#cliffyfics

[littl3-val3ntine]

every breath you take (pt. 3) ❥ edward nashton

PART ONE / PART TWO

《♡》

summary // riddler always has everything planned, from the moment his plot begins up until the day after it has happened. he expects himself to be able to expect everything, until his mind is taken elsewhere during a routine stakeout on the police response to his latest hit... now he finds himself, as well as the item of his affection, caught up in his issues and lust for vengeance.

warnings // OHJ GOD LMFAO, gn! smut (I SECTIONED IT, ITS UNNECESSARY TO THE PLOT SO FEEL FREE TO SKIP), typical creepiness that's consistent for this fic, switch!eddie, light choking and kinda voyeurism?, possessiveness, creampie whoops

author's note // hey besties... ur boy just dislocated his knee so sorry for the later update :,)) this one's good nd long though to make up for it.

part 4 will be the last part to this fic, so thank you for joining me along the ride. more 2 come! just kinda done with this one lolz

anyways do enjoy!! love u muah! ^^

《♡》

You swear you recognize this car.

It’s not like it’s all that generic, either. A little burgundy sedan, just old enough to have one whispering to themself, “Huh, what a neat car,” but not so old that it’s antique. It lives somewhere deep in your mind that you’re not quite sure of. God, it’s familiar…

You brush it off. Maybe you just remember it from the parking lot at the press office.

You glance over at the man in the driver's seat, bathed in red light from the traffic signal overhead, to find him white-knuckled around the steering wheel and staring absently ahead through the windshield. The car ride up until now has been characterized by a loaded silence, as if there's things both of you could be saying but aren't. Granted, it has only been about a minute or so since he all but sped out of the parking lot at the hospital, but even so, that's about halfway down to Grange Street, where your car is parked.

The doctor was wise to warn you not to drive. Not only are you dead tired, nearly dozing off in the passenger side of Edward's car, on top of that your mind is still foggy from the sedatives in your system. It takes you a good couple seconds to realize the stoplight before you had changed, even while you were zoned in, unconsciously, on the bright colors.

He doesn't touch the accelerator. Instead, he just gazes blankly into the road ahead, brows furrowing.

You don't have half a mind to follow his line of sight. "Edward," you whisper, "The light's green."

He seems startled by your voice. "Oh, yeah. Sorry."

The engine hums back to life and the car rolls through the intersection, only to slow to a halt a few meters later upon reaching a police road block. So that's what he was staring at.

"I-I think I know another way around—"

He moves his grasp to the gearshift, sliding it back into reverse and throwing his arm over the back of your seat to look through the rearview window. He's leaning over the console and you can feel his warmth again, his closeness bringing with it that same electricity that you missed. The weak glow of streetlights ahead paint his skin— his face, his clavicle exposed by the loose collar of his shirt, the space where his jaw meets his neck— and he looks like a sculpture, all smooth porcelain and fine detail.

You stop him with your fingers against his chest, telling him something about seeing your car up ahead and how you could just walk over to retrieve your bag and house key to save time. He doesn't necessarily realize your exact words. All he's aware of in that moment is your touch.

Edward just nods abstractedly, and then you're getting out of the car before he can even come back to his senses. He misses you immediately. Watching your every move, something heavy in his chest tugs at him and begs to reach for you. He can't let you leave. What if you get in your car and drive off? And then he'll never see you again. It's safer for you in his car.

Shaking away the thoughts rambling on in his mind, he surveys the alleyway for anything— or anyone— that might become an issue along your walk down to your car. Even upon finding nothing, he's still tempted to get out and walk with you. Just to make sure. But he doesn't.

His eyes find you again, halfway into your car and bent over the seat as you reach for your bag. Jaw falling open just slightly, his breath hitches, neck craning forward as if it'll get him a better view. Unconsciously, he commits the scene to mind; the dip of your spine as you disappear into the vehicle, how the light from the moon and the neon OPEN sign above hits the curve of your ass, the way you sit back onto your heels to stand upright. He follows your arms as you stretch them into the air, your back arching almost impossibly and head falling back against your shoulders. He can only imagine the sound you must have made when you stretched like that, the satisfied groan leaving your lips and the sigh of content as you relaxed your body again.

You must be so sore from the hit you took, and that bed at the hospital couldn't have been comfortable. The things he'd do for you, if only you'd ask him... he knows he'd treat you so well. Every aching muscle you could possibly have, he'd be willing to rub it to relief. Anything that could inconvenience you, he'd be there to eliminate it for you. He would kill for you. It wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that he already has.

Anything, if it means you’d forgive him for the way he hurt you tonight.

But before he can indulge further in his thoughts, his passenger side door swings open and you sink down into the seat, bag in your lap. You look over at him and offer a warm smile, as if to silently say, "You can start the car now, I'm ready." And somehow, he understands, as he offers back a whisper of a grin and turns the key in the ignition.

"So, uh, where are we headed?" he asks, as if he doesn't already have your address imprinted in his memory.

And none the wiser, you tell him: "Oh, I'm in the Sycamore Apartments, over on Fifth Street." He flicks his blinker on, nodding before you even finish your sentence. The silence falls over you both again, and the clicking noise fills the car.

"Thank you for driving me home, by the way. I really appreciate it," you say, desperate to break the ice. He just waves you off as if it's the most normal thing in the world. As if you two aren't basically strangers— at least, as far as you're concerned.

"It's nothing. Really, it's for my sake. Peace of mind, I guess." Though it's dim in the car, you swear you see that tiny boyish grin again. He never did smile much. When he does, even just a little, it makes something in your chest flutter. Like you're sixteen again and passing a cute guy in the hallway.

"What," you tease, your tone thick with sarcasm, "Couldn't trust me enough to make it home on my own?"

His eyes blow wide in panic. "Oh, I— No, that's not what I meant at all! I just—"

"Edward."

He looks at you, his cheeks turning dark. You can't help but to laugh. He's so easy. "I was just kidding."

"Oh," he murmurs, settling back into his seat. He raises a brow, removing one hand from the steering wheel to lean his elbow on the center console, all calm and collected like. Clearing his throat, he tells you, "No yeah, absolutely. I uh, knew that from the beginning."

You chuckle again, pulling another smile from him. "Oh did you, now?"

"Yeah. What, you don't believe me?"

"No dice, Mr. Nashton."

He exhales slowly, like a content sigh. You notice his breath hitch, almost undetectably, as you shift in your seat and lean against his forearm on the console to look out the window. He swallows audibly. "You know, you really ought to stop calling me that," he mutters, turning onto Fifth Street and slowing in front of your apartment.

"Why's that?" You turn to him. The muscles in his arm tense as your skin slides against his sleeve. "I think it's got a nice ring to it."

