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taintandviolent · 2 days ago

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Daddy's Friend ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: You're the spoiled daughter of a Gotham congressman and it's your 21st birthday. Your father decides to take you to 44 Below as a treat and it's there that you meet the owner, Oz Cobb. You're immediately drawn to him, much to daddy's dismay.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 2.3K | female reader, older man/younger woman, spoiled bratty reader, mentions of affluence, drinking, drunken behavior, forced kissing, cock grabbing, unreciprocated advances, temporarily unrequited lust.

a/n: there will definitely be a part two to this! thank you for reading if you did! banner by @/strangergraphics!

fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You roll your eyes. Arms crossed. Sinking into the leather seat. The window is dotted with rain, your eyes focus on the droplets rather than the imagery flying by behind it. Your father is beside you, desperately trying to convince you of his plan for the evening.

“I don’t want to hang out with all your stuffy, old politician friends, daddy… I want to dance at the Iceberg Lounge. All my friends are going to be there and they said – ”

“Baby,” Your father says. “44 Below is the Iceberg Lounge. It’s just the –”

“Yeah, yeah, the special underground club. I get it. I heard you the first time, but it’s my birthday.”

Turns out, the 44 Below is pretty nice. It’s laden with a sort of unspoken exclusivity that makes you feel important, and you like that, but – you’d still rather be upstairs. Your phone dings every few minutes with friends asking where you’re at. You happily complain, telling them that you’re downstairs, nestled between your father and the DA. Thrilling. Abruptly, a new voice enters the boring conversation – one you haven’t heard before.

“I hope you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”

You turn your head. The man that spoke now has himself pressed against your booth, just next to your shoulder. He’s heavy set, and seems to ooze power. Dressed in a nice suit, bow tie and all, he’s looking at your father, schmoozing as all men usually do. You don’t recognize this friend, but then again, when have you ever paid attention to any of daddy’s work friends?

“Well, well, well… who do we have here?” The man jerks his head towards you, keeping his eyes on your father who is visibly blooming with pride at the fact that his daughter is as beautiful as she is. “Who is this beauty, huh? I didn’t know you was bringin’ company.” The man’s attention flits to you, and he boldly reaches into your lap, carefully gripping your hand, drawing it towards his mouth.

“I’m Oz.” His voice is gravelly and delicious, and you shift closer towards the edge as your arm is stretched.

Your father, ever the dream crusher, speaks up, introducing you as his daughter, and informs you that he’s the owner of this club. Oz looks surprised and freezes like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He forces out a hard chuckle and starts to lower his hand, but you hurriedly push it back towards his mouth.

“It’s my birthday,” you say, proudly. “I think I deserve whatever you were just gonna’ give me.”

He barks out a laugh, sounding almost incredulous at your brashness. “‘Spose you do, sweetheart. ‘Spose you do.”

Oz continues then and presses his warm, scarred lips into your dainty little knuckles. His big, brown eyes stare down into yours, watching your reaction. The tiniest of smiles, and your cheeks immediately flushing – or maybe that’s the lighting. He lingers for a second too long trying to figure it out, and your father clears his throat.

“What’re we celebratin’, huh?” Oz asks as he lets go of your hand, genuine curiosity lacing his voice.

You toss your hair behind your shoulder. “Twenty-first. I ordered my first drink.” You tap the drink with your pointer finger, the martini glass ringing against the sharply manicured nail.

He chuckles. “Oh-hoh. Poppin’ cherries tonight.”

At that, your eyes snap to him like a rubber band, and you hold his gaze hard.

“Mm. I’ve drank before… just never legally.” You’re not sure why the confession tumbled off your lips, but Oz smirks crookedly and nods, slowly.

“I’ll bet you have.”

Your father, sensing the connection, interjects again. He leans forward into the table and you roll your eyes. “I’m surprised she’s sitting here; she’s sour with me, Oz. Mad as a wet cat.”

Oz lifts his brows, expecting further explanation.

