underway: They did properly reconstruct Jon's face.

Gotham is a shithole but idk why they would ever just outright fucking leave a whole entire fucking gas mask and open fucking wounds on a man in their literal medical custody.

[intriq]

chapter 1 of my fic;

I’m sorry I’m the one you love

i went w this title cus it fits how i perceive AK jason feels towards being loved (he feels unworthy of it ur honor)

keep in mind this fic is.. gonna be both fluff filled AND angst filled (did you think i’d ever let you and jason always be happy? lmao no. ur getting the same treatment my ocs do)

In the eyes of the world, you didn’t matter. You were nothing more than a pest, a filthy rat scurrying around Gotham City. Even if you haven’t lived here your whole life, you still became a part of it’s problem. Not like you had any choice, considering you were but a child. Long since abandoned by your parents in a city you’ve since skipped and left, you find surviving in Gotham just as hard. But it’s tolerable. You know how to defend yourself, with bruises and healing knuckles to match. Gotham wasn’t an easy place to survive, much less for someone who barely knew how the city worked. All you knew is that danger was constantly lurking, in every corner and every street. You had no wariness of who the streets belonged to, of the rules etched into its architecture. All you knew of was survival.

Scavenging whenever you could, stashing the little food you could. Of course, because of you being essentially new to Gotham you weren’t aware of the rules. Or the territories and who owned what. All you knew was to run and fight to survive. Perhaps thats why he took a pittance to you. Seeing you do your hardest to survive, like him. He’s a scrawny kid, like you are. You’re both doing what you need to, in order to survive. The first time he’d seen you scrambling to steal food in the section of Crime Alley that he’d gotten in exchange for selling out his parents, Jason felt like you and him would get along. Defending this strip of land was lonely, granted him few allies considering no one wanted to even attempt to challenge him.

The first time you two talk, you worry he’ll attempt to take your hard-earned spoils like anyone else had. You’d clutched them closer to yourself, almost glaring and poised to strike like a snarling dog. The only difference being the lack of bared teeth. At the time, you were more like a wounded, cornered animal. You’d been injured because of a previous fight, pain flaring in what felt like all over whenever you attempted to move. So moving around was futile, the headache that accompanied it being the source of most of your discomfort.

It was cold, as cold as the alley you called home was dirty. It smelled and was located right outside some bar that smelled absolutely horrid. A putrid stench that lingered and seeped into the clothes of whoever hung around it. The stench clung to both you and him, mixing with the smell of car exhaust, trash, gasoline, and the other smells that clung to Gotham about as well as it’s crime rate.

But that’s fine. Jason’s been sitting still, inching closer to you every few hours. You’ve been defensive, and Jason doesn’t quite get why he is bothering at all to get you to trust him.

The first week he meets you it’s all he seems to do. When he’s finding himself food he can’t help but let his thoughts drift back to you, the only other scrappy kid that has bothered to stay around in what is essentially his turf for longer than usual. Jason’s come to learn most of what makes you tick, for the most part. Like how you refuse to move when he’s present or even looking at you, how you refuse to eat when he’s present. Jason doesn’t even get why he still bothers with you.

And you?

You don’t get it either. You don’t get why this kid just keeps coming back. You don’t bother talking back to him, just sitting there and nursing what hurts. The alley smells enough to make your head pound and hiding behind the dumpster when more rowdy drunken folk stumble outside for a variety of things. But you make it work, you suppose. And you don’t mind how the free food that comes with his company. You don’t get him sometimes, though. Don’t get his tenacity. Why he still bothers.

But maybe it’s because you also don’t understand looking forward to his short, fleeting visits. But perhaps it’s the idea that the moment your stupidly painful bruises and whatever else is wrong are healed and you can move, that he’d up and disappear. The silence between you both is as equally unsettling as it is comforting. The faint chatter of drunken patrons from the bar you rest near is just loud enough to have the same faint buzz of insects. And the air is warm and putrid, filled with the hideously disgusting odors that every city such as Gotham brings. Just any other sensible Gotham kid would give you a wide berth, but yet here he is.

Here this random scrawny street kid is, insistent on getting you to trust him. He used to talk to you, or try to. His words were always met with silence on your end. But perhaps he only continues to try after the first time he heard what sounded like a faint breathy laugh underneath that sigh you’d made to cover it up. You can’t even remember what he’d said that had been funny, but he does. It was a stupid joke, something about how this disgusting alley was at least a little warmer and better than the colder, draftier parts of the city and that the warmth was the only thing that made it worth staying in. Truth be told you’d rather be anywhere but here, even back with your parents even if they just might barely give a damn. But it was warm and never smelled. Maybe that’s why you laughed, because there was places better than this shit-hole of a city you now called home.

Yeah, maybe that was it. Maybe that’s why he sticks around, you think. Jason thinks that’s why, too.

[riddled-with-fear]

With a little over two hours left on my poll, it’s looking like this Friday’s post will be Arkham!Verse!Scarecrow x Reader🧡

It WILL contain NSFW content!

(I’m a smut slut, sorry not sorry!)

Thank you to everyone that’s voted <3

[awsmedude]

The problem with being someone who's planned out a bit of this fic (Arkham Weaver) but also gets cool ideas for scenes and moments between characters is that I sometimes come up with scenes I think would be really awesome but I don't know if I can make fit within my story nor align it with normal Arkhamverse canon. Like, I have an idea of an introduction to Kraven where he kills Bane after coming to the Arkhamverse on the hunt for Spider-Man, but the only place a scene like that would fit is sometime after Arkham City, and my plans for Kraven require him to be introduced much, much earlier than that. Harrumph.

[batologyi]