It makes him want to press you face-first into a wall. "It makes me feel like I'm at work."

"Hm, fair enough." Collecting your bag from your lap, you sigh. You're not ready to let the moment go, uncertain of when you'll see something like this again. You two, alone in his car...

You stop yourself before you can get too deep. What, have you got a crush on him or something?

He's looking at you as if he's got something to say, eyes dropping briefly to your lips and then to where your chest meets his forearm. Your eyes, however, don't leave his face. You're so close you can watch every thought in his mind play across his features, but somehow not close enough to distinguish what any of them mean. You're stalling...

Oh, what the hell.

"Do you maybe want to come inside for a few? I think we could both use a drink after... tonight." Maybe you aren't thinking. Or maybe you are thinking, just not with your head. Either way, the thought that illuminates his face right then is clear as day— Yes.

"Are you sure? It's late..." The way he's looking at you is begging you not to change your mind. The idea sits in the way back of your head, screaming, Don't let him inside! But you've already made your decision.

"Yeah it’s late, but I'd feel bad, you know? If you drove me all the way home and I didn't even pay you back." He thinks about it for a moment, having a debate in his own mind that lasts a good few seconds. It's not long, though, until he cuts the engine and nods.

“I’d love to, actually.” Worrying now that he sounds too forward, he adds, “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good drink.”

You grin, satisfied. Trying your best to choke down the childish excitement that bubbles up in your throat, you turn from him and pull up the lock-knob on the car door. Right as you swing your legs out the open door, there he is— looking like a phantom, tall and slender against the distinct Gotham gloom— holding out his hand to help you up.

“Well, thank you,” you chirp as he raises you into the night air. “Quite the gentleman.”

He laughs through his nose. “Hardly.”

There’s a certain danger to the way he responds. Like a warning. You don’t think too much of it as you’re gliding up the metal stairway to your front door, shaky-legged and eager to get inside, but upon looking back on it later it all made much more sense.

While you’re standing there, fumbling to get your key in the lock, your gaze drifts. And your heart catches for a moment, at the sight of it. You’re sure now, Yeah, it’s definitely a crush.

There he is, climbing the steps up to your front porch, blond hair askew and falling into his face as he’s careful not to slip. You turn back quickly, plunging the key in. The lock clicks and you disappear inside.

“It’s a bit of a mess,” you admit, hurrying to gather your coat from the back of the couch and stow away the empty takeout box on the end table. “I wasn’t really expecting anyone.”

He chuckles, something quiet and gentle, but still it rings through the small room. Shutting the door behind him, he assures you his place is worse. Your guest glances around, taking in the color of the walls and what covers them, and what’s on the tables and how you didn’t seem to know how to close a set of blinds to save your soul. Committing it all to memory. So this is how it looks from the inside. There’s that picture he always sees through the window.

“You can have a seat, if you’d like.” You brush past him as he’s looming awkwardly in the doorway. “What, uh… what do you drink?”

He trails you into the kitchenette, dropping into a chair just beside the counter. Reaching up to the cabinet above the table where he’s sat, you find yourself nearly leaning over him to get to the alcohol. He peers up at the shelves as you pry open the wooden door— it’s been a while since you’ve dug into it.

Crown Royal. Shitty vodka from your friend, a housewarming gift. Cognac you brought to a party a couple months back, and returned home with, unopened. Your collection was slim, but you assured him, “I’ve got wine in the fridge as well, if you’re interested.”

“May I have a glass of wine?”

You look down at him. And he’s gazing up at you, eyes soft. So polite. “Of course, that would have been my choice as well.”

He smiles again. He’ll remember that.

He likes this view of you. Leaning into the fridge, hunting for something, brows furrowed. There’s something domestic about it. And while he realizes it’s just a fantasy, in the moment you’re finding the wine he allows himself to slip into a world where you both are here, together, coming home from work and settling in for a drink. One where he’d make dinner and let you rest in his lap on the couch afterward. You’d fall asleep together, wake together, over again…

Clink.

The sound of glass colliding with cheap marble yanks him from his thoughts. There you are again, just inches from him, pressed against the countertop as you concentrate on pouring the wine. Careful not to spill and stain the surface. He always loved how you looked when you focused.

Once both glasses are half-full, he rises and takes one in his hand. “Thank you,” he hums, and he raises the glass to his lips for a leisurely sip. You don’t realize his eyes locked on you while you stare, his mouth forming perfectly around the rim of the glass. Catching yourself, you glance away.

“No need to thank me. It’s the least I could do.” You settle beside him, hopping up to sit on the counter while he leans his hip against its edge. Chuckling, you remind him, “The wine isn’t even that great.”

You don’t trust yourself to hold the glass, so you release it from your shaking hand to the surface beside you. “Oh, I’m not picky,” he all but whispers. “Besides, it’s not every night I get to drink with friends. I’d be stupid to complain.”

You huff out a sarcastic breath. “It’s not every night my boss is in my apartment, either.” You meet his eyes again. He’s holding you there, and he’s not even touching you. His eyes have gone stoic.

You’re pressed between him and his desk. Holding each others’ gaze, waiting to see who breaks first. Testing the waters. How far can we push it?

“I suppose I’m not complaining either, though,” you add. There’s a beat of silence as he ponders his next words, eyebrows raising as he takes another lazy sip from his glass.

“Since when am I your boss?”

You feel your cheeks warming, and finally you look away. “Well, maybe that wasn’t really the word for it, but you know what I mean. You’re definitely my superior, but I guess you’re not really my boss— that would be a little weird, actually, you don’t really seem like the boss type…”

Amidst your rambling, he mutters, “It would certainly complicate things.”

And you pause. He furrows his brows, as if he wasn’t expecting you to hear that. A hint of panic splashes across his face.

“Complicate things?” you urge him.

He shakes his head, beginning to turn away. “It’s nothing.”

“No.” You reach for him, fingers curling around the loose fabric of his sleeve. He tenses, his body stuttering for a second, but he doesn’t leave. He stays there, right where you hold him. “What did you mean?”

A doe-eyed stare falls on you again as he cranes his neck over his shoulder to look at you. And there you are. Locked in eye contact again, silently challenging one another as the room becomes pressurized. Pressing you two together until someone breaks. You feel his muscles tensing and untensing beneath your fingertips as he chooses his words.

I just want a straight-forward answer, Edward.

“It’s just a bit strange for someone’s… superior, to be in their home this late, no?”

“I thought you said you weren’t complaining.”