“She wanted to go upstairs! Her friends are up there, and she’s upset that I’ve dragged her down with my… what did you call them, sweetheart?”

You huff and cross your arms, leaning back against the velvet upholstery. “Stuffy and old.”

Oz and your father share a laugh together as they ease back into conversation about some mind numbingly boring topic, but Oz’s eyes keep drifting to you; watching you, analyzing you. The hungry way his gaze drifts along your side and down your exposed leg isn’t lost on you. You feel a rush of heat pooling in your core and blossoming on your face, and immediately reach for your martini, hoping to pacify the feeling. Oz sees this too, and shifts his big body. You hum and lazily draw your attention to him, retaining your previously annoyed position. Oz grins, the gold in his teeth catching the light.

“Well, how’s about I give her a grand tour, huh? She’s in good hands, I promise.”

Your father seems apprehensive initially, but something about Oz eases his mind. You wonder what it is. Daddy looks to you, judging your reaction, which is an overzealous nod and a dangerously pleading gaze. You throw in a little pout of your glossy lips, and you can see him conceding. You’re throwing on the guilt, short of clasping your hands together and begging Pleaaaaase daddy pleaaaase!

He heaves a sigh, knowing he can’t say no. “Alright. Don’t let her get into trouble.” Your father waggles his finger at Oz, a silent warning.

The second he agrees, you’re wasting no time and giddily sliding out of the booth, dragging your slinky purse with you. As you stand up, Oz doesn’t necessarily move, but shifts his weight onto his opposite leg. The action brings you unimaginably close to him and you smirk, looking up into his brown eyes. You can smell his cologne, wafting off his large body and into your nose. There’s hints of cigar smoke and his personal notes, which are intoxicating. Within your mouth, you swipe your tongue along your bottom teeth.

“Excuse me,” you hiss sharply, though it’s tinged with an unspoken playfulness. Oz catches it with a wry smile, and takes an uneven step back, giving you a little room to breathe. You’re almost ungrateful.

He turns his head to face your father once more, before giving him a reassuring wink and adding: “She’ll have fun. I promise.”

And with that, Oz places a large, flat hand against the small of your back to excuse himself as he limps past you.

“Follow me, sweetheart.”

You follow him back through the swanky club, your heels clacking along the polished floors as you easily keep up with his uneven gait. He leads you both to the elevator and jams his knuckle into the button.

“We’ve been pals for years.” He confesses as you two wait. For a man that appears so cocksure, he seems nervous in your presence. You like that, and chew on your bottom lip. “I knew he had a daughter, but I didn’t know you was uh…”

“Was what?” You inquire, keeping your eyes on the elevator.

The elevator dings and Oz takes the opportunity to not answer, flattening his palm against the threshold, assuring that it doesn’t close on you as you enter.

You smile and dip inside, pressing your back against the far wall. You rest your hands on the railing, watching wordlessly as Oz joins you. He knuckle presses another button and the doors slide closed.

“You sure got him wrapped around that pretty little finger, dontcha’?”

“Ha. Sometimes,” you reply, smirking over at him. “Other times, he doesn’t buy it. But, I’m his only child, so… I usually get what I want.”

Oz nods slowly, brows raised. He knows you get everything you want – he can tell exactly what kind of woman you are. The elevator doors slide open without a sound, revealing the absolutely packed interior of the Iceberg Lounge. The music thrums through your bones as you take it all in; its design is stark and industrial, massively so, and the energy pulsates around you. Suddenly, you lift your hand and wave excitedly, spotting a few of your friends clustered by the bar. Without really thinking about it, you grip Oz’s hand and tug him forward, urging him to follow you. He does, without a single protest, like an obedient dog. This was supposed to be a tour, but he’s not gonna’ go against whatever you wanted to do.

“Bitch, oh my god!” Joey exclaims as he meets you halfway, pulling you into a tight hug before you’ve even made it to the bar. He rocks you back and forth, excitedly. “Happy birthday!”