Thinking about Pervert Arkham Knight rn. Don't ask why I made this, I just did

~~~~

He shouldn’t need this. Not with everything else going on. Not with the militia spread thin and patrol routes needing adjusting and another damned skirmish with the Bat looming. But when the hour hits, that itch crawls back up his spine and burns behind his eyes. That need—not just want—to be close.

His men see it sometimes. The way he disappears. How his eyes glaze over in the middle of briefings. He doesn’t offer excuses anymore.

"Mind your fucking business," he growls one night when someone’s brave enough to ask where he goes.

Because they wouldn’t get it. Not really. Not the way he gets you.

You, a civilian. Untouched. Soft.

So unaware.

It’s become ritual. Like clockwork.

When you’re at work—gone, predictable—he slips in. He never rushes. He takes his time, peeling off gloves like a lover about to get intimate. Boots placed carefully on your doormat. There’s a kind of reverence in the way he moves through your apartment.

Straight to the laundry basket.

There they are.

Worn. Faintly warm still, maybe. Panties twisted around themselves, innocent in their placement. It’s nothing special to anyone else, but to him? It’s goddamn holy. He kneels beside them like it’s prayer. Drags them up to his masked face and breathes in deep—almost shuddering from how sharp and raw it hits him.

That scent. That fucking scent.

He fists his cock fast, rough, biting back every sound behind clenched teeth. His thighs shake, his breath comes out in heavy snarls, and he doesn’t stop until he spills all over them—strings of cum soaking the delicate fabric, catching along the seams.

He rubs it in with gloved fingers. Pushes it into the gusset, into the threads. Like marking them. Like staining your memory with him even if you’ll never know.

Then he folds them back. Neat. Precise. Returns them to the pile like nothing ever happened.

He’ll do it again in a few days. He always does.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling bolder, he creeps in at night instead.

You sleep like an angel. On your side. One hand curled under your pillow. Breathing soft, lips parted. You look untouched. Vulnerable. Dreaming.

He stands in your room for too long, just… staring. Cock already hard from the scent of your sheets.

He doesn't touch you. Not yet.

But he takes photos. Hundreds. Fingers ghost over your skin through the lens. He imagines what your skin would taste like. What sound you’d make if he climbed into bed and pressed his hips into yours.

He steals things, too. Shirts you slept in. A used tissue. A pillowcase that still smells like your shampoo.

He has a shrine.

You don’t know it. But your presence is everywhere in his hideout—folded panties tucked into drawers, Polaroids pinned beside gear schematics, a shirt of yours tucked under his mattress, stiff with dried cum.

Jason knows he’s sick. Twisted. Deranged. But he doesn’t care. Because you're perfect. And he’s already made you his. Even if you haven’t noticed yet.

[crossistent]

[ebodebo]

Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)

—thinking about meeting the big bad arkham knight for the first time…consume at your own discretion.

current warnings: 18+ SMUT MDNI, dark themes, fem!reader, dubcon, p in v, angst, some biting (literally just one lol), jason being a little meanie, ooc bc it's hard for me to write him being overly mean, no aftercare, blindfolding, depictions of violence, orgasm delay & denial.

please heed the warnings before reading!

When the Dark Knight himself called on your help, you never imagined it would involve sitting on the edge of an abandoned shopping mall on Founder's Island, of all places, to keep an eye on a new vigilante whose name you didn't even know.

You had been sitting quietly on your perch for what felt like an eternity, your muscles ached slightly from remaining so still, but you knew that patience was key.

You glanced down at your watch waiting for the slightest signal from Babs—heart racing with anticipation, hoping for the moment she would finally give you the signal to proceed.

"You find out anything else about him, Babs? You speak through the intercom in your mask to Barbara, unable to deal with the dead silence any longer.

"Negative," she mechanically says.

"Does anyone know anything about this guy?" You question, eyes glazing over some military militia fililing in and out of the mall.

"His background is fairly limited, which is why you're there—to gather more intel," she says, tapping away at her computer. "Sources can't seem to agree on much more than his name," she briefly pauses, "The Arkham Knight."

"The Arkham Knight? Who calls themselves that? Must be a fuckin' lunatic," you remark, narrowing your eyes to get a better look at the figures.

"If only that were the case," Babs sighs. "He's shrewd and sharp. More importantly, he appears to have a vendetta, which makes him particularly dangerous. He seems to understand Bruce thoroughly—he's done his homework."

"Could it be an well-adversed escapee who made it into the city? Maybe Bruce left a bad taste in his mouth after being thrown in the asylum, so now he holds a grudge against him?" You prob, the uncertainty hanging in the air.

"Highly unlikely. No one within the asylum would have the capability to organize, let alone lead, such a massive assault," Babs states firmly, her conviction unwavering.

"Well, one things for sure, this 'Arkham Knight' may think he knows the ole' bat, but nobody really knows him," you say, making a conscious effort to ease some tension.

"His militia is heading to the north side," Babs states decisively. "Approach from the south side to avoid detection."

"Gotcha," you aver, using a grappel gun to maneuver yourself off the side of the building, and into the gritty dirt beneath you.

"Be careful. He's—he's dangerous. Stay alert," Babs warns, her voice wobbiling ever so slightly.

"I will. Over and out," you affirm, with a nod.

You make your way to the south side entrance, staying low and quiet to avoid the militia thugs patrolling the area.

As you approach the stairs leading to the generator that Babs disabled earlier, you climb up and squeeze into the vent, positioning yourself just under the entrance of the department store.

Peering through the grates, you spot several armed thugs escorting someone into the building.

Gripping the voice synthesizer strapped to your thigh, you bring it to your mouth and quietly issue a command.

"Got another three out by the front gate. Three more by the other. Need backup out here," you say, your voice altered to sound like a guard's.

"Affirmative," one of the men responds, signaling to his comrades where they need to go.

They acknowledge him and shuffle out.

"It's almost too easy," you think to yourself before dropping through the grates and sneaking down the maintenance corridor leading to the upper floors.

Bruce had already done the bulk of fixing the broken elevator.

All you need to do is press the panel behind the elevator door to reveal the large shaft below, where the fans, thanks to Bruce, are now stationary.

You ease your way down the elevator shaft silently with your grapple gun. You find your way down with ease, feeling a little overly cocky.

Turning to your side, you see two thugs that are sprinting over to you, weapons in hand.

"Shit," you curse, propelling yourself up to kick one of their weapons out of their hands, before swinging your foot across his face with much force, sending him to the ground.

The other is more stubborn.

He shoots at you, but he misses.

You kick the weapon from his hand, but he swings at your face, sending you back before he slams your body into the ground.

You use what strength you have to rock yourself up, slamming your head against his, catching him off guard, and sending him back off of you.

You haphazardly stand as he sprints back towards you. You swipe your leg across, tripping him and making him fall to the ground.

You hit him in the head with your grapple gun, so he'll pass out. You exhale deeply, catching your breath, eyes catching sight of a hazy figure to your side.

"Ah. Look what we have here. A stray bat," a modulated voice spoke.

You turn to face the person wearing a militaristic version of a bat suit. "Who the hell are you?" You gruff, spitting some blood out.

"Who the hell am I?" He retorts, sounding amused, before his voice turns cold and distorted. "No. Who the hell are you?"

"A fuckin' fairy," you dryly say, spitting more blood out.

He lets out a gravelly, mirthless chuckle. "Got jokes. Huh?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "I'm not a bat."

He hums, inching closer, his heavy boots making a metallic thud with each step. "It's in your best interest to not lie to me," he leers.

"I'm not," you hiss. "I'm just helping him."

He hums, low and ominous. "Didn't think the big bat needed help," he sneers. "Guess I was mistaken."

Before you could speak, a low voice echoed around the room. "Commander," a militia thug says, addressing the man you were speaking to, not sparing you a glance.

"What do you want?" The modulated voice grits, clearly agitated by his intrusion.

"Someone's hacked our communication system. Impersonated a guard," the militia thug says in a reverent tone.

The Knight lets out an irritated sigh, eyes darting to the militia thug. "Little late on the heads up," his tone cold and calculated as he gestures to you.

The military thug draws his gun up to point at your head.

The Knight holds his hand up. "Don't bother. I'll take care of her," he exasperates. "If anyone else slips in these walls under your watch, I'll kill you."

The militia thug nods, dropping his gun to a resting position.

"Get out of my face," the Knight spits, striding the thug out of the room.

"You're him," you state with complete certainty. "The Arkham Knight."

"The one and only," his tone is smug and oozing confidence.

This doesn't make sense.

Bruce said he never comes to lower floors, especially with so little protection around him.

"What? Cat got your tongue," the Knight jests in a sarcastic, mocking tone, boots clunking as he inches closer.

"No. I'm—I'm just in awe of how ridiculous that suit looks," you sputter without realizing what you're saying, anxiety clawing up your spine as he steps in front of you.

He lets out a condescending laugh. "Was gonna go for black, but I didn't want Bruce to get all jealous," he drags out his words lazily, sarcasm apparent in his tone, before grabbing you by the arm.

You knew better than to try and fight him.

He had a whole militia on his side and you, a mere grapple gun.

He moved you through several corridors, passing several militia men strapped with weapons.

He had converted the once cheerful, bright mall into a military base with sandbags, barricades, and checkpoints around the area.

"Must have cost a fortune," you murmur under his tight grip as he leads you through another dark corridor.

"The cost is irrelevant. What matters is the results," his tone is dismissive and arrogant. "And soon Gotham will see the true value of my investment."

You nod weakly, turning to look forward as he leads you into a room heavily guarded by more militia members. Your eyes glaze around the room he pushed you into.

The room was sterile.

It had a bed to the side, maps, strategic plans scattered across the walls, and various gadgets.

If you had to guess, it was a bedroom.

Though it was devoid of any personal touches.

Seemingly serving only as a place of respite.

"What is this room?" You ask curiously, staying stationary as he closes the door behind him.

"Rest room," his voice is dry.

"Why so sterile?" You ask, feeling a surge of confidence.

He hesitates a moment, deciding how much to reveal. "This room...serves its purpose. It's a place to rest and recharge. Nothing more," he says in a guarded tone.

"Why'd you bring me here?" You question with caution.

"You're a liability," he rasped. "I should eliminate you for the sake of my mission."

As he spoke, he closed the distance between you, his face inches from yours.

"What?" Your eyes lock with his, bile rising up your throat. "You're just...going to kill me?"

"I might," he answers, cold and dark. "If you prove to be resourceful to me...perhaps I'll let you live."

You let out a shallow breath. "How do you mean?"

"How do I mean?" He dryly chuckles as he retorts your question. "How do you think I mean?" He questions, already slightly irritated.

He bends down next to you to pick up a loose piece of fabric. "Put the blindfold on," he says hastily, ripping off your mask.

You jerk your face to the side as he does so.

"Why?" You timidly question as he presses the fabric to your chest.

"Stop asking so many God-damn questions," his words were icy and clipped. "You want to leave?"

"Yes," you whisper.

"This is the price of your freedom," he asserted.

"Put it on."

You hesitate for a moment before taking the piece of fabric and placing it over your eyes, tying it tightly in the back. Then you stand there, fingertips playing the hem of your shirt to try and suppress your uneasiness.

All you hear is a faint hiss from what you assume is his mask as he pulls it off his face, revealing a simple black mask that covers the majority of his face except his eyes and mouth.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, inhaling a deep breath.

"What's wrong? Nervous?" He taunts, his voice unmodulated, gloved fingers coming up to trace down your jawline.

You pull away slightly, not expecting it.

"Ease up," he says, his hand coming back up to brush up on your skin.

You don't move under his touch this time, letting his hand explore your body.

"Never touched a woman before?" You sarcastically question, as his hands skim to the bottom of the shirt, easing it up a little.

"What business is that of yours?" He asks, his voice a little defensive.

"Need to know what I'm working with," you jokingly say.

He jerks you towards him by your hand. You squeal at his harsh touch. "Make no mistake. I am in control. I can kill you or have you killed with the snap of my fingers," he snarls.

"Do not test my patience."

You release a shaky breath at his sudden change.

"Nod, so I know you hear me," he adopted his signature authoritative tone.

You nodded fervently to not piss him off again.

"Good girl," he praises, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt again, pulling it over your head and throwing it on the ground.

The tension was palpable as you stood before him in your simple bra and pants.

You were at his mercy.

The thought didn't scare you as much as it should have. Instead, you found a strange thrill in the unexpected, a pleasure in the unknown.

He steps closer, the metallic clank of his boots giving away his position. You can feel his warm breath on your skin. The feeling made your chest tighten and palms clammy with disquiet.

You jumped a little as you felt his lips press into yours with a blazing kiss, though your lips moved with much haste against his, moving a mile a minute.

What the hell were you doing?

Your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, but your body seemed to have a mind of its own.

This was a recon mission, and yet here you were, kissing the very same guy you were supposed to help take down.

The internal conflict was tearing you apart.

This was you bartering for your freedom, you try to rationalize.

But then, why were you so hot and bothered?

You couldn't help the knot that twisted in your stomach at the fiery exchange and the pool of wetness you're sure had gathered in your panties.

"Take your pants off," the words fall off his tongue in a mumble into your lips, almost as if it was an ask.

But you knew it was an order.

Your hands move quickly to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down rather quickly. Then, you step over them to push them to the side.

He hums a sound of satisfaction. "So obedient."

You release a sigh, notably unlike your previous ones out of apprehension.

This one was all pleasure; there was no mistake about that.

His lips press back to yours briefly but powerfully before his hands tug down your panties.

"Christ. Do you like this?" His tone is incredulous and skeptical as he sees some of your glistening arousal.

You don't answer, only swallow hard.

"Answer me," he commands, firm and detached.

"Yes," you swiftly say.

He huffs at your revelation, outwardly revolted though internally pleased. You feel his hands push you back until your legs hit the edge of a bed before forcing you to lay back.

You lay docile as you hear the soft hiss of seals releasing as he shed his suit. The creak of armor plating echoed around the room, followed by a rustle of fabric and wiring as the suit's inner layer was exposed.

His fingers skim your thighs, eliciting a whine from you as he maneuvers himself on top of your body. Without warning, his cock slides into your aching cunt.

He grunts at the contact as he slips himself deeper into you.

Your body jerks forward, mouth hanging wide open as he pumps himself in and out of you, gripping your thighs tightly.

He moves quickly and has no plans to slow down anytime soon, and you need to come.

So, you slowly move your fingers down to rub small circles around your clit, moaning loudly.

He scowls, leaning down to bite your shoulder in warning.

You hiss as his teeth sink into your flesh.

"Behave," he instructs, pulling your hand away from your aching clit.

He grips your leg so it lays flat against his chest, letting him hit a deeper angle that has him groaning.

"What would the Dark Knight have to say?" His tone is venomous as he continues. "Huh?" He urges. "His latest project getting fucked by me?" He grits, fingers digging deeper into the fat of your thigh.

"Should I make you ask him?"

"Ask him your fuckin' self," you grit out, trying to concentrate on the orgasm blooming in your lower stomach.

He lets out a harsh, menacing chuckle.