Your breath is speeding up. You’re sure he notices, because his is speeding up, too. He turns back to you again, this time bringing him so close to you that you feel the chill of his belt against the skin of your outer thigh through your clothes. It sets your senses alight, your entire body tingling to attention at the slightest touch. And there it is again, that hand coming down to post on the edge of the countertop beside you, keeping you tucked between him and something so suffocatingly unmovable for the second time that month. Except this time, his confidence is dormant. He’s all whispers and soft linen, his bottom lip stained red.

“I’m not,” he murmurs. Head tilted forward, even with his hair falling down into his face, his eyes still gleam in the dim light from the kitchen lamp as he looks down at you. You can almost feel his breath on your face as he continues, almost silently, breathlessly, “I told you. I would be stupid to complain.”

Your back is arching into him instinctually. The need for him is primal, unlike any way you’ve ever needed someone prior. Your eyes are resting on his lips, recalling how they pursed around the glass, curled into a gentle smile, caught between his teeth sometimes when he’d think. Wondering if you could taste the wine on his tongue. He’d make it taste so good.

His jaw hangs as he exhales a shaky breath, leaning in further to place his glass down next to yours, right behind your far hip. He doesn’t draw back his hand. His hair, stringy and soft, tickles your forehead. His entire body is close. Close enough you could almost feel his lashes against your skin as his eyelids fall slowly shut. Hesitantly, he maneuvers his hips to slink between your knees, quick to return to that sphere of closeness you both have created.

You’re hardly breathing. Feeling weightless on your perch at the counter, you brace your palm against his warm chest to keep your balance. His heart pounds mercilessly against the skin. Trailing upward, you gently brush the hair from his face.

How far could you push it?

Your lips meet. Featherlight at first, but he doesn’t last long. His hands curl around your hips, drawing you against his body as your own rest against his arms, in his hair, anywhere you can find purchase. The pain in your finger is long forgotten against the sensation of him.

It’s open mouthed, sloppy and desperate. Small noises and wandering hands. It’s nothing like he’d ever imagined it would be. In a way, that only serves to excite him further.

His lips are chapped, but they’re warm and wet nonetheless and he kisses you as if you’re fresh air and he’s been drowning. His embrace is possessive. He tugs you into himself and groans something guttural, animalistic. He’s never letting go.

His mouth moves eagerly and without expertise, small sounds escaping the back of his throat as you press further into him. His touch slides tentatively up your back, only to crash back against the marble as he collapses into the dip of your shoulder. His ministrations don’t stop, and he probes the delicate skin beside your throat with his lips and tongue. Incoherent, he’s a mess, sobbing into your body how beautiful you are, how scared he’s been, how badly he needs you.

Please, please, he needs you. He needs you so badly his entire body aches. He’ll do anything. He knows it’s wrong, and he knows he shouldn’t want this, but he’s been so hungry for you for so long and it’s all he ever thinks about when he sees you.

You pry him away from your neck, which is now raw and likely marred by his ravenous mouth, by getting a fistful of his hair and tugging. The sound that leaves him is inexcusable, whining desperately like a bitch in heat, but all is made right again when you caress his face and thumb at his swollen lips.

His pupils are blown to saucers, peering down at you unwaveringly as he looms between your legs. Knowing well he’s hanging on your every word, you ask him softly, directly, “Do you want this?”

His face contorts like he’s about to cry. He sinks into your touch, burying his face in your palm, nodding frantically. “I do. M’want it, so bad… I need…”

“What do you need, Eddie?”

He sucks in a shaky breath. Eddie. He liked that. “You. You, you… I want to feel you, I’ve been thinking about you so long…”

You figure he could tell you about that later. For now, you guide his face back to your lips again, and whisper against his mouth.

“Have me.”

X X X

For being long and lean, he’s stronger than you expected. He sweeps you from the countertop with ease and hauls you off down the hall, hands planted firmly underneath your thighs to hold you tight against him.

You don’t remember telling him where your bedroom was. Once you lock your legs around his back and feel his hips— and something else— grinding right into where you need him, though, you can’t really bring yourself to mind.

Edward turns to nudge open the door with his shoulder, and he doesn’t even bother closing it. He’s too preoccupied with bracing his forearm against your back and laying you gently against your blankets, letting you down so easy he must have thought you’d break at the slightest touch. His body doesn’t separate from you. All of his weight is on top of you, around you, firmly against you. Your legs still curl snugly around him, with his face in your chest and his hands drifting up your thighs.

His hips are already rutting into you, restricted by the clothes that still, to his dismay, divide your bodies. The incessant throbbing between his legs tells him that he would have been perfectly content, had you told him to, to grind against you like a puppy until he got off, but once you tug at the back of his shirt collar he’s just as eager to be free of it.

He fumbles with the buttons on the sleeves, whimpering in frustration when they don’t come undone. “Here,” you prod. You take them between your fingers to help him, to guide him. Like Edward, they come undone quickly beneath your skilled touch.

Not even bothering with the buttons along the front, he yanks it over his head and discards it somewhere off the bedside. You glance in its general direction, but instead you’re greeted by the city staring back at you through the wide-open window.

“Edward,” you push at his shoulder, but he’s engulfed in kissing at your neck again. The most you get is a distracted hum. Squirming, you tell him, “We gotta close the window—“

“No.” He posts up on his elbows to get a look at your face, and his eyes are wild as they land on you. A surge of ferocity rips through him, uncharacteristic compared to how he was writhing against you not moments ago. “I don’t give a fuck who sees. Hell, they can watch. So they’ll all know.”

Let them all watch him as he makes you his. As he drives his dick so deep into you that he can be certain no one else will ever fill you so well again. And when you inevitably wake up tomorrow and dress for work, and try your best to cover his marks and bruises all over your neck with makeup or jewelry, let them peek out in the spots you missed and remind everyone in the office you’re not to be touched. Not to be looked at. Not even to occupy space in another’s mind.

His.

He’s back on you in an instant, tugging on your belt and then sliding down your body to rid you of your bottoms. His breath, hot and heavy, cascades against your inner thigh as he rests his face against it. Eyes closed, he nips at the supple flesh with his open mouth. The warm hand returns to busy itself with squeezing at your opposite leg.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, trying to draw him closer to where you need him. You lift your hips so he can remove your underwear. He dips his head between your thighs, mind going foggy as he takes you in.

A soft mouth accepts you without prompt. His tongue moves against you eagerly, lapping at the nectar that drips from your heat. Your head falls back against the pillows, losing yourself in the wet euphoria he gives you and the muffled noises he makes as he all but suffocates on you.

He doesn’t need to breathe. He’d never been so hungry— never had something so sweet ever graced his tongue. If he choked there, in between your thighs, he’s sure he’d have spent his afterlife bragging.