“This is Oz,” you say confidently, gesturing behind you. All of your friends bristle, wondering why you’ve brought some older guy with you, completely unsure of the dynamic until you introduce him as the owner. “Daddy said he had to keep watch on me, make sure I don’t get into trouble.”

You lean back against Oz, resting your head against the front of his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, Oz? You’re here to make sure that I’m a good girl?”

The closeness catches him off guard, but only internally. You feel the slight movement as he shifts his weight, adjusting to the feeling of your body against his. But, he holds a hand out from behind you, shaking each of their hands respectably.

“You want a drink, doll? How about a drink?” He carefully nudges you forward, forcing you to come up off his shoulder. He shifts in his suit jacket and pushes his way to the bar. Wordlessly, he knocks his knuckles against the polished surface, and one of the girls rushes over, her face obedient and expectant.

“A French seventy-five,” you say. “Please!”

She immediately gets to work, and you look over at Oz, who is already glued to you.

“What?”

“Nothin’, sweetheart. Nothin’.”

You spend the next few hours dancing with Joey and the girls and Oz stands off to the side, leaning against the bar while keeping a watchful eye on you. He doesn’t intervene once, knowing full well that you wouldn’t let him anyway. Eventually, your feet start to ache, and you bend down, slipping out of the high heels. When you look over at Oz, who is admittedly a little blurry, he nods his head to ask if you’re alright. You nod back, and return to dancing, though still facing him. It makes him proud to see you enjoying yourself in something he operates. He knows you’re having a good time, and he’ll be damned if he’s the one that leaves a bad taste in your mouth. He looks away from you, to his phone which illuminates his scarred face. You see him furrow his brow before pocketing the phone, and looking up to you. So much for avoiding bad tastes.

Turns out, he actually leaves a really good taste in your mouth. A taste you want more of. After Oz got that text from your father, saying that they were leaving soon… he had to retrieve you from the dancefloor. You were drunk and didn’t protest, in fact, you were a little too happy to see him again. He barely gets you to the elevator before you start in on him, running your hands up along his gut, over his chest where your fingertips toy with his bowtie teasingly.

You’re hanging onto him, grinding your desperately hot, sweaty body against his. He inhales, and you exhale into his half-open mouth. Your tongue darts out, swiping along the inside of his mouth, along his tongue, along his bottom lip. He’s not reciprocating, but that doesn’t seem to deter you. Your hand drops to his groin, where you take a fistful of the bulge that meets you. It’s not hard, but the handful is big enough that you’re practically drooling into his mouth. Oz jerks back, but not before you feel his thick cock twitch in his slacks. You smirk against his mouth.

“Ey! Sweetheart…!” He runs his hand along his hair, smearing it back.

Oz licks his lips – licking the lingering taste off of them – and takes your hands from around his neck. Every bone in his body doesn’t want to because you’re so hungry and pushy – and it feels damn good – but he pulls his head away from yours and looks down at you. You’re a picture of debauched drunkenness, lids heavy on your pretty eyes, and your lips swollen from forcefully kissing him.

“Someone went to fuckin’ town on those drinks, huh? Daddy is gonna’ blow his fuckin’ lid if you don’t straighten up.”

“Whoooo…. You?” You murmur into his chin, pressing your lips against the warm, soft skin there. “You’re gonna’ blow your lid, Ozzy? Mmm… you like me that much?”

“Doll!” He says, hoisting you up into his grip slightly. Underneath his breath, he murmurs. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, this girl…”

“I heard that, Ozzy…”

The elevator dings, and the door slither open. Oz has thankfully manoeuvered your body into one that’s a little less incriminating, and more like he’s just supporting a very drunk girl. Gingerly, and avoiding any glances from any other patrons, he guides you back to the table.

Your father’s outline is blurry, but you sloppily roll your eyes, leaning further into Oz. You don’t need to see him to know that he’s bristling like a cat, ready to launch off some boring tangent about behaviour and public image.