"Won't have time to ask when I kill him where he stands."

You lean your head back, mouth agape, feeling yourself on the cusp of relief.

"Don't come," his voice booms around the small room, clouding your ears.

"I can't—I can't hold it," you whine, squirming with desire.

"You can and you will," he spat, pumping into you faster—testing you.

You let out a strangled moan as you grip the sheets under you tight, feeling your nails dig into your palms through the fabric, attempting to think about anything other than your raging need to come.

He lets out an anguished groan.

You could tell he was painfully close—as were you.

While he comes, certainly feeling euphoric, you are left with the feeling of tightness and a looming release.

"Can I—please," you beseech.

A twisted smile you can't see overtakes his face hearing you beg.

"Go on then," he stoically says—like he's being generous.

Your fingers reach down to rub your clit with speed; it doesn't take much time until you're moaning loudly, and your arousal coats your fingers, even dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

Legs shaking, you pull your fingers away, trying to recuperate.

You aren't sure you've ever had a better orgasm in your life.

"Flip over. We aren't done here," he issued in a low tone, just as you were coming down from your high.

You paused briefly before weakly flipping your body over so your stomach lay flat on the bed.

He grips your hips upward, positioning you so your hands and knees are pressed into the mattress, making you hiss due to soreness.

Pulling you by your hips back, he positions his cock into your entrance, slipping inside you with ease again. You wail at the contact, still delicate—he doesn't care.

He pumps faster and faster with no regard to your sensitive state, fingers digging into your hips as he pushes you back onto him.

You're already starting to feel a tightness in your stomach, signaling your impending orgasm.

You won't last long with him drilling into you so rapidly, and the groans that fall from his lips have you panting and wailing.

Since he appears to like a beggar—you beg.

"Please. Can I—can I?" You plead, feeling your cunt start to tighten around his cock.

"Oh. You're not coming again," he spoke, his voice gravelly and breathy. "This one is just for me—just for me."

You let out a whine as you feel him come, cursing under his breath again as you are left with the feeling of tension and longing.

His breathing is labored as he shuffles to put his gear back on. You stay in the same position he left you in until he orders you to do otherwise.

"Get dressed," his voice is modulated again.

It's colder.

You slowly get off the bed, stand, and attempt to skim for your clothes with the stupid blindfold on.

He rips it off. "Leave. Now. Before you find I'm not so merciful the second time around," his tone was eerie.

You nod feebly, gripping your clothes and slipping them on impetuously, not even checking if they are inside out or facing the right way.

Turning on your heels, you head for the door you came in, looking over your shoulder when you hear his voice again.

"And remember, you owe me for not slaughtering you," his voice dripped with malice.

You turn back, forcefully pushing the door open as you walk with intention and speed toward the back exit.

He knew you wouldn't tell the Bat anything.

What could you tell him?

That the Arkham Knight fucked you so good you're going to be sore for the weeks to come.

You slip your mask on to alert Babs that you are leaving the area.

Her voice booms through the intercom in your mask.

"Find anything of interest?" She questions, none the wiser.

You continue to walk, half listening.

"You there?" She implores.

"Huh? Oh, no. Nothing worth noting," you suspire.

"Are you alright?" She asks with a concerned tone.

"Yeah. Just...tired. Talk later," you hurriedly say, cutting the line and making your way over to your vehicle a bit away from the facility.

The sex was transactional, you remind yourself.

Though, that reminder didn't stop the Arkham Knight's presence from lingering on your skin for days after the interaction, a haunting reminder of the forbidden thrill you'd shared.

Gotham's darkness had never felt so alive and so painfully tempting.

a/n: so, anyways...it's back lol

divider!

[capr1pengu1n]

be advised, no restitution comes tonight

Summary: Reluctantly agreeing to attend a Halloween party, once Jonathan sees you in your outfit, he can't seem to keep his hands to himself

Warnings: 18+ smut, fem reader (no use of y/n), dom!Jonathan, roleplay, costumes, corruption kink, choking, spanking, fear play(ish), creampie

Words: 2.6k

Notes: Happy halloween! <3 Hope you all have a spooky day! <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With a sigh, Jonathan adjusts the cloak that wraps around his dark ensemble, looking in the mirror with a critical eye. Halloween has always been his favourite holiday, and why wouldn't it be? The night where everyone in Gotham is after a thrill, a scare. And he'd be there to give it to them, pumping his fear gas into whatever nightclub room or cinema screening he fancied, watching on in glee as people screamed and sobbed at the intensity of their nightmarish visions. He'd laugh to himself, analysing their facial expressions, estimating their heart rate, placing small bets as to which person would crack first.

Ideally that's what he'd be doing now, but as he adjusted the ridiculous costume you'd made him wear, he had to place those thoughts away. Being invited to a party was not his idea of a good time, but he knew the optics, he knew he had to show his face, if only for an hour or two before he could slip away and start his own night of fun. And if some liquidized fear toxin just happened to make it's way into whatever stupidly expensive liquor Nygma would be sure to be drinking, then he supposes he'll just have to enjoy the show.

"Y'done yet?" He calls out to you, eyeing the bedroom door with slight annoyance. The sooner you both leave, the sooner he can get this whole socialisation over with. Muttering to himself, he checks his watch before the telltale creak of the door opening makes his eyes dart up.

You'd told him your idea of a couples costume, and he'd scoffed at first. It was only when you promised to watch some obscure french horror film with him that he finally relented and allowed you to order the costume in his measurements. But now he realises it was worth it, if only to see you looking so...delectable.

You grin as you walk up to him, long white dress trailing with each step. He watches your eyes go to the mask, and the slight blush that forms on your cheek as you take him in.

While he'd read the novel, he had never seen the film or stage adaptation of the Phantom of the Opera, only familiar with the mask that now adorns his sharp features. So he hadn't known what to expect when you said you were dressing as Christine. Immediately his hands go to trace the lace sleeves of the dress, bony digits caressing the pattern downwards.

"Jon...you look amazing." you say with a smile, the white mask coupled with the dark suit and cloak really making him appear more villainous. His stature means he looms over you as you speak, and the faintest trace of a smirk becomes etched on his face as he realises the effect he's having.

Not that his trousers hadn't gotten more tight the second he'd seen you, the picture of innocence in virginal white, your hair up and adorned with little gems. To tease you, he grabs your wrist and holds it up, pulling you closer and not letting you pull away.

"Don't you look like a little angel." he taunts, eyes dragging up and down you once again, settling on your cleavage shamelessly. Your breathing increases, slightly intentional on your part to make your chest rise and fall in an obvious way.

"Do I?" you ask, slightly coquettishly as you smile up at him. In return, the grip on your wrist tightens a little.

"You do darlin'...so innocent and corruptible."

At his words, you flush slightly as he bends down to run his nose gently along the side of your neck. The gesture makes your lips part, tilting your head and baring yourself to him as a sign of implicit submission. And he likes that.

"The Phantom wants the girl, doesn't he?" he asks, his voice slightly rougher as you nod in confirmation. "Can see why, but does she want him?"

"In the film she does...she's drawn to his mystery I think."

He hums in response, leaning down but stopping just before his lips graze your skin, content to watch the slight shiver the action elicits from you. "And what about you?"

"If it's you, then I'd follow you anywhere. Even in the depths of your lair beneath an opera house." you say breathlessly with a soft laugh, attempting to make light of the situation to save yourself the embarrassment of admitting just how turned on you've became by Jonathan doing barely anything.

He finally lets go of your wrist, but not before pushing you so your back hits the hallway wall. This time when he leans down, he does leave a soft kiss right on your pulse point, and the soft whimper that escapes your throat makes him grin.

"Jonathan...we have to go, we don't want to be late." You say, attempting to have some control over yourself. But he doesn't let you move, still crowding you against the wall.

"I have to get in character, don't I?" he teases, and you could curse his southern drawl for sounding too attractive in this moment as his breath tickles your ear. "I'm a very...passionate man after all, am I not? One that is hopelessly in love with the beautiful young opera singer."

His tone is almost mocking, but it doesn't stop you from biting your lip as his chest nearly presses against yours. Teeth gently graze your earlobe before he continues. "And my beautiful prey has stumbled into my lair so willingly, in such a temptin' outfit."

He punctuates his words by running his hands up your sides, thinking the fabric is too soft, too delicate for a man like him to be touching. But that is precisely what's turning him on, as he holds you in place. "Perhaps I should demonstrate to her the depths of my desires...show her what she's missin' out on in her pristine life."

His words act like a sharp knife, cutting through your worry of being punctual as he can observe your shoulders relaxing. To seal the deal, he brings his mouth to the side of your neck and bites down, leaving a mark. "So I can taint her."

With a shaky sigh, you nod, giving him the permission he was waiting for. His hands reach up to cup your tits, feeling the top of them roughly beneath his callous fingers. You arch your back a little, enjoying the touch despite the slight discomfort.

"Tell me my dear...are you scared of me?" he mutters, his voice taking on a dark edge as he gets into character, well, his version at least.

"Y-Yes." you say softly, playing up the innocent victim angle, just like you know he likes.

"You should be...these hands have ended the lives of many men who cross me, of men who think they can have you."

Despite the make believe aspect, your breath still catches and your hips still buck at his words, heat blossoming between your legs. Of course he catches this, moving his hands down to feel your hips, head dipping to kiss down your neck to your collarbones.

"And yet you come to me so willingly, such eager prey."

At his words, he traces his teeth down, not quite breaking the skin but giving you the threat that he could. You let out a deliciously desperate noise, almost tempted to beg but deciding against it. Jonathan always liked the thrill of the chase, of wearing you down and frightening you into submission. And you loved to give him that.

"What are you going to do to me?" you ask, proud of yourself for how convincing you made your apprehension sound.

"Oh angel..." he croons, pulling away to look at you, grasping your jaw for good measure. "Whatever I please."

At his words, he grips your wrist once more before pulling you into the bedroom. You stumble to match his pace as he takes a moment to look at you once more. It's almost clinical, the way he stares at you.

"I wonder what you'll look like beneath me." he says aloud, starting to circle you, relishing in the embarrassment that seems to radiate from you. You fight to keep still, fiddling with your sleeve before he settles behind you.

His hands go to the back of your dress, where you’d nearly cracked your back attempting to tie a cute little bow. Feeling the dress loosen, you know he’s undone it, before he reaches around to grip at your throat, pulling your back roughly against his chest. He doesn't move or relax his grip, simply humming and pressing his mouth to your jawline.

"You're tremblin' like a leaf." he says in a self-satisfied manner. "Maybe I should show y'the things I can make you feel."

Pressing his fingers in a little, the sensation of him choking you has a soft mewl escape your lips, eyelids fluttering shut. Your life is in his hands, both in the roleplay and in reality, and it causes your thighs to press together firmly.

"The pleasure that comes from fear, the endorphins your body releases when you’re unsure if you should run or submit.”

He hisses the last word into your ear, before bending you over the bed. You yelp softly, bracing your fall on your elbows as he quickly pushes the long white skirt up. As more of your skin is revealed, he lets out a guttural noise as he sees the matching white stockings and garter belts you’d put on underneath.

“Such a fuckin’ sight.” He says, snapping the elastic of the stocking against your skin to make you jump.

His constantly cold hands trace up to your panties, feeling the wet material beneath his fingertip. Smirking, he circles it methodically, your clit receiving a dull stimulation.

“Please…” you beg him softly, trying to grind down on his digit.

He wants nothing more than to drag this out, to make you beg and scream for him before he finally takes you. But he knows time is fleeting, and you both need to make an appearance soon. So he quickly pulls down your underwear, so they stay around your knees, before pushing a finger inside your sloppy sounding cunt.

“So wet…I knew you were secretly a dirty angel. Practically soaking through your nice underwear. All f’me.”

At his words he pushes a second one inside, stretching you out as he fucks you with a suprisingly gentle rhythm. Your thighs shake a little, and images of you screaming and writhing with his fear toxin in your system flash across his mind.

Pushing back against him, the rhythm of your hips moving forces him out of his daydream, and he deems you stretched enough to pull his fingers out, wiping them on your ass.

He fiddles with the zipper of his costume, before he gets an idea. Grabbing you, he forces you around the bed, so you’re still bent over, but are now facing the mirror you'd used earlier to admire yourself in your dress.

You gasp softly in embarrassment as you realise what he wants, but your eyes can’t tear themselves away from his face, how gorgeous the mask looks settled on his striking features. So captivated, you miss that he’s taken his cock out until he taps it against your asscheek, before pushing it against your soaked folds.

“Do you want me? Beg. Beg me to debase you, to corrupt you.”

“Please…” you say, needing him desperately as he grinds his cock along your cunt, never quite breaching. Holding his gaze in the mirror, you reiterate. “Please corrupt me.”

He grins, before pushing in, and your mouth parts into a slight 'o' shape as you’re filled. The ever so slight burning stretch only adds to the sensation, your hands gripping the sheets as he settles inside you as deep as he physically can get himself.

“Good…” he gets out through gritted teeth.

At your airy moan, he starts his even pace. The slick sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, and you have to look down to avoid the image of your own desperation in the mirror. A hand grabs at your hair and pulls, disrupting your carefully placed hairstyle.

“Look at yourself, watch as the monster everyone fears takes what he wants.”

You moan louder, watching your own expression in the reflection as you’re fucked. Luckily he doesn’t seem to mind when your gaze travels upwards, watching his facial expressions. His jaw set in a tight line, he looks at you with an almost sadistic expression. Like he unashamedly wants to break you.

His hand grabs at your hip, feeling the material beneath his grasp as he bunches it. With each thrust, the dress ripples and moves, and he looks up to see your breasts bouncing with each snap of his hips.

“How depraved you’re become, moanin' like a paid harlot on the Paris streets.” He groans, and you’d admire his dedication to the roleplay if your brains weren’t leaking out of your ears. “Such wanton desperation from a girl as delectable as you.”

You whine at his praise, unable to hold yourself up anymore so you let yourself fall into the pillows. The image causes Jonathan to speed up his thrusts, gripping one of your hands and moving it in a demand for you to self pleasure. Not needing to be told twice, you start to circle your clit, moaning out at the sensation.

“Good girl…need you to cum around me, show me how lustful and immodest I’ve made you.”

You nod, feeling the pleasure build and build. A sharp slap to the ass makes you jump, writhing in place. Sure that you’re makeup is most likely a mess now, you drag your cheek across the sheets to get a better look at the mirror, more specifically at your lover.

The fact he hadn’t taken the costume off makes it even better, his cloak moving with every thrust. You’re a little surprised his mask has stayed on, but you thank whatever sex deity allowed it to remain in place for the image it gives you. This’ll be masturbation fodder for a good while, you’re sure of it.

“Gonna cum…” you manage to get out after a while longer, his cock thrusting into your g spot with cruel precision now. He growls behind you, slapping your ass again just to be cruel.