He lifts his head with a greedy inhale, filling his lungs as he was just starting to get lightheaded. Spit, among other things, coats his lips and the corners of his mouth, and his hair is disheveled from your pawing at it. The smile on his face is unlike any you’ve seen before— something adjacent to deranged. Manic. He’s just getting started.

“I’ve spent so long wondering how you taste,” he whines, rising into all fours to return to his place on top of you. He sits back on his haunches right between your spread legs, the dusting of blond hair on his chest catching the moonlight as his muscles move beneath the skin. The darkness of the room beyond him frames his body, but he seems to glow above you, humming with energy, while he undoes his belt.

His words finally register in your head. “You have?” you affirm weakly, finding it hard to breathe. The smile only widens, tongue pressing insolently against his bottom teeth.

“I have.”

Slipping out of his trousers and briefs, he leans over you again, pressing his nose into your temple. “You’re better than I could have ever imagined," he whispers, taking the hem of your shirt between his fingers. You get the hint. “I don’t know how I’ve possibly kept myself away this long.”

A shuttering groan escapes from deep within his throat just at the sight of you. Now completely bare, you let the shirt fall from your fingers, raising your arms above your head to toss it to the floor. His hands follow, pinning your wrists.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to again.”

You feel it. Warm and thick, pressing into your thigh. His head drops to the crook of your neck. By instinct, you let your legs drift further apart, all but inviting him inside.

He moves his hips at an excruciating pace, sliding his dick slowly against your skin, so close to where you need him. Every so often, he loses control, his hips bucking forward despite his best efforts. You squirm beneath him, mumbling desperately, dumb from arousal— “Please, Eddie”— but he doesn’t relent. His grip around your wrist only tightens.

“Say it. I need to hear you say it.” Holding you down with one hand, he hooks the other under your knee to poise his dick right against your hole. Barely breaking the surface.

Your mind is reeling. “Please!”

“As nice as you sound when you beg,” he quips, panting, “I want you to tell me you’re mine. I need… I need to hear it. Need to.” His fingers dig into your thigh. “Say it. Who do you belong to?”

What little composure he had before is long lost. His entire body trembles above you, like a live wire about to erupt into flames. His cock jumps against your skin, aching to be inside.

“You—!” Your breath is cut short. The stretch that burns between your legs makes your entire body feel limp, giving itself to his touch as he shapes you around his dick.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. Only making it halfway inside before you clench around him, he slides back out to the tip. He releases your wrists, setting you free to let your hands roam again, and slides his arms around your waist as he holds you down onto his cock. Teeth scrape against your throat, weakly resisting the urge to bite down.

His thrusts soon become erratic and quick, reaching deeper inside of you than you ever thought possible and breeding you like a rabbit. Whining, babbling incoherently, gazing at you thoughtlessly, his eyes are lidded— Mine, mine, mine.

“Feels so fucking… oh god, so tight…”

Your fingers tangle into his hair, holding on for any essence of control. Tightening your grip into a fist, you feel his jaw fall open in a silent scream. The mewl that escapes him is pathetic. He likes that. He loves that.

"That feel good, Eddie?" It leaves your lips like honey. He nods fervently into your neck, abandoning the air of dominance he'd played with earlier. The warm body above you, inside you, melts into your touch, offering himself to you. Begging you to take him.

And you do.

It comes naturally, telling him how good he feels, how good he is for you, good, good, good. The bruising rhythm of his hips falters as he loses himself in your praise, mumbling things you couldn't understand and heating the skin of your bare chest with his breath.

You give him another tug. He yelps, his dick stilling within you while you hold his head up to face you by his hair. Glossy eyed, you swear there's tears sliding down his cheeks. Pathetic.

"What happened, baby?" You clench around him, just to hear him squeal. He does. "Not so big and strong anymore, huh? What happened to all that confidence?"

His face twists, and a small sob wracks his frame. He goes to return his face to the crook of your neck, but he's stopped by another yank to his hair.

"Ah—!"

"Use your words, honey. Why are you crying?" A tinge of worry invades your question, but something in you screams in delight at the way you've broken him. At just how easy it was.

There's so much he could say. How he never believed he'd get this far. He could tell you just how many nights he'd spent, dick deep in his fist, thinking about this, and how he can't even contain himself now that it's finally happening. How he's waiting to wake up from this cruel dream to an inevitable wet spot of cum on his mattress, as he has done frequently in the past. The way he needs you right now, to fill you and let you claim him, to hear you decide he's worthy of even the littlest passing thought. To beg you to use him if it means he can take up space in your mind. He wants to sink into the softness of your skin and let you hold him there. How the second he felt you squeezing his dick, he vowed never to leave your bedsheets— he'd stay there, in your bed, waiting for you all day until you return home so he can lay in your arms again like a lapdog. He'd let you whore him out for your own pleasure. Reduce himself for a warm body for you to use if it means he got to be yours.

He can’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he opts for a weak whimper as he tells you, "Need you..."

It wasn't a lie. In this moment, you're the oxygen he breathes— the only thing registering in his mind is how your body moves against his. Committing it to memory for when he inevitably has to let you go. Once you wake up tomorrow and realize who you've taken to bed. The way you'll look at him—or not look at him, even worse— in the days to come. The crushing reality that he will have to return to his spot across the street and observe you from your window again, teased by the events of tonight and the remnants of your touch on his skin.

But you're facing him now, picking apart his expression with eyes unwavering, glowing with adoration. Fully aware and generally sober, you know it's Edward Nashton.

You see him.

He's pulled back to reality by the breathiness of your voice, whispering to him, Oh, come here, baby. The voice from his dreams calling to him again.

Without hesitance, he collapses back into you. His hands squeeze your hips, anchoring you to him as his hips pick up in speed.

His dick slides against your walls with ease, and you feel him twitching inside of you. You caress his back, coaxing him toward his release, chasing your own. He moans softly, mindlessly, " 'm gonna cum..."

The weight of his body lifts away from you, just barely enough to make space for his fingers to snake between your bodies and stroke you. "Cum with me," he begs, "Please, I wanna... wanna make you feel good."

Feeling the coil deep in your belly, you dig your nails into his shoulderblades and buck your hips into his touch. It doesn't take long, between his mewling in your ear and the heat of his fingers against the sensitive skin between your legs, until you're almost there, clinging to him and clenching unwillingly around his cock.

"Eddie, I'm close—"

"Please cum, please, please... oh, my god, I wanna— I wanna see you." He posts on his elbow so his face hovers above yours, your breath mingling with his and making you dizzy.