The last thing you remember hearing is Oz’s seductively gravelly voice saying, “She had fun, ey? I promised you she would.”

You think about grabbing Oz’s dick again and it’s like he knows, because he’s got both of your wrists in his hand, preventing you from doing anything fun. He waits as your father gets to his feet before passing you off to him. Like a doll.

Doll… he called me doll…

As your father supports you now, heading towards the elevator, you lift your hand and loll your head back to get one more look at him.

“G’night… Ozzy….”

#Oz Cobb x reader #Oswald Cobb x reader #The Penguin x reader #Oz Cobb #oswald cobblepot x reader #Oswald Cobb #Farrell Penguin #myfics #x reader #reader insert #female reader #fem reader #The Penguin HBO #The Penguin #The Penguin 2024 #The Batman 2022

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darlingdreadwrites · 2 days ago

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cam 5

pairing: Edward Nashton x GN!Reader*

part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

summary: Edward is finally rewarded with the warmth of your touch and affection – or is he?

contains: reader working at a bookstore, slight dom elements, obsessed Edward, religious imagery, suggestive touching, riding

warnings: MDNI, *AFAB!Reader but i don't specify gender, dub-con, stalking, degradation

word count: 3.1k

masterlist

For a moment, Edward feels as though he is floating. He is suspended in a massive plane of darkness, unable to move. He doesn’t remember the last time his mind was so quiet, so peaceful. It was as if he was in a realm between time and space – until he finally opens his eyes.

He was in the bookstore – your bookstore – standing in front of two bookshelves. You were there, standing in between them, shelving books. The sight of you surrounds him with a warmth that emitted from where you stand, ethereal and glowing. You were something angelic, and yet undeniably human. Edward could feel the weight of your presence settle in his chest like a blessing. You were an impossible vision, a being neither entirely of earth nor heaven, a force that demanded worship and devotion. The shelves around you seem to bend toward you, as though bowing in reverence.

The room stretches upward, spiraling to an unseen paradise. The air feels thick, and his view of the world is heavy. The shelves move never-endingly; they were no longer neat rows of books but towering spirals getting sucked into a luminous void behind your figure.

His breath catches as you finally turn to look at him, a kind smile on your face. You approach him with the grace of someone who already knew his every thought, every longing—someone who had chosen him. Your steps are soundless on the polished floors, and he feels an impossible pull to be closer to you, as though his soul is tethered to yours. He can almost not feel the pain in his chest. A throbbing, pulsing hurt that recedes once you get close enough. Or maybe it was that the pain had consumed him enough that he grew numb to it. It doesn’t matter in the end, you’re here now. You are warm, kind, and comforting – a stark contrast to the strange, twisted cathedral around you.

Your hands are soft, the kind of touch that felt both maternal and intimate. You cup his face like you were cradling something precious. Your thumbs graze over his cheeks in a way that makes his eyes sting. He is too afraid of you disappearing if he blinks. Your face tilts, studying him like he has any worth. He is fragile and tender, so tender. Edward feels cherished – safe. His knees shake slightly under the weight of this moment, but he fights it. He should be on his knees before you, but he wanted to stay between the warmth of your hands. As he gazes up at you, he can’t help but tremble.

For a moment, there is only peace – a powerful, sacred peace.

A whimper escapes him as you apply pressure to his face, fingers digging into his skin. Your nails sting while you grip him tightly, the smile on your face unwavering. Your fingers press harder, squeezing so hard that his mouth falls open with a sharp cry. And just as the pain started to become overwhelming, your grip loosens.

One of your hands slides down, dragging your nails over the curve of his neck, down his chest, and it burns. Edward shudders under your touch, the sensation not entirely painful, not entirely comforting – just too much. He swallows hard. The heat of desire and shame tangle together in a painful knot.

Then, the words came. Soft, lilting, but slicing through him.

“You’re disgusting.”