However the stinging pain tips you over the edge as you cum with a soft cry, clenching around him. You keep rubbing your clit, prolonging the pleasure for as long as possible. Hands falling back to the sheets, you feel Jonathan slightly reposition you, before he starts thrusting harder.

Clearly chasing his own release, he grips both of your hips and rams into you, and his breathing patterns lets you know it won’t be long. So you keep letting out pathetic sounding gasps and whines, arching your back for him. He groans, feeling his balls tighten.

“I’m gonna fill you up, make you keep my cum all throughout the stupid party.” He manages to get out, before he’s spilling inside of you. After a few more shallow thrusts, he stills, basking in the feeling of your walls wrapped around him.

Eventually he pulls out, quickly yanking your panties up snugly so his cum can’t leak out all the way. You whimper at the sensation, cold and uncomfortable, but at the same time so...right.

“There…nice and snug.” He condescends, patting your ass before pulling your dress back down. Helping you up, he turns you around and holds your cheek, looking down at you. “Was I convincing?”

You nod dumbly, still frazzled even as Jonathan looks at his watch. “Good, if we leave now we can still make it in time to see Nygma relive his childhood years after toasting his glass.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[adhdnursegoat]

In the Event of a Black Out

Word count: 6.3K

Content Warning: minors dni, explicit sexual content, PWP, accidental intimacy, touch starved Edward, vulnerability during sex

Pairing: Edward Nigma X gender neutral reader (let me know if i missed anything)

Setting: Arkham Knight

“What did you do?!”

“I didn’t do shit! What did you do?”

“I would not do anything this stupid.”

“Oh, right, cause you don’t make mistakes.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Would you just shut up and help me? I can’t see!”

“Well, unfortunately, the one thing I have been unable to do is to evolve the ability of night vision… yet.”

“Can you not just answer a simple question without being a smartass?”

“Can you not be an annoying twit and help yourself?”

“Jesus Christ—fine! Don’t help. I’ll just flounder around until I run into a project and break something.”

You could practically see the scowl on his face, even in pitch black. “...Where are you?”

“Over here.”

“That is not descriptive.”

“Follow my voice.”

He sighed, and then you heard the hesitant sound of footsteps. Then you heard a less-than-ideal scraping crash. “Fuck!” Better him than you—you’d never hear the end of breaking one of his precious Riddlerbots.

“Marco!”

“No!”

“You’re no fun.”

“What about this situation screams fun to you?”

“It’s fun because we are now on equal footing.” You could hear the scuff of his boots closer, so you reached out in front of you, absolutely unable to see your hands in front of your face. 

“We are nothing of the sort. I assure you the blackout neither stole my IQ nor blessed you with more.”

“Ass.”

“Brat.”

Finally, your hand pressed, nearly shoved into something soft, solid, and warm. You reached further, drifting up higher to grip and grasp about, trying to sense your environment. You grabbed and touched what felt like a nose and cheek. 

“Hey!” Edward quickly snapped up to grab your wrist and jerk it away. “Watch what you’re grabbing.”

“I can’t watch anything.”

“Don’t be smart.”

“Said the smart one.”

Edward’s grip on your wrist tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground you. There was a low growl behind it, that guttural sort of warning he saved for when he was two seconds from short-circuiting.

“Just—be careful.” His voice was closer than expected, brushing against your cheek like a whisper turned threat. You weren’t sure if it was the dark playing tricks or if he’d leaned in.

“I’m always careful,” you said flatly, rolling your eyes—pointlessly, since he couldn’t see it.

“Right,” he muttered, dry as dust and just as warm. Disbelieving. Definitely scowling. You could hear it in the angle of his voice, the tension coiled tight in the silence that followed. “Come on.”

He kept hold of your wrist, his fingers still curled firm around it—less of a guide, more of a leash, like he didn’t trust you not to break something or trip a secondary security system just by existing.

You felt him turn, the shift of air as his body pivoted. The slight tug on your arm followed.

“Where?”

“To find the breaker box,” he replied over his shoulder, like it should’ve been obvious. His steps were careful but brisk, the sound of his boots brushing the floor just ahead of you in the dark. “Need to find something to orient to—wall, doorway, anything.”

You followed, letting him lead, but your free hand lifted almost on instinct—searching for something more solid than the clammy air and your own stumbling steps. You found the back of his shirt and gripped it, fingers curling tight into the fabric like he was the only fixed point in this pitch-black labyrinth of wires, half-assembled death traps, and rising tension.

He jolted at the touch. Barely. A sharp inhale. A twitch in his back. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t comment.

Edward moved again, deliberate and slow. You stayed close—so close you could feel the soft brush of air every time he shifted, the residual heat radiating off him in the dark.

You were just thinking that if he stopped too fast, you’d crash right into him—

Then he did. Dead halt. Your chest collided with his back, your momentum tangled with his legs.

The floor wasn’t under you anymore.

There was a chaotic scuffle of limbs, a clatter of boots, a muffled curse. The both of you hit the ground in a graceless, jumbled heap. The impact knocked the breath out of your lungs. Something sharp jabbed your hip. Something else—a knee? An elbow? Possibly pride—dug into your ribs.

And Edward? Edward groaned beneath you.

“Oh, for the love of— get off,” he barked, voice muffled, pinned somewhere beneath your shoulder. “You weigh a thousand pounds.”

“I do not!” you gasped, trying to push yourself up—only to realize that your arm was stuck between his chest and the floor, and your leg was looped awkwardly around something metal. A pipe? A bot limb? Maybe Edward’s endless collection of industrial cables.

You flailed. He groaned again, louder this time.

“You’re wallowing,” he hissed.

“Well, move, then!”

“I can’t move! You’re the one on top—get your elbow out of my liver!”

“I would if I could! I think I’m—ugh, I think I’m caught on something.”

A beat of heavy silence. Then an exhale, sharp and withering.

“Of course you are,” Edward muttered. “You know what? Fine. Stay there. Rot in the tangle you’ve created.”

“Oh my god—do something, Nigma.”

A pause. Then you felt him shift underneath you—slowly, resentfully. His hand slid along the floor until it found your thigh, then moved upward with practiced, clinical focus.

“Hold still,” he grunted.

His fingers skimmed the side of your leg, over your hip, then hesitated as they found the edge of something taut—a twisted strap or caught hem. You couldn’t see, but you could feel every inch of his touch through the fabric, every slight adjustment, every press of his palm as he followed the length of the snare.

You went still.

Completely, breathlessly still.

Because his hand didn’t stop at your hip. It kept going—slow, deliberate, dragging down the curve of your thigh like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. Like he was searching for something and forgot to stop when he found it.

Then it slipped inward.

His fingers curled gently around the tender inside of your leg, resting there, motionless.

Heat pooled low in your belly.

Neither of you moved.

The dark pulsed around you like a second skin, pressing in on all sides, every sound sharp and loud in the silence. You could hear his breath catch. Could feel the tension coiled beneath your body, his hand still cradled against your thigh, not retreating.

"Umm… is that… better?"

His voice was quieter now. Rougher. A thread of something unfamiliar wound through it—like he wasn’t sure if he meant the question, or just needed to say something.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Didn’t trust your voice. Didn’t trust your body.

So you shifted. Carefully. Slowly.

You meant to sit up. To put distance back where it belonged. But the space was tight, and your leg was still caught between his. When you pushed upward, your hips settled on one of his thighs, straddling it instinctively for balance. Your hands braced on his lower stomach. That was a mistake.

Edward’s muscles jumped beneath your palms. Sharp inhale.

You both froze again—idiots caught in your own trap.

Finally, you spoke quietly, “You know… this is a terrible way to fix a power outage.”

You felt him exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“Well, excuse me for attempting to assist,” he muttered. “Next time, I’ll let you wander around and trip into the elevator shaft.”

“I tripped over your bot.”

“I tripped over your clumsiness.”

That earned a quiet scoff. Your fingers flexed slightly against his abdomen. The fabric was soft. His body, under it, was not.

He shifted to sit up. At least, you thought he meant to sit up. But the movement pulled you in closer. His thigh pressed snug between yours, and suddenly his chest was nearly against yours, his breath warm against your face. Close. Too close.

The words on your tongue scattered like loose screws.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

There was no quip. No snarl. No breathless complaint or cutting remark. Just this—this moment suspended in a blackout, where the heat wasn’t from faulty wiring but from something pulsing and slow and alive between your hips and his.

His hands were at your waist. You weren’t sure when that happened. You weren’t sure if he knew either. You felt him breathe—felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath your own, the minute tremor in his fingers where they gripped your sides like he’d only just realized he was holding on.

Still… Edward didn’t pull away.

You weren’t sure who moved first—if it was you leaning in for balance or him shifting to escape the awkwardness—but the result was the same. You ended up straddling his waist, knees braced on either side of him, your hands resting against the firm plane of his lower stomach. His breath hitched at the contact, and your fingers twitched in response, pressing more fully against him without meaning to. The darkness swallowed everything but sensation: the fabric of his shirt wrinkling beneath your palm, the heat of him bleeding through it, the unmistakable tension rippling beneath his skin.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you. There were no quips, no insults, no snide remarks to fill the space—just breathing, shallow and uneven, caught somewhere between restraint and curiosity. His hand, still curled around your side, began to move with the kind of slowness that made it obvious he was second-guessing every inch. His palm slid from your waist to your lower back, fingers ghosting up along your spine as if tracing the ridges of some ancient secret. He stopped just beneath your shoulder blades, but didn’t pull away. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, as though he needed the anchor just as much as you did.

The heat between your bodies was impossible to ignore. Your hips were pressed against his, and every breath made your chest rise against his. Edward’s free hand had planted itself against the floor beside him, but you could feel the way it tensed—like he wasn’t sure whether to push himself up or stay exactly where he was. When he finally started to shift, you felt it first in the subtle lift of his torso, the slight withdrawal of him from beneath you, the way his breath broke against your cheek like a breeze trying to pull back from the storm.

And then—he began to pull away.

You moved before you thought. Your hand shot out, catching his wrist. 

“Wait…”

It came out softer than you intended, but no less raw. A single word, stripped of its armor, small and human and trembling.

He froze. Mid-motion. Mid-exit. His body half-curled beneath you, one elbow braced, ready to shift away—but your hand wrapped around his wrist and held him there, tethered by something far more delicate than force. Not yet. Not like this. Not when the space between you was still viscous.

Edward didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But you could feel him watching—or at least, facing you in the dark. His presence was unmistakable, a pressure in the air, a heat just beneath your skin. The room may have been shrouded in black, but there was no mistaking him. You could’ve found him blind.

And you did.

With a tentative drift, your fingers eased from his wrist and began to creep upward, cautious at first, like you were crossing into sacred ground. You didn’t rush. Couldn’t. Each inch demanded attention. Your hand traced along the inside of his forearm, brushing over the coarse hairs and the grime of whatever work he’d been elbow-deep in before the power cut. 

Higher, across the ridged tension of his bicep. You felt the shape of him there—lean and hard, the ever-present tautness of someone who never quite relaxed, never quite let go. Even still, even here, there was power waiting just beneath the surface. Coiled. Quiet. Unyielding.

Your palm followed the curve of his shoulder, pausing slightly as your fingers ghosted across the seam of muscle and bone. There was dust on him—grit clinging to his shirt, and probably beneath it. Your hand swept up further, seeking the sharp line of his collarbone, and when you found it—God—you let your thumb drag over it above his tanktop. It jutted just beneath his skin, elegant and severe, a perfect geometry of tension and restraint.

He still hadn’t moved. But you could feel him breathe. Not steady. Not calm. Shallow. Barely-there. Like the act of being touched was more than he’d bargained for.

You weren’t finished.

Your fingers skimmed up the side of his neck next, brushing over the tendons, the hollow of his throat where his swallow caught halfway down. His pulse was steady but elevated—a quiet rhythm bounding beneath the pads of your fingers like a secret he hadn’t meant to share. His skin was hot there, exposed, and you followed the blaze upward. You met the line of his jaw, the rasp of stubble prickling against your fingertips. And when your hand finally cupped his face—thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone—he inhaled—sharp and sudden, a breath hitched in surprise as your palm settled against his face, cradling it. 

Edward still didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Everything you needed to know was there beneath your palm—tension wound tight, reverence fighting restraint, a quiet kind of hunger. Still, he let you touch him. Not like a man used to softness. But like someone who ached for it, belied by the subtle tilt of his head into your palm.

He exhaled, just beneath it, a sound: not a word, not a moan, but a sigh, quiet and shaken, like he didn’t know what to do with this kind of contact. The warmth of his breath wafted against your skin, and you could feel the heat rising beneath his skin, the stillness in his body. And when you leaned in, the distance vanished.

Your lips met his—carefully, uncertainly.

The kiss was nothing like a storm. It was soft. Fragile. The first brush of mouth to mouth tentative and reverent, like he was afraid it might break both of you open. There was no hunger, not yet. Just the dizzying stillness of the moment, the warmth of his breath across your skin, and the quiet quake of a man who didn’t know he could be wanted like this.

You stayed close, thighs still bracketing his waist, your balance forgotten somewhere back in the fall. When his hips shifted beneath you—barely a twitch, the ghost of motion—you adjusted instinctively. The press of your body aligned more snugly against his, not in invitation, but inevitability. It wasn’t overt. Wasn’t obscene. Just closeness. A firmer weight. A sharper breath. The hush between you trembling on a new frequency.

Edward made a sound against your mouth—low, involuntary. The kind of sound a man makes when something slips past the walls, when sensation outruns logic. But still, he didn’t move. His hands remained where they were—beneath you, beside you, nowhere they shouldn’t be. He didn’t pull you closer. Didn’t push you away. He just kissed you. Slowly. Carefully. Lips parting in small, reverent increments, learning your shape by feel, like each pass of his mouth over yours was a question he didn’t know how to ask. There was tension in him—always—but it had shifted. Less resistance. More surrender. He kissed you as if he didn’t know what would happen if he let it go further. And maybe didn’t care.

Your hand still cradled his face, thumb stroking gently along his cheekbone. And even in the dark, even with the faint hum of electricity still dead in the walls, you could feel how vulnerable this made him. Not the position. Not the kiss. The silence. The lack of mask. The absence of pretense.

And Edward—bitter, brilliant, impossible Edward—didn’t run.

Not yet.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak, if either of you dared. His breath was warm against your lips, shallow and quiet.. You swallowed. Let your thumb trace the sharp cut of his jaw. 

“You’re… really not going to say anything?”

A pause. His voice was low, rough with the kind of restraint that wasn’t physical. “Do you want me to?”

You considered it. The silence was heavy again—but not cold. Not distant. It was the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like steam.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted softly. “I don’t think I want this to be clever.”