You bring your trembling palm against his cheek. He watches your eyes roll back into your skull as your release washes over you, your entire body jolting with the force of it. The low groan that leaves you sends him toppling over his own edge, burying himself deep within you and spilling himself into your body. He lets his forehead fall against yours, a thin veil of sweat dampening his skin. The room fades into a half-awake sort of silence as each of you breathe each other's air, recovering.

When you open your eyes again after a long moment of basking in his closeness, and your own fullness, you find him already gazing down at you. The look in his eyes isn't any different from ones you've received in the past, but this time, it makes sense.

Desire. Unadulterated need. Infatuation.

Reverence.

With the hand on his cheek, you guide his lips down to yours. The kiss is nothing like your first of the evening. It's slow, languid, offering you both time to truly taste one another. To become one entity, joined at the mouth, for a brief time until you both come up for air and he collapses against the mattress beside you.

The moonlight plays on his features, sending shadows that frame his face like he’s Renaissance art. Suddenly he's bashful again, toying with your fingers as he asks you, "Should I let you get to sleep?"

You intertwine your hand with his.

"Stay."

《♡》

PART FOUR SOON

<taglist>

@yelenas-lova

@alicefallsintotherabbithole

@notevanpetersbuthisgf

@bugwritesstuff

#edward nashton x reader #paul dano riddler #the riddler x reader #paul dano fanfic #edward nashton fic #edward nashton fluff #riddler fluff #still gay 4 paul dano #i love insane men #cliffyfics #riddler smut #edward nashton smut

[littl3-val3ntine]

i’ve never asked anything on tumblr but i really love your writing so i was wondering if you could write some good old eddie x reader except reader is also super obsessive!! stalkers in love!!!

OMF IM CRYIN I LOVE THIS

anything for u anon ily

thank you for the ask !1!!!

《♡》

summary // as a private investigator, you weren’t often inclined to talk to the forensics guys. eventually, though, the job gets lonely, and it takes a toll on the mental state… so you find a convenient excuse to allocate your investigative skills elsewhere.

warnings // mutual stalking, small gore depiction, profanity, SFW subby!nashton

author’s note // taking a small break to answer some requests!! :D love u guys thank u so much for asking, i personally love this prompt… so gd much… AAAAA ^^

《♡》

This kind of attraction was not something you were familiar with. It wasn’t anything like love at first sight. In reality, when you first met Edward Nashton you thought he was kind of creepy, but you supposed all of the forensics guys were like that, in a way. To someone in your position, they were just a bunch of nerdy little true-crime obsessed freaks.

You preferred to… avoid the forensics team, as much as you could. They didn’t really appear in your plane of existence unless it was absolutely necessary, and much to your dismay, that case marked one of the nights it was absolutely necessary. When you arrived at the scene, jacket freshly-pressed and latex gloves snapping against your palms, they were swarming the place with an unsettling sort of excitement. No one should be so eager to see a murder site.

Suppressing a groan, you pushed through the crowd of authorities and geeks into the house. Your stomach churned at the scent of it– they hadn’t even removed the cadaver yet. You were lucky to be just a few minutes up the road. In the same vein, though, you didn’t have much time before some attorney or cranky police chief chased you out. You had to be quick.

Eyes glued to the scene, you dug in your coat pocket for your notebook and pen. Fleetingly, you glanced at the throng of people gathered in the foyer, searching for a lone gaudy orange lanyard who might be able to give you some semblance of a rundown. When you found him, he was already zeroed in on you, eyes wide with juvenile infatuation, body stilled mid-motion. It wasn’t uncommon for them to look at you like that. You’d heard the rumors– how IT and Forensics both feared you and thought you were some mythical crime-solving deity in the same fashion. But with the way he looked at you, he wasn’t just intimidated. It was the same way you used to look at that unreasonably hot Psych professor you had in college.

You waved him over. Me? he mouthed back. Brows furrowing, you nodded and waved him over again. You don’t have time for this shit.

Before the entirety of your patience slipped through your fingers, he was at your side, looking up at you doe-eyed and waiting on your call. “Give me the summary– quickly,” you told him pointedly, pen poised above your notepad. You didn’t even look at him, choosing instead to scribble some notes about the scene while he rattled on about direction of blood spatter, time of death, missing articles… more forensics babble that you didn’t understand.

When you looked up at him, he stopped completely. He looked panicked, like he was expecting you to yell at him or something. Jesus, these guys get no play… “Thank you,” you squinted at his lanyard to find his name, his forced smile and glasses painted white by camera flash catching your eye, “Edward.”

You paused. Edward Nashton. You recognized that name– he was the guy that sent you all your forensics reports. From his writing, you always thought he was sharp, pointing out patterns and signatures in your serial cases that you’re certain you would have missed otherwise. You’d sent him e-mails here and there to thank him for his input, but you weren’t ever graced by a response. Now you understand why.

“Oh, yeah, it’s… it’s no big deal. ‘s my job, yeah.”

This could be fun. You stared right at him, letting him squirm underneath your unfaltering gaze. “Are you thinking blunt object or a firearm?”

He swallowed hard. “Not sure, we hav-haven’t seen the body. From the force of the spatter on the wall, though… um, it might be a firearm.” You hummed, nodding. Mercifully, you looked to the blood on the wall, a dripping splotch some few feet above the floor. He must have been kneeling down. Definitely a firearm.

“You’re right, bud. Great work.” Tucking your notepad back into your coat, you removed your glove and held out your hand for a handshake. “Are you the same Edward Nashton who does my reports?”

Taking your hand, he nodded fervently. “Yes! I’ve gotten your e-mails, actually…”

“A response at some point would be nice,” you teased, quirking a smile. “We should work together sometime. I could definitely use you on this one.”

Oh boy, you could use him any day, as far as he’s concerned. The warm hand in yours began to shake, either with excitement or anxiety. “We should?”

Pushing a breath through your nose amusedly, you affirmed to him, “That is what I said, yes.” You took in the surrounding room again. “Rally up some of your guys to get pictures of this before they clean it up, as legally as possible.” It came so naturally, slipping back into that air of professionality. He nodded and scurried off, breathlessly telling the rest of his team, Get the cameras. The cameras.

It’s unclear what about him distracted you, but nonetheless he drew you in like a fly to honey. Your eyes followed him as he disappeared through the crowd, and not even the hollering of lawyers pulled you back to earth. Mind still foggy, consumed by questions about him, you found yourself being tugged along by two officers before you even had a chance to do your job.

Standing on the lawn, staring at the house, you cursed yourself.

What the fuck am I doing?

———

Your devotion to the case never faltered. The question became about which part of the case you were devoted to.

Never before had you been so interested in an autopsy.