The words – so cruel – come from a place where malice and sweetness are one and the same. Your smile, still welcoming and pleasant, belies the puncture of your statement. His confusion makes him dizzy. There is nothing that feels right about the words, nothing logical about them, and yet… they are the only thing that make sense. They are what he needs to hear. He flinches, his body responding involuntarily.

His heart hammers in his chest as you tilt his chin up, your thumb pressing into his skin in a way that makes him ache. He feels small and insignificant under your gaze. The hand that wasn’t on his face travels lower, palming and pressing against his groin with deliberate force. His mind screams at him to reject the sensation, but his body betrays him. He jerks, hips twitching into your palm – seeking more of that sinful pressure. He can’t breathe, can’t think as his chest heaves. The shame twists inside him as his eyes widen.

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice cracking as the smallest shift in your hold on him causes him to moan.

You lean in, your face hovering just inches from his. Your beath was warm on his trembling lips.

“Filthy, filthy thing,” you whisper, the words ghosting against his skin.

The bookstore around you both begins to collapse, the arches crumbling into darkness. The shelves twist, warp, bend in on themselves. The golden light dims to an abyssal void – yet you remain bathed in a holy light. He is consumed by you – by your presence, by your touch, by the haunting words. You hold him in place, your smile syrupy and mocking as you get closer to him. He reaches for you just as your lips brush his.

Edward wakes up with a strangled cry, drenched in sweat. He bolts upright, wide eyes attempting to make out anything in the darkness of his apartment. His heart pounds like a drum, and painfully. The sensation of your touch still scorches his skin as his mind races. He touches his face where your hands had been.

There is a purpose to that dream, he rationalizes, you’re calling to me – touching me beyond this plane of reality.

Edward sits at the edge of his bed, staring at the empty coffee mug on his desk. The remnants of the dream still cling to him like a phantom touch. He’s spent the better part of an hour replaying it in his head. The way your voice had curled around that single phrase – “You’re disgusting” – makes him shiver even now. He is repulsed by the fact his body seems to enjoy how you insulted him with such a loving tone.

He needs to get out of his apartment.

It was suffocating him now. It was logical to get out, wasn’t it? He has been cooped up here for too long, buried in the glow of his monitors and the labyrinth of code he’s been pouring over for weeks. Normal people went out to public places. They sat in cafes, walked in parks, and – yes – they read in bookstores. It wasn’t suspicious for him to do so. It wasn’t strange.

I need to take care of myself.

The thin veneer of his words failed to hide the truth he is unwilling to admit. His attention drifts to the books relevant to his research on his desk. And now, here he is, preparing to go back to the same bookstore under the flimsiest of excuses.

Edward stands and moves to his closet, fingers brushing over the very few neatly hung shirts as he tries to decide what to wear. It wasn’t like this was a date – it wasn’t – but he can’t help the flutter of nerves in his chest as he debates between the gray sweater that makes him look softer or the green button-up that matches his eyes.

He settles on the sweater. Soft was better. Non-threatening. Approachable.

Next comes his hair. He stands in front of the cracked mirror, meticulously combing it into place only to muss it up again. He runs his fingers through it over and over, muttering under his breath how it refused to cooperate. Finally, he gives up and leaves it as it is. He wipes his glasses clean on the corner of his sweater, holding them up to the light to check for smudges. He can’t help but picture you noticing them, leaning in close with a teasing smirk to point out a speck he’d missed. The thought makes his cheeks flush, and he shoves the glasses back onto his face almost frantically.

“Okay,” he whispers, taking a deep breath and facing his mirror again. He attempts at practicing a warm, friendly smile – but it seems too unnatural on his face. He raises a hand and waves, practicing what he’d do if he saw you. “Hello. How, how are you today?”

It was completely normal for me to rehearse like this. I’ve seen it in movies.

Doubt creeps in as he assures himself.

He sits back down on his mattress, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Was this really okay? As self-reproach gnaws at him, he replays the dream – your voice just as sharp and cutting as you call him disgusting.