That made something in him twitch. A tiny breath of laughter. Bitter. Fond. “Then I’ll ruin it if I speak.”

“You won’t.”

You weren’t sure if he believed you. But he didn’t argue. And that silence was permission enough.

Not wanting to shatter whatever held so still between you, one of your hands drifted slowly down from his face to his chest, fingertips brushing over the collar of his open shirt, then flattening against the fabric of his tanktop. You felt the shape of him there—his ribs tight beneath your palms, the subtle tremble in his breath. And beneath all that, his heartbeat—wild, pounding, almost furious in its rhythm.

It wasn’t the beat of calm desire. It was something feral. Caged. Desperate. And that was the moment you realized: you could take this further. Right here. You had him—beneath you, under your hands, lips parted from that last kiss, body tense not with refusal but with restraint. He was saying nothing, but his body wasn’t still. His hips had shifted again, just enough that you were more keenly aware of the pressure where yours met. His jaw clenched under your touch. 

He was open. He was wanting.

You leaned down, breath catching as you pressed your mouth to the corner of his again—slower this time, but not softer. Testing. Asking. And the moment he turned his head into it, meeting your kiss with equal force, it shifted. All of it.

Edward’s lips parted beneath yours, and the kiss turned sharp, breathless, teeth catching in the drag between mouths. It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was something pulled from the chest like a secret too long withheld. Something desperate. You gasped against him as his hips pushed upward into yours, the sudden press of friction making your spine arch. Still, he didn’t touch you with his hands—but his mouth spoke in movements. In the way he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every taste, every inhale, every sound you gave him.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging it up, baring a strip of skin beneath your palm. His stomach was hot. Tense. You felt the twitch of muscle beneath your touch, felt his breath stutter as your hand slid lower.

Still no words. Just heat. Just breath. Just that storm blooming under your skin like something inevitable.

He broke the kiss first—not with retreat, but to catch his breath, forehead tipping to yours. You could feel the tremor in him, the war he was still waging with himself, even as his body betrayed him moment by moment.

You let your hand slide over his ribs, feeling every tense divot and line. 

“You’re not stopping me,” you murmured.

A beat. Then, softly—harshly—he answered: “I can’t.”

The words left him like a confession. Rough, low, barely there. But you heard it. Felt it—in the way his breath hitched against your cheek, in the way his body arched beneath yours like he was no longer holding anything back. Not logic. Not resistance. Not fear. Just need.

It started slow—still restrained, still cautious. But when your lips found his again, when you rolled your hips just once, deliberately, against the pressure growing between you, that final thread snapped.

His hands moved. Fast.

They surged from the floor like they’d been yanked by gravity—one gripping your waist, the other sliding up your back and into your hair. His fingers threaded through it, not gently, not thoughtfully, but desperately, pulling you down into him as his mouth claimed yours with a heat that hadn’t been there before. This wasn’t soft anymore. This was hunger. Sharp, ragged, real.

You gasped into him as his hand at your waist shifted, dragging the fabric of your shirt up with it, bunching it around your ribs. The cool air against your skin barely registered before his palm found its way beneath the hem, splayed wide and possessive along your lower back, like he needed to anchor himself there or he’d lose what was left of his self-control.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. It wasn’t just an expletive. It was surrender—guttural, breathless, wrecked.

You fisted your hands in the fabric of his open shirt, tugging at it with a kind of clumsy urgency, bunching it up as he shifted beneath you. He rose slightly, hips pressing upward under yours, his body caught in that liminal space between restraint and reckless want.

Edward’s hands were everywhere—raking up your back beneath your shirt, sliding around to grip your hips with a desperation that bordered on possessive. You could feel the tension in him, the way his fingers trembled just slightly with the effort not to go faster, harder, too much too soon. His shirt clung to one shoulder, tank top shoved haphazardly beneath his ribs—both useless now. You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t make out his eyes, his expression, the part of his mouth when he gasped—but you didn’t need to. Everything that mattered was beneath your hands. Your hands didn’t stop. You ran them up his chest, memorizing the cut of him by touch—the twitch of his ribs when you dragged your nails lightly, the quiet hiss when your thumbs brushed his nipples through the tank. His body answered you in small, urgent movements—hips lifting, stomach tightening, breath growing ragged against your cheek.

“You’re going to kill me,” he breathed.

Then, his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, teeth grazing your throat as he kissed a trail down to the edge of your collarbone. You felt him groan against your skin, felt the tension in his jaw as he fought to pace himself—and lost. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, not quite going lower yet, just pressing firmly at your hip, his thumb stroking over bone like he was trying to memorize it through touch alone. He pulledback, breath hot and panting in the dark. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the heat in his focus.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. The words were strained, wrecked. “Just say it, and I will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

“Shut up.”

Instead, your hands slid down between you. His skin was burning under your palms, slick with the sweat clinging to both of you now—heady, hot, humid in the dark. Every inch you explored seemed wound tighter, more braced, like his whole body was caught in the space between restraint and collapse. You traced the line of his stomach, the slight hollow at his navel, the sharp ridge of his hips beneath fabric. Then lower. Your fingertips bumped his belt buckle—hot from his skin, metal biting against your touch. You fumbled for the clasp, working through the worn leather, the button, the zipper. He made a sound as you worked—low, wrecked, sharp. His hands dug into your hips, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. His breathing was ragged now, cut up into pieces between the kisses he dragged along the column of your throat.

You were almost there, but your shorts were in the way. You cursed softly under your breath and leaned back just enough to get your hands between you. You could barely think, barely breathe, tugging at the waistband and shimmying them down over your hips in the dark. You kicked them off blindly, one leg at a time, half-graceful, half-feral.

Edward’s hands never left you. He guided you back into his lap the second the fabric cleared your legs, like gravity was no longer strong enough and only he could keep you where you belonged.

You straddled his waist again, seated across him on the dusty, dirty floor, knees aching, chest pressed tight to his. The floor beneath was hard, uncomfortable—but you didn’t care. His tank top was still bunched beneath his ribs. His cargo pants were shoved low around his hips, everything open. You could feel him now—his cock pressed hot and thick between your thighs. Bare.

You both froze there for a moment. Just breathing.

Then you shifted. One hand braced behind his back, the other reaching down between your bodies, lining him up with the kind of instinct that wasn’t thought—it was need. He let out something sharp and high in the back of his throat, his hands tensing on your hips, trying—failing—not to pull.

At last, you sank down onto him—slow, deliberate, unstoppable. The stretch stole your breath. He filled you completely, the pressure dizzying: hot, hard, too much, perfect.

With your forehead pressed to his temple, the exhale left your lungs in one stunned, trembling rush. One hand gripped his shoulder like a lifeline, the other slid behind his neck, fingers tangling in the damp curls at his nape. Thighs shaking where they cradled his hips, you felt him shudder beneath you—a full-body tremor, raw and helpless. The sound that tore from his throat wasn’t a moan. It was a rupture.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, frayed to the edge of breaking—somewhere between awe and agony.

No answer came from your lips—only breath, ragged and caught. You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear, the tremor in your voice mirroring the one gripping your body. With a sharp inhale, he moved.

Those hands, once reverent, turned possessive—gripping your ass, holding you flush against him as he ground up into you, slow and brutal. The drag of him inside you was blinding. You gasped, your mouth falling open, a moan spilling from your throat before you could trap it behind your teeth.

Edward’s mouth found yours again—sloppy now, gasping, wet. Tongue and teeth and need. The kiss was frantic, fevered, and absolutely unforgiving. His hips drove upward with controlled force, tight thrusts that sent jolts through your spine. You met him, rolling your hips in tandem, body slick with sweat and sensation. Every grind, every drag was devastation. All around you, the dark amplified everything. The sound of skin against skin. The sharp slap of movement. The whimper of a man trying not to lose control—and failing. The lilting of your moans. 

Breath tore from him in ragged bursts, caught somewhere between a moan and a curse, his hands locked around your waist like he was holding himself together by the feel of you. Each time you came down, you felt the strain in his muscles—the way his thighs tensed beneath yours, the way his stomach clenched as he thrust upward to meet you with a kind of restraint that was barely holding.

You rode him in the dark, the slick sound of your bodies meeting swallowed by the static of breath and heat. The floor beneath you was unforgiving—cold, biting at your knees—but it only made you move harder, made every grind, every bounce sharper in contrast. You chased the rhythm with single-minded hunger, moaning into his open mouth, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, grounding.

“Fuck,” he rasped, the word tumbling from his throat like it hurt. “You’re—” He couldn’t finish.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, dragging down the damp fabric still clinging to him. “Say it,” you breathed, forehead pressed to his. “I want to hear you say it.”

He exhaled a sharp breath, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid beneath your tank top, palm splayed across your lower back, dragging you down harder. “You feel like sin,” he groaned, voice cracked and trembling. “Like I should never be allowed to touch you like this.”

You rolled your hips slower, more deliberate, your breath catching as he gasped into your neck. “You can,” you assured. “You already are.”

Your hips shifted, no longer rocking in that easy rhythm, but grinding down in slow, tightening circles—each pass dragging his cock along every sensitive ridge inside you. You rolled your pelvis forward at the top, then dropped down with a stuttering snap of motion that made him choke on a sound, hips jerking up in reflex.

It was intentional. Precise. Your movements weren’t rushed—they were devastating. Drawing his length through your slick, pulsing heat in a rhythm that was both merciless and teasing, calculated to make him fall apart and know you were the one doing it to him.

His breath stuttered out in fragments against your neck, jaw clenched, every muscle in his stomach tensing as he tried—tried—to hold on.

“Jesus—fuck, I’m not—” The words died in his throat, swallowed by a groan, hoarse and guttural as his forehead fell to your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice a soft, wicked taunt against his temple. Your hands dragged up his back, nails grazing the damp fabric of his shirt, the heat between you scorching now, your thighs trembling from the effort, from the building pressure cresting behind your ribs. “Just don’t stop.”

His mouth was on your shoulder, open and desperate, moaning helplessly into your skin as you bounced again—sharper this time, faster, not enough to finish but enough to make his hips snap up with a raw, broken thrust.

He was close. So were you.

And then—

The lights flickered on.

Too bright. Too sudden.

Edward jolted like he’d been shot, his entire body seizing beneath yours. Hands froze at your hips. Chest heaving. Eyes wide, blinking against the harsh overhead fluorescents that illuminated everything.

You saw him. Finally, saw him.

His dark hair was a wild, sweat-damp mess, curls sticking to his forehead, to his flushed cheeks and throat. His glasses were nowhere in sight. His shirt hung half-off his shoulder, collar stretched, his tank top soaked and clinging to the lean cut of his torso. His mouth was parted in shock, lips kiss-bitten, his expression utterly wrecked.

His eyes—those brilliant, electric blue eyes—looked dazed, vulnerable, caught.

And for a moment, he stopped. Like the light made it real. Like he was about to disappear inside himself and take the moment with him.

But you didn’t let him.

You cupped his face in both hands, drawing him back to you, your forehead pressing to his, your breath shaking as you stared into him.

“Don’t stop,” you whined, voice trembling, your thumbs stroking over the flushed heat of his cheeks. You started moving again, hips rolling down slow and deep. His breath caught with a startled sound, mouth falling open. “Please. Don’t stop.”

Your voice pitched higher as the rhythm built again, as your hips met his in a seamless, hungry rhythm. You kissed him—sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate—riding him with effortless, aching momentum now, the sound of your bodies echoing in the room.

“Oh god, Edward,” you gasped. “Don’t—don’t stop—ah!”

Your head fell back, mouth open, hands sliding from his face to his shoulders just as the orgasm tore through you like a storm.

Heat coiled in your belly, then exploded—sharp and bright and deep, every muscle in your body seizing as your walls clenched around him, pulsing, dragging him with you. Your cry echoed off the walls, breath breaking, thighs shaking around his waist.

He watched you come apart in his lap—eyes wide, mouth parted, reverent.

And he was right there with you.

You rode out the shudders of your orgasm with his name on your tongue, your body pulsing around him in slow, clenching waves. Your thighs quivered against his hips, your hands curled into his shoulders for balance, grip faltering as the high twisted through you—but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t dare.

Instead, you kept moving. Kept grinding your hips down onto him with slow, aching precision, milking every drop of aftershock from your own body—and dragging him with you. His hands scrambled for purchase—first at your waist, then up your back, then into your hair as his body bucked beneath yours, the tension in him a live wire, a fuse burning fast.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” He looked up at you, wild and panicked, his eyes locked to yours like he was falling and couldn’t find the ground.

You didn’t let go. You gripped his jaw, holding his face steady in your hands, lips barely brushing his. “Yes, you can,” you whispered, voice wrecked and breathless. “Let me see you. Let me have you.”

Edward moaned—high, wrecked, utterly gone—and that was it.

His hips surged up into you in one final, frantic thrust, then stilled. His head dropped back, mouth open in a soundless cry as his body arched beneath yours. The orgasm ripped through him—violent and full-body—his fingers clenching at your sides as he spilled into you, hips jerking with every pulse, every helpless wave.

You stayed with him, hips still moving gently, drawing it out, wringing every last flicker of pleasure from him with your body wrapped tight around his. Watching him shake. Watching him fall apart. His eyes never left yours. Not until they fluttered closed, lashes heavy, lips parted as he sagged beneath you—shuddering, breathless, undone. You kissed his cheek, soft and reverent, then his temple, then his mouth—slow and lingering, the kind of kiss meant to tell him he survived it.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Couldn’t. But the way his arms curled around you, holding you to his chest like you were the only thing keeping him in his body—that said everything.

Feeling everything catch up to you, you let your head all to his neck, resting there, tucked there.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The cavernous lair was whirring, electronics coming alive with the backup system—it wasn’t quiet. But you were. You both were save for your panting, huffing breaths. You were both sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, your thighs aching, his hands still heavy on your back. 

Edward sat beneath you, his chest rising and falling in slow, disbelieving waves. His shirt hung from one shoulder like an afterthought. His hair was a wild mess, curls clinging to the flushed shell of his ear. He looked like he’d survived a small war.

And you? You were still straddling him. Still buried together. Still reeling.

He blinked up at the ceiling, eyes dazed, voice hoarse. “Well… that was interesting.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Shut up.”

“Can’t,” he croaked. “Think I blew a fuse. Physically. Psychologically. Possibly spiritually.”