Any excuse you could find to slip a few floors down and appear in Nashton’s cubicle, asking coyly, “Anything out of the ordinary in the blood samples?” or, “How’s the fingerprint processing coming along?” you shamelessly abused. That’s exactly how you found yourself there, hovering over his shoulder to look at the images his team snapped of the scene. He was rambling on about the position of the body and height of the splatter, this, that, and the other thing. You were only half-listening. You couldn’t really help it– since your time at the scene together, you’d become consumed by him, unable to think of anything else. It wasn’t quite infatuation. More so, it was an obsession, an insatiable need for his undivided attention. Sometimes when you’d get to thinking about him, you’d scare yourself. You knew it was becoming unhealthy but you couldn’t bring yourself to mind.

Tuning back in, you let your hand graze his back as you leaned forward to leaf through the photos. “Great work, Nashton… these are incredible shots.” He took in a shuddering breath at your praise, shoulders tensing beneath your touch.

“Oh, thank you. Really, it was my team…”

“But this is your analysis, no?”

“Yes!” His head snapped in your direction. “Yeah, I… they tend to let me, um, handle this stuff.”

You smiled down at him. “It makes sense, you’re the most capable.”

He looked about ready to burst, his entire body tense like a coil about to spring free. He was hardly breathing anymore, jaw hanging open with words he couldn’t yet formulate. The tips of his ears and his cheeks beneath his glasses were flushed completely pink, and if you leaned any closer you might have felt the heat radiating from his face.

Clearing your throat, you straightened. “Once you’re through with those, you should meet me in my office. There’s some things regarding this case we should discuss in private.”

He nodded again. “Okay. I mean, yes. I will.” He swallowed hard. With a squeeze of his shoulder and a reassuring smile, you were gone.

There wasn’t anything to talk about, but you were hoping to come up with something between that afternoon and the time his hesitant tapping came at your door some hours later. You were knee deep in his files when he came, notepad sprawled across your desk and absolutely defaced with information. Mailing address, full name, date of birth… marriage status. His presence both called you back to reality, shame washing over you as you closed all your tabs and shut your notebook, and thrilled you further into that obsessive haze.

You knew what you were going to talk with him about.

“It’s unlocked.”

“May I come in?”

You blinked. “That’s what I was implying, yes.”

“Oh.” The door edged open and he slipped through, offering a tight lipped grin as he shut it behind him. You motioned to the chair across from yourself, and he tentatively took a seat.

“So, I wanted to discuss some possible motives with you. Right now on the board we have a possible weapon, time of death, position of attack… but no reason.” His eyes kept dropping to your mouth as you spoke. You suppressed a maniacal grin. “What are we thinking, Eddie?”

He was thinking he’s going to explode right there in that seat, with the way you were looking at him. His mind was cluttered with anxiety, but he still had sense to pick up what you were putting down. The double-meaning. He was smart like that, picking up on the nuances of language, and you knew that. You watched it click in his head.

“Um,” he began, pausing to consider his words. “It might have been… uh, domestic, like infidelity or maybe a couple’s spat…” With your legs crossed loosely beneath the desk, you let the toe of your shoe drift across the inside of his calf.

“Go on…”

“Oh, um, that was really my main theory, actually. We haven’t seen or heard from the victim’s wife since he passed, so she might be a good starting point.” He wasn’t meeting your eyes, often glancing up at you but then, just as quickly, glancing away. His eyes were on your lips, your hands, the papers on your desk. You’d put his files away, hadn’t you?

To your relief, you had. Your heartbeat settled in your temple. You smiled at him, holding out your hand for him. “Thank you, Nashton. That’s all I needed, I’ll let you get home now.”

He took your hand in a weak shake and stood eagerly to leave. “Glad I could help.” He made his way to the door, but paused. “Hey, if you… if you ever, um, need something from me, outside of office hours, just give me a call. I do a lot of my work at home, anyway. D-Do you have my number?”

“I do.” Of course you had his number. It was on his file. You had access to all of his files. Hell, you had them memorized by now.

“You do. Okay, yeah, then… just, ahem. Just give me a call.”

You tried to maintain your stoicity, but you’re certain he picked up on how your eyes softened with amusement. “Goodnight, Nashton.”

“Goodnight.” And then he was gone. The feeling of missing him was instantaneous, a tugging in your chest that wouldn’t rest.

Your eyes drifted back to your notepad.

Snatching it from the desk, you hastily locked up your office and followed him out.

———

That’s how you found yourself where you are now. Sitting in your car, waiting outside his apartment complex. The inside of his apartment was dark– no lights on, no movement, a package un-received still sitting on his doorstep. Had he already gone to sleep? You glance around the parking lot, finding no sign of his car. No, he hadn’t even arrived home yet.

Swallowing around a guilty lump, you start your car and speed home. Your mind is relentless. Where is he? Is he with someone else? Did he see me?

You’re consumed with your thoughts as you pull into your driveway, tunnel-vision until you finally reach the warm embrace of your home. Letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, you take off your shoes and rest them beside the door.

It’s stuffy. Your chest is tight with anxiety, and the comforting warmth from your heater quickly becomes suffocating with every second you spend inside. Trotting over to the streetview window, you throw aside the curtains and budge open the panel. Fresh air kisses you immediately, soothing your lungs with cool air.

The city sleeps before you, a sight that always calmed you to see. Despite the whirlwind of your life, the grotesque realities you are consistently presented with, the city always remains still against the black canvas of the night.

Your gaze follows the buildings down from the sky to the street, pausing on something. A car, just across the street and parked along the curb adjacent to your doorstep. A smile creeps across your face.

Found him.

#cliffyfics #edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #edward nashton fanfic #paul dano the riddler x reader #dano!riddler x reader #riddler fanfic #edward nashton fic #paul dano riddler #riddler fluff

[littl3-val3ntine]

every breath you take ❥ edward nashton

GET IT ??2 LIKE THE POLICE SONG?2?? WHERE THEY GO "i'll be watching you..."

anyways :')

《♡》

summary // riddler always has everything planned, from the moment his plot begins up until the day after it has happened. he expects himself to be able to expect everything, until his mind is taken elsewhere during a routine stakeout on the police response to his latest hit...

warnings // stalking, profanity, mentions of violence and death, so very angsty... part 2 is much better i promise

author's note // gOD I FUCKinG love the edward nashton sees pretty person and goes absolutely feral trope... so good n nice. i do not condone stalking. he's creepy af in this, but i'm mentally ill so i dig that! also, eddie's a journalist in this, which i believe is canon as of the 2022 movie, but if i'm wrong deal with it ig LMFAO sorry

《♡》

The rain pounds, rhythmic, against the windshield of the car, interrupted only by the periodic screeching of faulty wipers. The figure behind the wheel slumps down into his damp coats, now finding himself faced with the first dilemma of the night he hadn't prepared for.