Edward’s stomach churns. Maybe he is disgusting. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to block out the image of your kindhearted, smiling face from the dream. The image of your hands had roamed over him, one of them traveling lower and lower until—

“No,” he snaps, standing abruptly. He can’t let his mind go there; he can’t let his body failing him again before he stepped out the door. He doesn’t have time to touch himself – to relieve himself – again.

He paces the room, his steps uneven and hurried. He mutters to himself that it’s fine to go to your bookstore with no other reason than to just be there.

With a determined breath, he grabs his coat and slings it over his shoulders. He hesitates only once more at the door. His hand stills over the knob as your voice echoes in his mind again, soft and cruel all at once. “Filthy, filthy thing.”

His grip tightens, his knuckles whitening around the doorknob as he shoves the memory aside. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of your touch – the comfort he felt as you held his face in your hands.

Edward steps out into the deafening silence of the hallway, the door closing behind him with a resolute click. He tells himself that he isn’t walking toward you. He isn’t trying to chase the fleeting connection he felt in the dream. He is only going to read.

And that isn’t a lie. Not entirely.

Edward pauses in the doorway of the bookstore for a moment, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of paper. There were a decent amount of patrons this evening, the distant hum of conversation creating a low symphony of activity. Edward’s gaze sweeps the room until he catches sight of you. You stand behind the counter, your back to him as you help someone. Even from this distance, you are magnetic. Your presence commands his focus with the same intensity as the figure in his dream—

His heart beats so fast it feels like it might bruise his ribs. The dream! It was vivid and consuming, filling his chest with reverence, dread, and arousal.

��Just… sit,” he tells himself, forcing his legs to move away from you.

He wanders through the aisles, feigning interest in the messily arranged books but barely registers the titles. His sole focus was finding the perfect vantage point. At last, he finds it – a small table tucked into a corner with a direct line of sight to the counter.

He sinks into the chair with a small smile, placing the book he’d grabbed at random on the table in front of him. His fingers fidget with the edges of the pages. His eyes flick up to you every few seconds despite his best efforts to focus on the text.

Stop staring, he berates himself. You’re making it obvious.

But your pull is too strong. Each glance was a sin, a stolen moment of connection.

Edward’s mind begins to betray him as the dream bleeds into reality. In the dim bookstore light, your form seems to glow faintly. The edges of your silhouette blur and he blinks hard, trying to dispel the illusion.

“You’re disgusting.”

He whips his head to the right, a soft gasp on his lips. You were not there – nobody was. The words echo in his mind and his stomach twists. He snaps his attention back to his book, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on him. You didn’t say that. You wouldn’t – not to me.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he feels your hands snake all over his body. He was starting to feel remorseful again, but it isn’t enough to make him leave.

Then it happens.

You turn, making eye contact with him almost immediately, as if you had felt his presence. For a moment, your eyes meet, and you smile. A smile that was merely a polite gesture to others, but to him, it was as inconsequential as it was devastating.

Edward’s heart hammers so loudly that he is certain you are able to hear it. His face flushes, and he quickly looks back down to read the words swimming before his eyes in a meaningless blur.

You saw me.

The thought reverberates in his mind, equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. He clings to the image of your smile. It is everything to him. A slow smile spreads across his face, eyes wild and glued to a single word on the page. “Passion.” It is almost fitting – actually, it is perfectly fitting.

The minutes tick by, stretching into an eternity as he sits there and sneaks glances when he thinks you won’t notice. He can’t stop – not even when each look feels like a delicious risk.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a darker thought begins to spread. This isn’t enough. Sitting here, watching you from afar. It is a poor substitute for what he truly wants. What he truly needs.

Edward swallows dryly, his hands gripping the book as his imagination runs wild. He pictures you looking at him the way you had in the dream – not with polite indifference. But with a look of intensity of someone who wanted him.