You snorted against his skin before raising up to shake your head and narrow your eyes playfully.

He only smirked softly in that way only he could. 

Had it not been for the blackout, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you would’ve kept circling each other for weeks. Months. Always brushing, never breaking.

Maybe the dark just gave you permission.

Compelled with this new breach in boundaries, you reached up and brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. “So…” you murmured, “that’s what it takes to get you to shut up for five minutes.”

A breath caught in his throat—half laugh, half indignation. “I was being respectfully stunned.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” You tilted your head. 

He narrowed his eyes, still breathless. “Had the lights not come back on, I could’ve salvaged my dignity.”

“Mm. No, sweetheart.” You hummed, dragging your fingers through his hair, gently teasing out a knot. “That ship got railed and sunk about twenty minutes ago.”

Edward’s hair was damp beneath your fingers, sticking to his temple, his face still flushed and dazed. You could feel his pulse through every point of contact—under your hands, inside you, in you. He blinked up at you, like the world was just now catching up to him. His mouth parted slightly, like he might try to say something clever. But he didn’t. Not yet.

You stroked your hand back through his hair, quiet. “You look like you just got struck by lightning.”

He huffed a breathless laugh, voice raw. “I feel like I forgot my own name.”

“Should I remind you?” you asked, rolling your hips once—lazy, cruel.

He flinched. “Please don’t.”

You smiled, soft and sharp. “Well then,” you said, dragging your hand down his chest like you were mapping your way back to calm, “maybe next time, you’ll think twice before you leave a mess all over the floor.”

His hand flexed at your hip, still twitchy with the aftershocks. “I didn’t—”

“Edward.”

A beat.

“…Okay,” he grumbled.

Smiling, you leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek, then to the edge of his jaw, slow and reverent, like you weren’t just teasing—you were claiming the wreckage.

He didn’t move. Barely breathed. You felt the twitch of his fingers against your skin, the way his chest rose to meet yours without thinking, like his body was still answering to you, even as his brain tried to catch up. And for once, he didn’t try to be clever. He didn’t deflect. He just sat there, dazed and quiet, his arms loose around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You weren’t either.

So you stayed. Straddling him on the cold, grimy floor. Skin cooling. Muscles aching. The overhead fluorescents buzzed softly above you, flickering now and then like they were struggling to decide if they were staying on for good.

Eventually, you shifted just enough to rest your forehead to his. Your nose brushed his. He exhaled.

“…We’re gonna have to move eventually,” Edward murmured.

You nodded. But didn’t move.

Not yet.

[brattypagansub]

Something something Tim whom thought it was a good idea in a fit of sleep deprivation to hide Jason’s phone. As retribution for Jason calling him ‘boy twink genius.’

So the one time when he actually was getting some decent sleep. Tim was startled awake at two am to the sound of Jason slamming his knees into the floor. Then yelling that he’s a dead man when he gets hands on him next. It seemed like a good idea at the time.. until Dick called waking Jason from a dead sleep. Whose brain instantly went into panic mode.

Jason chased Tim around for three hours with a league sword for it the next day. While Duke took bets on who’d win that fight. Nobody won thanks to Damien rating them out to Bruce.

[finniestoncrane]

Arkham!Riddler x GN!Reader, word count: 1.2k it's SHAVING AS A SIGN OF INTIMACY TIME listen this might be the beginning of several on this theme it's a kink i've loved for a while!! anyway, eddie has requested some assistance with shaving from reader, who he has decided he trusts enough to hold a razor to his tender skin *drool* also i'm not sorry for how autistic eddie is about his question mark shirt, he is literally me 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: little bit of humorous threats, shaving, flirting, suggestive towards the end

"Must be painful for you, having to ask for help."

"And it might be painful for you to suffer the consequences of your insolent tone."

You lifted your hand up, holding the handle of the very old fashioned razor blade between your fingers and dangling it in front of him.

"And it might be even more painful for you to suffer the consequences of your own shitty attitude if you don't behave."

With a playful smile, you pressed a finger below his chin, lifting it up, noting the smile that curled slightly on his lips, one he was trying to suppress in favour of remaining stoic in your presence.

"You know, Eddie, if you would take proper rests between working on your projects you wouldn't make so many mistakes."

The blade was close to him, not close enough that it made contact with him, but enough that he was lucky you pulled it back quickly enough when he lifted his head once more.

"I don't make mistakes! I have suffered a minor injury to three of my fingers, a consequence of poor tools. It's difficult to source higher quality material when you're a known and wanted entity."

You gently tilted his head back once more, nodding along to his rants, knowing by now when it would be a futile effort to argue with him. And by the time he had finished rambling, you were ready with the blade and the shaving cream, both in hand as you stared him down, patiently waiting for him to be quiet.

"Well? Are you going to get on with it?"

He barked the question at you, and you prepared yourself to begin, stopping short as he raised a hand.

"Hold on. I don't want you to make a mess of my shirt."

He shrugged the green, paint stained, short-sleeved shirt from his slender torso, leaving him in just a low cut, torn vest.

"You're very clumsy."

"Eddie. Clumsy enough that you're worried I'll ruin your already disgusting shirt, but not so clumsy that you'll trust me with a sharpened blade against your throat?"

For a moment, you had him stuck. He didn't have an argument, any words, you seemed to have caught him. But instead of replying, he simply sighed and waved you off.

"The texture of these fresh hairs on my face is far more annoying than any potential nicks, life-threatening or otherwise. This shirt is the only one I own, and it's to the exact fit I like it after the years of wear."

"Your priorities are interesting."

"I'm interesting."

That was his rebuttal, and he was satisfied with it. So you began your work, carefully placing your palm against his cheek. A soft touch, a careful carress, a gesture of reassurance. You cared for him, despite the playful teasing, the insistence on his part that you were only a disposable assitant. You went above and beyond, in awe of him, unable to resist the urge to worship him. You wouldn't let harm come to him by your hands, that's what the touch meant.

And the fact that he seemed to trust you, regardless of whether that was pushed onto him by the circumstances, meant the world in return.

As the razor made it's first pass over his skin, he seemed to raise himself up slightly, a natural reaction to the cool of the metal. So you laid your hand on his chest, pressing him back down and keeping it there. His heartbeat was steady, skin clammy against yours, a brush of soft hair coating his chest.

While you were't able to detect any change in Eddie's demeanour, he was worrying that you could. The moment you touched him he had felt his blood run cold. The threat, the imminent danger, the possibility that you could, at any moment, take his life. But the odd certainty that you wouldn't. It was all swirling through his mind, picking up flecks of the ill-timed arousal as it went.

Each teasing touch felt like it made his heart beat just a little bit faster, and he could feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and under the foam on his upper lip. His body grew warmer, worked up in response to the intimacy, the delicate, tender way you handled both him and the potential weapon. And then it happened.

He squirmed slightly, hoping to adjust himself in a way that prevented his growing erection from becoming obvious. If he could keep your focus on his face, on the job at hand, then he might be able to calm himself down before he embarrassed himself. But the more you touched, the more aroused he became, hard against the front of his pants, and then, disaster occurring as his precum leaked out, staining a tiny mark on the front at his crotch.

Eddie's mind quickly flitted through the catalogue of quick excuses he could think of. He could play this off as a natural reaction. An expected response to someone touching him and being this close to him. Nothing to do with you or his deep attraction to you.

He could admit that the intimacy was exciting, allow a sliver of vulnerability to show as he confessed that it was one area that he wasn't all that experienced in.

Throw a curveball? Tell you that the danger was far more arousing that he imagined? That could backfire though, as he was well aware of how irritating he was, and inciting, or inviting, violence might not go as well for him as he hoped it might.

And finally, the ridiculous notion of proudly displaying the effect of your touch flashed through and was quickly stomped out. There was no way he would be able to play it off with any amount of confidence or charisma, and it would take a considerable amount indeed. But now it was in his head, the idea that you might be encouraged, enticed, by his arousal. Enough that it would strike a chord within you, making you as hot and needy as he was. That you might letyour hand trail down the front of his shirt, fingers skimming over the growing, throbbing bulge, offering, perhaps, to shave there too. To finish him off with a flourish. To hold him, touch him, until he-

"Edward?"

He snapped his head towards you, cheeks flushed and pupils wide as he came bck down to earth from his flight of fantasy.

"Edward, are you alright? You didn't answer..."

"I'm fine. my mind was elsewhere. You know how it is being a genius, or... you don't actually. But if you did, you'd know it was difficult to stop your brain from rattling through equations and plans and world changing ideas. So forgive me if I automatically reverted to paying attention to that instead of you."

Deciding to meet him with his own attitude, you tossed a towel towards him as you walked towards the sink, dropping the razor in as you spoke.

"Well, if that's a close enough shave you can wipe the foam off now. And maybe use the towel to clean yourself up further down too."

You had noticed. And you were teasing him.

And worse than that, the insolence, the cruel taunt that suggested you considered yourself good enough to stand toe to toe with him, he found that it only made him harder.

[lawful-evil-novelist]

You remember how Kellerman just straight up speculates that Jon is just evil in his second to last interview tape? You think Jon ever listened to those tapes?

[ilovetheriddler]

The Different Riddlers on a date at an amusement Park. Mini fic Scenarios.

Oh boy! That's a lot of riddle loving menaces! These are all short little mini fic scenarios centered around the idea of an amusement park date!

Word Count: 2,160.

Contents: Kissing, mentions of puking briefly, highly suggestive themes but nothing too explicit.

Gotham.

Just where had Ed wandered off to? You weren't quite sure, and it was honestly making you a bit worried. You knew how much he had been looking forward to this date, planning it months in advance to be just perfect, so the idea that he'd just leave without a word confused you.

You attempted to call his phone a few times, only to be met with his voice mail, where on earth had he run off to? You tried looking through the crowd for him and were starting to lose hope of finding him until you felt a hand grab your wrist and pull you along with them. By the time your mind fully registered that it was Edward, you were already sitting down, with a bar being lowered in front of you.

"E-Edward?! Where were you?"

"Huh? Oh! I was looking for the ferris wheel! I couldn't find anything about where it would be located on their website, so I wanted to find it as soon as we got here."

You let out a slightly surprised yelp as you felt yourself moving. As you saw the ground getting further and further away from your feet, you realized that you were on the ferris wheel. He had wandered off, found it, and dragged you to it after that. You couldn't help but chuckle.

"Ed, you could have just told me that when we first got here! Why were you so excited for the ferris wheel anyway?"

"Well... I thought it would be a pleasant experience! You know? I find the circular motion to be the perfect mixture of soothing and exciting, plus I get to be close to you... so there's that as well..."

He threw one of his arms around your shoulders and pulled you slightly closer before his lips met yours in a sweet and prolonged kiss.

Batman: The Animated Series.

Edward had been extremely pleased when he found out that there was a small arcade within the amusement park, nothing super fancy, just some older arcade cabinet games, but he was thrilled and you thought it was really sweet how clearly overjoyed he was.

He was currently on his third game, having already acquired the top scores on the previous two. They were puzzle games, which explained why the small little acarde section was practically a ghost town. Not too many people going to an amusement park were really going to play older puzzle games. But these were exactly the type of things that Edward loved.

"My dear! Look at that, I've bested yet another person's score. My skills at this are truly unrivaled."

"I can see that, I'm glad that you're having fun... I was honestly a bit worried that you might not enjoy coming here..."

"Nonsense! This is the most amusement that I've had outside of my own riddles in a long time!"

You couldn't stop yourself from giggling as he pulled you to sit on his lap as he continued playing away on the acarde games. You felt your face heat up slightly as he started kissing your neck gently.

"E-Edward! We're in public!"

"Don't worry, my dear, I'm not going to go too far, just a few kisses here and there.... and besides, there's not exactly anyone else in this specific section. Now, is there?"

His soft and just slightly mischievous laugh rang out right next to your ear as he continued his kisses on your neck and trailed them down to your shoulder.

Arkhamverse.

You had honestly thought that Edward would turn down your idea for an amusement park date, so when he did actually agree to go, you were incredibly excited..... Keyword being were... You genuinely loved Edward so much, but being slung around in a bumper car as he repeatedly slammed into other cars with enough force to almost give you whiplash wasn't exactly what you had in mind!

But you couldn't lie, seeing Eddie with that Grin on his face, cackling to the point where several people were onlooking with deep concern, was truly all it took to make it worth it. At least he was enjoying himself.

"Ahaha! These Imbecilic fools are no match for my excellent driving skills!!"

"....Eddie, your license has been revoked on several different occasions...."

"Only because of the fact that the people of Gotham city can't handle my superiority, so they try to restrict me!"

You continued to be swung around like a rag doll for another thirty minutes until the staff had received enough complaints and forcefully removed the two of you from the park. Going as far as to Ban Edward for life as a precaution. He wasn't pleased about it, not at all.

A few days later, you'd walked into his lair and found him frantically constructing his own version of the bumper cars, specifically to use in one of his traps for the caped crusader. You noticed a man tied to a chair on the other side of the room, the same man that had thrown you both out and banned him.

"Eddie...? Why exactly do you have that guy tied up?"

"It's very simple, I needed a guinea pig to test out my latest project!"

You knew that it was better to pick and choose your battles with Edward, so while you did feel sorry for the poor amusement park worker, it was late and you didn't want to argue over it, so you just went back to bed.

Telltale.

Edward had been on the fence about whether he actually wanted to join you on your trip to the amusement park. He wasn't exactly a young fellow anymore, so walking around all day didn't sound too pleasant. However, he did suppose that he should spend some time with you doing something that you wanted since you've been such a good assistant when it came to his plans.

So despite this being meant as a sort of reward for you, he didn't miss a single opportunity to complain about his joint pain and about how hot out it was, as if he hadn't willingly chosen to wear an outfit with a lot of layers. Luckily, though you didn't mind, you were used to Edward's complaints and were just glad that he was spending time with you.

Much to both your and his own surprise, he genuinely enjoyed the log flume of all rides, He could sit down and relax, and occasionally being splashed by the water made the heat slightly more bearable. He ended up going on that same ride a few times in a row before the two of you decided to take a small break on a bench nearby.

"So um... Thank you so much, Edward. I honestly didn't think that you'd even want to come here with me..."

".... I didn't originally intend to. However, I decided that you deserved a bit of my presence... as a reward for your recent work...."

You leaned against his shoulder, which seemed to throw him off slightly, before he quickly regained his composure and chuckled at the sight. He threw his arm around your shoulders and pulled you to lean in a bit closer before pressing a quick kiss onto your forehead.