Does he leave the wipers on, letting the sound bombard his ears until it inevitably sends him into yet another unjustified, white-hot rage? Or, does he shut them off, and sacrifice what might be his only chance at a good view of the show? He tugs his lip between his teeth, rolling his head back against the seat theatrically as he ponders his options.

Squeeaaak.

He turns the radio up just a little bit louder, and rolls up the driver's side window all the way. It drowns out the sound, but only just barely enough to satisfy him. As tires squeal a few streets ahead and the avenue around him is painted red and blue, it occurs to him that he might not even be sitting out here for very long anyway.

Men pour from their police cars into the intersection, losing their typical law-enforcing rigidness to the chaos that has just been wrought upon Gotham. Even with the radio up, the windows shut, and the god-awful sound of the wipers, Nashton could hear them barking orders to one another from his place a few streets down. It was everything he'd expected, the exact image that played in his mind some nights ago when he sat awake scribbling the details of this exact plan out in his notebook. The place, the time, the disorderly yelling, the panic— hell, even the rain. Everything is falling into place, right before his very eyes.

And it thrills him. The show has officially begun.

A delighted smile creeps across his face, his eyes widening in childlike glee. It was these moments, he decides then, that he lived for. He reaches for his backpack on the passenger seat and fumbles for his binoculars and remote. He's just a few seconds behind his schedule— the time spent basking in his genius was, admittedly, not accounted for in the scheme— and if this is truly to work he must act fast. With one hand he yanks out the binoculars, and his fingers graze the cool plastic of the detonator right as he hears the first cue.

"Come out with your hands up! Step out of the vehicle!" It's muffled by the distance and the steady downpour, but he knows it when he hears it. In milliseconds he has the binoculars raised to his eyes, his sights locked in, laserfocused, on the scene unfolding in the street.

His symbol glares at him from the side of the van halted in the center of the intersection. The spray paint bleeds a bit in the rain, but he almost likes it better that way. Nevertheless, he knows the paint job was... temporary, anyway.

"I will not repeat myself again! Show me you hands!" Nashton licks his lips. His grip tightens dangerously around the detonator, watching the officer approach the dummy in the driver's seat.

"Sir, can you hear me! Do you need medical attention?" the officer calls from a disappointingly safe distance. Nashton predicted a standoff, but it's still just as much of a letdown as if he hadn't. He pulls out the remote and sets it in his lap as he hears a chorus of voices calling for an EMS, faced now with the weight of the three long minutes and, give or take, twenty-eight seconds it takes an ambulance to travel from Gotham Community Hospital to Grange Street— with light traffic, of course. It was commuting hours, after all.

Now antsy, Edward scans the crowd that's gathered around his scene. A morbid sense of accomplishment pools low in his gut as he takes in not only the size of the crowd, but the state of it. Men, women, and children, from all walks of life, all gathered on the corner of Grange and Second to watch his story unfold. On each face are eyes like saucers, and mouths hanging delightfully with anxiety or moving hastily, asking questions. His eyes drift across the crowd, not stopping on any face in particular. He knows he can't allow himself to humanize these people, not with the knowledge of what is about to come.

When his gaze lands on you the first time, toward the front of the pack and forced between an officer and a police barricade, his mind doesn't immediately register what he's looking at. It takes a second, maybe two, until his head snaps back to your direction in a double-take.

And there you are. Front and center in his mind now, tucked into a down raincoat and clutching your journalist's pad to your chest, there you are. Watching with baited breath as the Riddler's latest explosive, proudly his most powerful yet, sits in a van not even five feet from you. Blissfully unaware of your proposed imminent death, and without any realistic means of escape once it arrives.

The ambulance comes roaring in, and the crowd parts, a Red Sea of future civilian casualties, to allow its passage. Panic lodges in his throat as he gropes for the remote detonator. His time is running out. He knows that. Law enforcement is going to discover the doll, and then they're going to open the back of the van. The show must go on.

His breathing is shallow as the first EMT approaches the driver's side of the vehicle in his peripheral vision. Somewhere deep within himself, he knows he must detonate the bomb, but no longer is he prepared for it. A new scene plays in his mind as he's paralyzed there, his sight locked on your face. In his head its beautiful shape contorts with unprecedented fear, illuminated by the burst of firelight from the backside of the van. When they pry it open, you'll be the among first to see the wires and tanks of gas. Will it register in your head what is to come before you're wiped from this plane of existence by flaming death? What will the office look like, decorated by your memorial— the flowers, the photos, the obituary? How could he ever show his face at work again, knowing exactly who is at fault for your empty desk?

"No," he pleads into the empty car. "Please, move..." His thoughts are frantic, running through his options too quickly to effectively address any of them.

The paramedics open the driver's side door. The doll falls out.

"Move, just fucking move!" Detonator in hand, he pounds on the dashboard. His vision is blurred, either by new tears pooling in his eyes or sheer unbridled panic. "MOVE! MOVE! FUCKING MOVE!"

He positions his thumb over the button on the remote as police and S.W.A.T. encircle the vehicle. Deciding he can't watch, he leans forward and rests his head on the steering wheel. All of the yelling from outside, the rain, the classical music from the radio, all of it— it ceases to exist against his sobbing. He sobs so loud and so hard he feels his ribs becoming sore.

He knows what he must do. The show must go on.

Click. Boom.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

There was no more elaborate escape. No starting the car and speeding off into the night, high off of the adrenaline of it all. No victorious joyride while the news report plays quietly in the background. None of it.

He lost track of how long he'd spent there, face pressed into the steering wheel, remote in hand. He'd cried until his entire body collapsed and his tear ducts went dry.

When he finally lifts his head, his forehead is sticky with sweat and his neck cracks uncomfortably. He lets the remote fall to the floorboard, unclenching his hand for the first time in what must have been hours. With one destination in mind, he turns the key in the ignition and the car roars to life.

He hesitates, frozen again as he stares at the intersection before him. The site of the blast was impressive to say the least, still blackened with soot despite the rainfall. His eyes drift to approximately where you were standing, and a chill shoots through his body to find the ground completely charred. What might have been left of the van was already cleaned and hauled off. It’s as if it never happened.

Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe if he just goes about his night as he usually would— stopping by your apartment, sitting in his car across the street for an hour or so, watching you through the street-facing window as you sit at your desk and run through computer work or have your dinner— he can pretend that he didn’t just blast you into a million little pieces in the middle of a crowded intersection. With enough convincing, he can almost believe that the sweet soul who offered him coffee once on his third day at the press office, who still smiles at him when they catch his gaze lingering, who moves with beauty and intrigue like he’d never witnessed before is not truly lost in this universe quite yet.