You’re touching yourself – or touching him, he can’t tell from the proximity – breathing heavily and looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Neither of you are wearing any clothes. He can feel your skin, but his mind refuses to conjure up what your body might look like even as he desperately tries to look down at you. You both moan, sweat covering both of your bodies in a sticky tangle of limbs. The fantasy spirals, painting an intense picture of you closing the distance between you. What he believes is your perfect, naked body on top of his – thighs caging his hips and grinding sensually as you throw your head back in pleasure. He's embarrassingly loud, sputtering and panting like a dog while you’re mewling softly and elegantly.

He grunts in frustration, trying to squint and make out your peaked nipples or how your heat rides his length in vain. His hands grab onto your hips to bring you impossibly closer to his stuttering hips – he was so close. You look down at him to smile sweetly. It softens into something fond as you lean down to whisper in his ear. He can almost feel your breath on him, hear the saccharine venom of your words—

“Stop it,” he says under his breath, shaking his head to dislodge the fantasy.

He needs to leave. He’s throbbing with a discomfort that borders on pain.

Edward stands, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushes it back. He grabs the book and returns it to the nearest shelf, his movements clumsy. As he makes his way to the door, he can’t resist stealing one last glance at you. You are busy again, helping yet another customer with the same warm grin that had shattered his composure moments before.

The bell chimes violently as he steps outside, the cold evening air hitting him like a splash of cold water. That’s what he needs – a cold shower. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his mind buzzing with visions of him and you. He was disgusting.

The water steams down Edward’s back in scalding rivulets, but it does little to wash away the lingering sensations of the day. His shower was supposed to be freezing – a penance to purge himself of the memory of your smile and the fantasy that followed. Yet, it hadn’t taken long for his resolve to crumble.

Edward had given in – his mind stuck on every detail of your fleeting glance at the bookstore, every imagined touch from the dream and fantasy. He’d cursed himself through gritted teeth even as his body betrayed him, chasing an unbearable high that left him slumped against the shower wall. He felt ashamed and hollow.

Steam fills the small bathroom, the heat now oppressive as his mind begins to clear. Edward slides down on the wet tiles, burying his face in his hands. The sound of water drowns out his sobs.

The words from his dream ricochet through him, cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. He winces, stomach feeling like it’s coiling at the memory – no longer making him feel aroused.

No, you’re wrong, he protests pathetically. I’m not disgusting. This isn’t disgusting.

He clings to the threadbare justification like a lifeline, dragging himself back to his feet as the water cools to a lukewarm drizzle. Edward shuts off the shower, the sudden silence amplifies the turmoil in his mind.

He dries himself and avoids his reflection in the mirror, unable to face the pale figure staring back at him. Instead, he focuses on his hands – hands that had sinned against you. The same hands that would someday cradle your face like you had done his. If only he could make you understand.

Back in his room, Edward plops down into the creaky chair at his desk. Like a robot, he searches for your computer. The webcam feed blinks at him, and there you are again. At the sight of you, he almost wants to cry once more. The smile from the bookstore lingers in his mind. His eyes drank in the soft curve of your lips, the way your hands moved as you organized something on your desk. The image of your hands from his fantasies resurfaces, making his heart ache.

“Thank you.” Edward wets his lips, his voice a dry whisper in the quiet room. “For bringing this angel into my life.”

He clasps his hands together, fingers interlocking tightly in prayer. He isn’t sure who he was thanking – a god he’d long since abandoned, fate, or perhaps the dream itself. All he knows is that he feels chosen, as though your existence is a message meant solely for him.

The fantasy builds again as he stares at you, unbidden and unstoppable. In his mind, he sees you smiling at him the way you had in the dream – soft and cruel all at once, yet impossibly kind.

#edward nashton x reader #edward nashton #edward nygma #riddler x reader #paul dano riddler #fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #dano riddler x reader #dano riddler #the batman 2022 #batman 2022 #the riddler 2022 #the riddler #riddler fanfic #riddler fanfiction #stalking mention #stalking tw #tw stalking

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