2022 Batman.

Edward could hardly believe it when you told him that you wanted to take him out on a date to an amusement park. He'd never been to one before, so he was extremely excited! Not only because of the fact that he always wanted to do things like this as a child but couldn't, but because he'd be doing it with you, it'd be an actual date!

He was originally fairly nervous about the idea of how some of the rides would be, but once you both got there, he found himself having quite a pleasant time! Until you got to the Rollercoasters, then it went from a pleasant time to an amazing time! You were both screaming quite loudly while on them, but it was different for both of you. Edward had this look in his eyes, a look of unbridled gleefulness. He looked ecstatic as you both rode the Rollercoaster. In fact, he insisted on riding it another ten times!

You couldn't help but wonder if the reason why he was enjoying it so much had anything to do with the adrenaline his brain was producing as a result? Perhaps it was giving him a feeling that was somewhat similar to how his actions as the riddler made him feel? There was no way to be sure. He was overjoyed as you both got off the ride again. Unfortunately, you had to run over to the nearest trash can, feeling horribly queasy after being forced to endure a rollercoaster eleven times in a row. Edward looked extremely concerned as he approached you and started rubbing your back, attempting to help you through your nausea.

"A-are you alright, my dear? W-was that too many times? I'm so sorry if I overdid it...."

"...It's fine, Eddie. I'm just happy to see that you're enjoying yourself.... but yeah, after the seventh time, it might have been a bit much...."

Zero Year.

You were extremely skeptical and a bit cautious of wherever Edward was dragging you off to, He hadn't seemed all that interested in the amusement park a few minutes ago... what could he have possibly seen or stumbled upon to suddenly shift his mood so drastically?

You were even more confused when he stopped in front of a currently shut down maze of mirrors. You felt chills run down your spine as you glanced over at him to question what exactly he was planning, only to see that mischievous look in his eyes... whatever it was wasn't good if he had that look in his eyes, you could at least say that for certain.

He wandered inside, and you followed behind him. Just what was he planning? After walking for a few minutes, you started to grow frustrated. Perhaps he simply did this to annoy and inconvenience you. You turned around to say something but stopped dead in your tracks as you saw him unbuttoning his suit jacket before tossing it on the ground.

"E-Edward? W-what on earth are you doing?!"

He slowly stepped closer to you, a sly grin plastered on his face as he leaned in closer to you.

"Oh, come on.... there's no one around, and I'd truly be a fool not to take advantage of all of these... mirrors, wouldn't I, my dear?"

"Excuse me?! I bring you to an amusement park, and your first idea is to have sex in a shutdown maze of mirrors?!"

He disregarded his shirt on top of his suit jacket before moving on to unbuckle his belt. His breath drifted across your ear as he lowered his voice to sultry whisper.

"Precisely.... Don't lie to me and say that you aren't the least bit aroused by the idea...?"

The bad thing is that he wasn't wrong.... and that bothered you more than anything else.

Unfortunately, the two of you ended up being banned for life once a worker who was cleaning up the area stumbled upon you two in the throes of passion. Edward seemed unbearably smug, though. Even as you were both thrown out.

Young Justice.

Edward was overjoyed by your invitation to go to the amusement park together, it would be your and his first ever official date, and he was confident that it would be perfect... alright, maybe not fully confident, somewhat confident... he wasn't actually confident, that was a lie, he was deeply worried about something screwing up the entire date.

So he kept his eyes open, watching the area with a keen eye, he'd let this date be ruined over his dead body! As the date contained on there seemingly wasn't any major issues... Until he realized that there was a tunnel of love here and that you really wanted to go on it with him.

He was ultimately unable to say no, so the two of you got on the ride, sat down in those stupid little boats, and started floating along the long, dimly lit corridor. Actually.... the atmosphere would be absolutely perfect for stealing a few kisses from you. Yes, it'd be perfect!

He put his previous concerns behind him as he grabbed you suddenly and slammed his lips against yours, an intense passion behind the kiss. It lasted a few seconds before he pulled away to catch his breath, only to then reconnect them again and again. It was everything he had hoped that it would be. However, then the ride stopped suddenly, and he was sent falling off the boat and into the water, soaking his clothes.

"Damn it!! C-can't those idiots run a ride correctly?!"

"Are you alright, Eddie? That was quite a sudden fall...."

You helped him back onto the boat, but now he felt that his pride was damaged slightly, so he just sat there and sulked in his drenched suit, his favorite suit!

[creepling]

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ dating digger harkness headcanons

this is a very specific reader because i love the idea of this grimy hobo having a cute, smart girly partner that is the candy floss to his raccoon energy OKAYYY. also tcm shenanigans will be back shortly, i just had to give some love to a dc rogue like the old times<33

tags: feminine reader (wears dress, skirt, heels, mild makeup and has breasts and v) but gn pronouns. sugar daddy digger if you squint. reader is a jailbird. cuddling. pet name: birdie. smut under the cut - minors dni. polaroid nudes. (m) masturbation. thoughts of: oral (m receiving) and cowgirl.

If you were to ask Digger the first thing he noticed about you, his caveman mind would be objectifying. But your ass did look very flattering in your skirt and the smile you shot his way was the cherry on top. He likes them sweet and innocent, you like them rugged and dangerous. It was a match made in hell heaven.

After a few dates spent in dingy pubs and lover’s lanes, he was enamoured by you. He’s never had someone look at him the way you do. Eyes full of light, glistening at the sight of him. You always welcomed him with open arms, practically throwing yourself at him. He liked how easy you were to pick up, and the way you wrapped your limbs around him. How your soft skin blushes red against his scruffy neck. No matter the setting, you sat so close to him that you were more or less on his lap. He wraps his arms around you, or has a hand on your thigh, letting nearby acquaintances know you belong together. Digger thinks to himself, “I got so fucking lucky.”

His love languages are primarily gift-giving and physical touch. More times than you can count, Digger has fallen asleep on top of you. Either on the couch, while watching a movie or he found a way to snake between your legs while sleeping, he has a habit of using you like a pillow. You developed a kinship in moments like this where you play with his hair, massaging your fingers into the nape of his neck or twirling the strands that curtain his temples. You muse at his sleep-full hums, watching this rogue unwind under your touch, satisfied like a dog receiving pets. The gift-giving is when his rogue side is on high voltage. He wants to give you the world, shower you with jewels, let you wear the best of gear. “You want diamonds? Yeah, I’ll get you diamonds,” He’ll muse, mixing his pleasures with yours. When he robs a bank, the majority of his stolen dollars has been spent on you since you met him. Did your car get towed? He bought you a new one, along with the insurance. Need a new dress for the weekend? He’s got you sorted, along with heels and a bag to match. “Can’t have my bird in peasant clothes!” He protests, “Not with that cracken’ bod.” Queue the wink.

He loves showing you off, chuffed that he proved his doubters wrong that he could settle down and have a gorgeous significant other. “What they see in you, I don’t know . . .” They say, whether that be Deadshot, King Shark, heck even Amanda is amazed by it. He keeps candid polaroids of you in his pocket on the job, looking at them when he misses you. He squeezes the unicorn plushie you gifted him when he is stressed, anything to feel your presence when you’re half the world away. A shit-eating grin on his face when people tease him about his love for you, using it to embarrass him. “Awh, it’s puppy love,” Harley cooes, and Digger nods, all chuffed with himself.

Digger gave you the nickname “Birdie” because well . . . You’re a jailbird. He is in prison for heinous crimes, after all! Oh, is he touched-starved when you’re standing there, pretty face to the phone, separated by glass and talking in your voice that melts him like butter. His eyes are eating you up, desperate to have his hands on you. He’ll do all the suicide missions going to shred off the jail time, to get closer to the day his lips are kissing yours. Blackmailing Amanda to get you the best of the best, pay off college debt, holidays abroad, and spoil you when he cannot. “Oh, Birdie, when I get out of here I’m not letting you out of my sight, you’re stuck with me.” He groans, drunk on love. All you do is smile, sliding a pack of Polaroids under the screen when the guards aren’t looking. “Have these to tide you over in the meantime,” you tease. Digger rushes back to his cell, flipping through the photos. First were of you in dresses that were his favourites, the type of ones that are flowy and floral, framing you so delicately. They get more desirable as he flips them over, and his eyes lull in lust.

Digger loves the dirty photos you send him, it drives him fucking insane. It’s good to keep you fresh in his mind, but it borders on teasing just having you to look at. He didn’t have the brightest imagination, but this was good practice. Imagine how soft your thighs are under his callous hands, what your lips taste like with the lipgloss you have on. Your delicate hands trace his bulge, your touch replacing his heavy-handed grasp. Bucking into your hands as he sucks your breasts, teasing your nipples, muttering how perfect you are. His sweet little birdie, all belonging to him. Your eagerness proves your devotion. You take his infamous size so well, your spit coating his cock as your tongue swirls around his pulsing tip. As he wanks himself off, muffling his groans, he has the faintest memory of your cunt. How wet you always were for him, how eager you bounced on his cock. His eyes closed as he pumped his cock faster, edging to the echoes of past moans you chanted in his ear.

[crazydeershark]

Broken souls

Part 2.

AK!Jason Todd x Civilian!Fem reader

Summary: Your life at GCPD, uncovering Gotham’s criminals and darkest secrets. Jason coming back as Arkham knight.

Warnings: cat calling, violence.

A/n: This can be read as a stand alone, but I suggest reading Part 1.

Btw!! Its lightly based on the AK game but doesnt follow exact lore.

Arkham Knight. His name was everywhere. Gotham’s streets, the GCPD you worked at, the news, even your local convenience store.

And you despised it.

You despised not being able to do anything about it.

Your role wasn’t that big. You were just Officer Gordon’s assistant. Fresh new worker, untouched and incorruptible, unlike 50% of Gothams “police”. You payed close attention to conversations, sneaked in places you definitely shouldn’t have. A few months is what it took you to figure it all out. It made you feel foolish, for putting your trust in the police.

Gotham needed its justice. While most thought it was far beyond saving, you knew it still needed good people fighting for it. Like you and Gordon. Gordon was dedicated to fighting crime. You admired his commitment, but it was not sustainable, mentally especially.

You found out about his “friend” pretty soon too, or maybe Gordon just wanted you to know, about Batman. Their little check ins on the rooftop, every few evenings.

You couldn’t help yourself. So one night, when you saw your boss going up the stairs, you knew the drill. You followed him carefully. Maybe because you knew they were going to talk about Arkham Knight, or maybe you just needed to see Batman. To make sure he’s real. To make sure Robin was real.

You tried your best to stay hidden, and to hear their conversation through the heavy rain. The only words you could make out were “report” and “knight”, everything else sounded like gibberish.

When you heard heavy footsteps you ran back to your shared office. Pretending nothing happened.

You saw Gordon come in, files in his hand.

“Good evening, Officer Gordon.”

“As good as it gets, kid.” He scoffed out, clearly irritated. You decided not to question it. Old man, had a lot on his mind. What you did pay attention to, were the files and where he placed them.

You stepped out of your office,

“Done blowing the officer, huh?” One of the detectives made a crude gesture, hollowing his cheeks and mimicking a blow job, a few snickers came from the guys around him. You ignored them, nails digging in the flesh of your palm. Fighting back tears of anger.

Yes, being accused of sleeping with your older, married boss was one of the downsides of being a young woman who’s working in the Gotham police department.

You wanted to wipe those grins off their face, but you knew you couldn’t. Not alone at least, which, in this case, you were.

Officer was getting ready to leave from work, when you walked into the office.

“Don’t worry, I’ll close.” You pointed out to the keys in his hand, “still got a ton of papers to work on.” You felt guilty for lying.

You weren’t a bad person, right? You were just curious.

“Alright, don’t overwork yourself too much.” He nodded.

“Unless I wanna become like you?”

“You don’t, kid” He smirked, heading out.

You waited a bit, got up, closed the door.

The files. You gently got them out, eyes scanning over the words.

𝐆𝐂𝐏𝐃 𝐓𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭- 𝐀𝐫𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐦 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 & 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚.

─────────────

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙡 - 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙧 𝙂𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙨 𝙀𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙊𝙣𝙡𝙮

𝙍𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙏𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚: 𝘼𝙧𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙢 𝙆𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖 𝙊𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝘾𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙨 & 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝘼𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩

𝙍𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙥𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙩: 𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙧 𝙅𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙂𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙤𝙣

─────────────

𝙎𝙪𝙗𝙟𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙊𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬

𝘾𝙤𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚: 𝘼𝙧𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙢 𝙆𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚: 𝙐𝙣𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙣

𝘼𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝙈𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙎𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬

𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙇𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙡: 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚

─────────────

𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 & 𝘾𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨

𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙨: 𝙀𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝟮,𝟬𝟬𝟬+ 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙂𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙢.

𝙑𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙨: 𝙈𝙪𝙡𝙩𝙞𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨, 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙮-𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙨.

𝙒𝙚𝙖𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙨: 𝙃𝙞𝙜𝙝-𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙝 𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙨, 𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙮 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙨, 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙪𝙣𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙨.

𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚: 𝘼𝙧𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙢 𝙆𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 (𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧),

𝙐𝙣𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨 (𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩).

𝙇𝙤𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨: 𝙊𝙘𝙘𝙪𝙥𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙚𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙂𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙢, 𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜:

𝙁𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨’ 𝙄𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙 – 𝙈𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩

𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣 𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙩 – |abandoned|

𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙣 – 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙡 𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚

𝙂𝘾𝙋𝘿 𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙩 – 𝙋𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙩

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𝙍𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝘼𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙮 & 𝘾𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝘼𝙘𝙩𝙨

𝟬𝟮:𝟰𝟱 𝘼𝙈: 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖 𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙂𝘾𝙋𝘿 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙤𝙮 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝘽𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙡. 𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙟𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝟬𝟯:𝟮𝟬 𝘼𝙈: 𝙀𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝘼𝘾𝙀 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙨. 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩.

𝟬𝟰:𝟬𝟬 𝘼𝙈: 𝙈𝙪𝙡𝙩𝙞𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙙𝙚𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙮𝙚𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝘾𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙠 𝙏𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧. 𝙋𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣.

𝟬𝟱:𝟭𝟱 𝘼𝙈: 𝙂𝘾𝙋𝘿 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙡 𝙖𝙢𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙈𝙞𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙞 𝙄𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙. 𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙪𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧.

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𝙏𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝘼𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 – 𝘼𝙧𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙢 𝙆𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙗𝙖𝙩 𝙎𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙨:

𝘼𝙙𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙗𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙃𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨, 𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙛𝙖𝙧𝙚.

𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙡𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙣’𝙨 𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙣𝙞𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨 (𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙣).

𝙋𝙨𝙮𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙚:

𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨.

𝘼𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙎𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬’𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙖𝙡𝙨.

𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙧 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙡𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙂𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙢’𝙨 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.

─────────────

𝘾𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙂𝘾𝙋𝘿 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙮

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 & 𝙣𝙚𝙪𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙯𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧.

𝘿𝙊 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙪𝙥.

𝘿𝙚𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧-𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙨.

𝙎𝙚𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙂𝘾𝙋𝘿 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙩 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧—𝙥𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝟮𝟰 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨.

𝘼𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙙 𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙧𝙠𝙝𝙖𝙢 𝙆𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩. 𝙃𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙪𝙣𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚.

─────────────

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙂𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙢’𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮.

𝙂𝘾𝙋𝘿 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙯𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚, 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨.

𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙙𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙.

𝙀𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙍𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩.

You got your phone out as fast as you could, taking pictures of the papers.

There wasn’t a lot of useful information, not even pictures. You didn’t know what he looked like, you heard and read about his military style gear, his mask. That was it.

What you didn’t know about, was his “personal” fling with Batman. You thought he was crazy, well, not as far-gone as scarecrow, but at least similar intentions. Causing Gotham chaos.

You packed your bag, put your coat on and placed the report back neatly.

On your way home, you realized you shouldn’t have gotten so caught up back at the department. It was too late to be walking home alone. The alleys felt like hidden dangers lurking around the corner, like someone was constantly watching over you. Waiting for you to crack. You gripped your bag tightly, pepper spray in hand.

Like that would help you.

You thought back on the papers. You felt like you needed to do something. You needed to help. But how?

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw what seemed to look like a group of men, heading towards.. you. Speeding up as you were calculating your moves, panicking on the inside.

Walking in their direction was not a choice. If you turned around and started running? They’d be after you.

And you were anything but a good runner.

What other choice did you have?!

You took a deep breath, turned around, and ran as fast as you could. Not long after, you heard the group speed up, their steps echoing through the alley.

Fuck.

You were too deep into the alleys, you weren’t gonna make it to public space.

They were getting close. Too close.

Worst of all, you were running towards a dead end.

You turned around, what a bad choice that was.

Your foot got caught in an uneven crack in the pavement, you lost your balance. Colliding with the cold, hard concrete.

“Get up, sweetheart, let’s make this quick.” A nasty smelling man sneered, yanking you up. His grip so tight on your arm it bruised.

You trembled in fear.

“Make this quick? Look at her. She’s a piece of candy. Ain’t she?” Another man whistled, the other agreeing.

You were trapped, terror settled deep in your chest.

“That she is. Now be good for us, phone and wallet, and maybe we’ll let you go..”

You stayed silent, mind racing, your pepper spray was useless.

You reached your shaky hand in your purse, grabbing your phone and wallet, ready to hand them.

Suddenly, the air shifted, growing thick.

A figure appeared out of nowhere. It was like a blur of motion. He moved so fast you could barely process it, almost as if his movements were robotic, lacking humanity.

All you could hear were screams and grunts, pounces, thuds and bodies being slammed.

You and the figure were the only ones remaining.

Silence fell over you, along with a tension so thick you froze in place.

You stared at the figure, wide eyed.

He stood tall, intimidating. His presence was suffocating. Almost as if you forgot how to breathe. Body covered in dark, form fitting military armour, reflecting panels on his arms and chest barely catching the little light there was.

You squinted your eyes through the dark, trying to make out his helmet.

“Get out of here.”

You flinched when you heard his voice, distorted by what sounded like a voice modulator.

You took a deep breath, questioning if all of this was just a bad dream.

It wasn’t.

You speed up, passed the figure scared, and ran home. You didn’t have the guts to look up.

When you got home, you locked your doors, your windows, everything.

The only thing that was stuck on your mind was the figure.

You didn’t sleep that night, even with all of the pills you took.

Military gear, tall, intimidating.

No. You were paranoid. It couldn’t have been.

It couldn’t have been the Arkham Knight.

Right?

A/n: sorry guys you’re in for a wild ride cause I am notttt making this fast.😝Hope you enjoyed my loves!!

IMPORTANT: If there were any grammar mistakes or unclear phrases please let me know! English isn’t my first language!!

IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO MY TAG LIST PLEASE LET ME KNOW IN THE COMMENTS🫶🏻🎀

Tag list: @koji-ibitsu @d1nne

[thesandsofelsweyr]

THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 3/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 1,484 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《TAGLIST》 (in replies because tags aren't working in the post for some reason)

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

I just want y’all to know that this chapter was written for you—I prefer the story ending at Chapter 2 😉

If you enjoy the read please kudos, comment, and reblog ❤️

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You catch the door before it clicks shut. You don’t want to leave him like this. You can’t leave him like this, so you inhale a deep breath and creep back inside, steeling yourself for rejection or another hateful outburst.

His weeping tapers off into sniffles and the occasional cough. You can feel his eyes following you as you pad over to his couch and grab the neatly folded throw blanket, casting a furtive glance towards his gun, which is still lying undisturbed where you left it, before returning to him. His eyes have fallen away from you—his head sagging between his slumped shoulders, chin touching his chest—and you hope he hasn’t gone away again to that terrible place in his mind. When you drape the blanket around his shoulders he flinches but gives no other protest, even pulling it more tightly around himself. He doesn’t order you to leave—doesn’t even acknowledge you’re there—so you kneel down in front of him, careful not to crowd him. He looks so defeated, so beaten down by the world; an abused child wrapped up in his security blanket for comfort after another unfair punishment. Your heart can’t help but break for him.  

You sit for a moment, listening to his soft sniffles and harsh breathing until you find the right words to say. Then you open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles to the floor again, his tearful eyes hidden behind a curtain of sweat-damp black hair.

For what? Passing out? Getting strangled? Knocking me to the floor then screaming at me? But you keep those questions to yourself, asking him instead: “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the ER?”

He slowly shakes his bowed head, as if it’s filled with lead, as if those awful memories of his are weighing it down.

“Then why don’t you lie down? Maybe get some rest?” you suggest. “I can bring you some Ambien…”

Your voice trails off because he shoots you a wary look. But then his face softens and he nods before muttering, “No drugs.”

“No drugs,” you echo softly, your brain jumping to conclusions again about this brooding man of few words. Perhaps he’s a recovering addict or something. You push yourself to your feet then reach out a hand to help him up. He stares at it then his eyes fall away again. He’s really not a fan of eye contact.

“I don’t even know your name,” he says.

“It’s Y/N,” you offer eagerly. “What about you?”

There’s a pause, and for a moment you think he’s going to ignore you, but then he answers, “Jason,” in a barely audible voice, as if he’s ashamed to utter the word aloud.

Heavy silence swells around you and you’re acutely aware of your outstretched arm hanging awkwardly in the air. He wipes his bleeding cheek against his shoulder, smearing more blood onto his hoodie. You pull back your proffered hand and use it to push a lock of hair behind your ear as you fumble for something to say to fill the uncomfortable silence that stretches on. And suddenly you're back at dinner with John Preston Anderson III trying to make conversation while he scrolls on his phone, pretending you don’t exist. You have to swallow down a bubble of anger that threatens to erupt.

“I’m… sorry for whatever happened to you, Jason. I… can stay with you, if you want.” Suddenly your face is afire and you’re mortified that you just invited yourself to sleep over at his place only seconds after learning his name. “On your couch, I mean,” you clarify, blushing furiously, but his eyes never leave the floor. Thankfully.

He coughs then shakes his head again. “I already ruined your night.”

A bitter laugh bursts out of you at that without your permission, and his head jerks up, startled, bloodshot eyes snapping to yours. You clap both hands over your mouth as if you can shove the rude sound back inside you. Guilt grips your heart as you see the pained expression on his pale face. It’s not anger or hurt or annoyance, but rather that same look of fear that you witnessed earlier when he was cowering in the corner, as if your laughter frightened him. 

You rush to explain, to put him at ease. “I’m sorry, it’s just that… if you only knew the night I’ve had. Anyway, I’m glad we finally got to meet. It’s nice to put a name to the-the face.” You stutter that last part, realizing after the fact that it’s probably not very nice to bring up his unmistakably-scarred face like that, or complain about your night to the guy who got strangled, so you blurt out before your mind can catch up with your mouth: “It isn’t every night that I get to help a handsome stranger in distress.”

Your face somehow turns an even darker shade of crimson. How many times can you put your foot in your mouth in one conversation? But to your surprise and relief you’re rewarded with a little laugh from Jason, a sound that seems awkward and unnatural, as if he doesn’t get to laugh very often. Some of the color returns to his cheeks as he blushes the prettiest shade of pink. When the corners of his mouth quirk up into a timid smile you realize that he has absolutely gorgeous lips, despite the swelling. Full and soft, finely laced with small silvery scars—little arrows pointing to where they need to be kissed. Jesus Christ. Again, you literally just learned the guy’s name and now you want to kiss him. No, that’s a lie. You’ve wanted to kiss him since his rude ass scowled at you the first time. What is it with you and Ted Bundy types?

“I’ll have to pass out more often,” he says shyly, fingers plucking at the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His blue-green eyes find the floor again, as if his script is written there. “Turns out it’s a great way to meet beautiful women.”

Beautiful… beautiful… The word echoes in your mind like a heartbeat. No one has ever called you beautiful. Your chest comes alive with sudden warmth as butterflies take flight. You want to stay there with him for the rest of the night. To kiss him on his busted lips. To wrap him up in your arms. To protect him from whatever hurt him. Instead, you grab one of the discarded ice packs and hand it to him, heart still fluttering wildly in your chest. “Google says you should get some ice on that. Your throat, I mean.” Goddamnit. He just said you’re beautiful, and you reply by handing him an ice pack. How the hell are you so bad at flirting?

“Who am I to question Dr. Google?” he replies sarcastically with a smug little smirk on those beautiful lips, but still does as he’s told, accepting the ice pack then holding it against his red-ringed throat.

You gaze down at him as you grope for the perfect words to say that will turn this scene into one worthy of a romcom. You consider inviting him back to your place to share that bottle of merlot you’ve been dreaming about all night. But then remind yourself that the poor guy is traumatized, definitely in no shape for a romantic nightcap. You can’t help but find yourself wishing, as if you can will it into existence, that he’ll look up at you, that your eyes will meet, sparks will fly, and he’ll flirt with you again. Maybe even invite you to stay the night with him. But his eyes remain glued to the floor, and your heart drops in disappointment as your ridiculous delusions are dashed by his silence.

“I should… probably go, for real this time. It’s late.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure I can’t do anything for you before I go?” you ask, coming back down to earth from the high of his compliment and seeing him again as the guy who’d gotten cut and strangled then passed out cold on his floor rather than an object of your lust.

He shakes his head, then he glances up at you, those stunning blue-green eyes of his finally finding yours, sending a fresh flutter to your chest. “You’ve done more than enough. It was… really nice having someone to talk to. To… distract me from… other things.”

His kind words give you a boost of confidence. “Well If you ever want to talk again, you know where I live. Or if you need a babysitter.”

You smile at the puzzled look that crosses his face and nod towards his houseplant.

He laughs that adorable little laugh again. “I may take you up on that offer sometime. Goodnight Y/N. And… thanks again. For everything.”

“Take care of yourself, Jason.”