He was never able to understand quite what it was that drew him into you. It was instinctual, primal, and so very sudden. Once he realized his obsession, he supposed that it was just the way of things. Flies go to honey, moths chase the light, and Edward Nashton occupies every available thought with his breathtaking coworker. Now though, as he’s speeding down Gotham’s dreary side streets, he finally gets it.

All he’s ever seen in people is their worst. Why else would he spend so much energy cleansing the city of its scum?

But no matter how much time he spent observing you, listening to you, reading your work, or turning you over and around and inside out in his mind, there wasn’t a single flaw that presented itself. Not even your mortal shortcomings sounded any alarm in his head. It was maddening, trying to find something he could theoretically dislike about you, anything to shake this schoolboy crush that had manifested in his conscience, because nothing ever came to light. You’d only ever been kind to him. You’d only ever been beautiful. You’d only ever been absolutely perfect.

And he knew you’d always be. Even in death, he knew that this version of you that is forever preserved in his mind is just as perfect and real as when you were alive. That’s the conclusion he comes to as he sits in his usual spot across from your apartment tonight, staring up into your window and mumbling his shaky apologies under his breath.

It hasn’t set in yet. The room is dark, and the curtains are drawn. You aren’t home.

He lets himself fall quiet as he listens to the city around him. How empty it seems without you in it. The radio babbles on to fill the silence.

…inside a van on the intersection at Grange and Main, six officers and three civilians were hospitalized. While one of the officers has reportedly succumbed to his injuries, his name has not yet been released to the public…

He stares at the radio system, breath picking up.

He saw the aftermath of the explosion. The sheer sprawl of the immediate blast should have killed anyone within a radius of seven feet. According to his evaluation, he expected at the very least three deaths on-site and five more officer hospitalizations. His brow furrowed, deep in thought, as he ran through the events of the night.

He parked his car in position. Law enforcement arrived. They called for an ambulance. EMT discovers the dummy. They opened up the van. He hesitated, but he detonated the bomb.

He hesitated.

He hesitated.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, eyes wide with disbelief, “It didn’t work. It didn’t fucking work.”

With trembling fingers, he shoves the key back into the ignition and starts the car again. The radio continues.

…no civilian deaths have been reported, and the three victims remain in stable condition. In other news, Gotham and surrounding cities will be seeing a temperature drop…

《♡》《♡》《♡》《♡》《♡》《♡》《♡》

PART TWO

#boy do i love the idea of stalker!eddie #love it love it lovelvoleov #so good #the riddler x reader #edward nashton x reader #edward nashton imagine #cliffyfics

[littl3-val3ntine]

every breath you take (pt. 2) ❥ edward nashton

PART ONE

《♡》

summary // riddler always has everything planned, from the moment his plot begins up until the day after it has happened. he expects himself to be able to expect everything, until his mind is taken elsewhere during a routine stakeout on the police response to his latest hit... now he finds himself, as well as the item of his affection, caught up in his issues and lust for vengeance.

warnings // depiction of gore kinda???, hospital environment, eddie's a wee bit creepy, not much 2 see here tbh :)

author's note // here it is my little friends. the comfort after that really angsty part one :,)) hope u enjoy and lmk what you'd like to see in the future!! asks + feedbacks are open :3

《♡》

It couldn't have been a dream, because you're certain that you never fell asleep. One moment you were upright, body pumping with adrenaline, and the immediate next you were completely stagnant. Everything just, stopped. Like a light switch was flicked off.

You aren't even sure yet if you've woken up. Coming back around feels more like rising shamefully out of bed, dizzy with the worst hangover of your entire life, than actually waking up. Whatever happened to you was more equivalent to a nightmare than a sleep, judging by how your body aches.

It takes you a moment, but you can see it now. Playing in your mind's eye like a cheap horror flick, except these special effects are so good and so real that you can still feel them brutally warm on your face and raw at the base of your palms where you crashed against the asphalt.

You're sure it wasn't a dream. The beeping of the heart monitor beside your bed draws you closer to the conscious world with each sound, and soon your extremities tingle to life after god-knows how long of lying still. The evening starts to roll back to you in waves, each gruesome detail presenting itself against the empty canvas of your closed eyes. The sterile fluorescent light from above punctures some of the memories through your eyelids as you rise further into consciousness, but the gist is still there.

The van exploded. You saw it happening, the vehicle rolling to a stop in the center of the intersection. The black Corvette that smashed right into its front end. You thought it could be your big break— you weren't unaware of the antics of Gotham's latest vigilante, and the symbol was what caught your eye in the first place. The headline was already beaming in your mind: Riddler Takes to the Streets With New Tactics For Terror.

It should have killed you. Is this death? You're hesitant to open your eyes as the thought situates in your mind.

The heart monitor picks up in speed, simultaneously reminding you of your anxiety as well as your own beating heart. Now hyper-aware of your body, some of those worries slide out of your chest. Indeed, you're certainly, and very painfully, still alive.

So, tentatively, you try to open your eyes. You have to squint while they adjust, wincing as the harsh light pierces your corneas and sends spikes of pain through to the already tender backside of your skull. You realize you must have hit your head. Was that how you went out?

Your entire cranium throbs as you move to sit upright, your eyes still glossy and limbs heavy with slumber. You try to lift your palm to your forehead— anything to ease that horrible pulsing— but find yourself unable to even move your arm.

Panicked, you blink your eyes open wide and stare down at your hand. You're unsure of what you expected; amputation, or maybe a cast? But you know it definitely isn't what you found. Wrapped up in your fingers, which are now scratched from the glass and the pavement, is someone else's hand, a man's hand, clutching onto yours as firmly as he could afford to without aggravating the scrapes on your palm.

His skin is warm, and his hold gentle. You could feel the calluses at the base of his fingers— he had the hands of a writer. He makes little circles on your knuckles with his thumb, stroking you so softly it's as if he were convinced you'd shatter beneath his touch.

Your gaze travels up his arm. His dress shirt is wrinkled and damp, but he has it folded just at the elbow to expose a slim forearm. His raincoat is draped over the back of the chair he's slumped into, and that, too, is not quite dry yet. Neither is his hair.

His face is delicate, especially as he sleeps. His glasses, with their lenses covered in raindrops, are folded neatly and left in his lap while he dozes off. The hand that is not absentmindedly stroking yours holds up his heavy head, perched on the armrest in a manner that can't possibly be comfortable. He's pretty. That's the only right way to put it.

You know you recognize him, but from where? The dream you didn't have? The feeling of your hand in his is still too foreign for a boyfriend, and you can't bring yourself to even remember his name.

You stare at him a moment longer. Cogs turn in your foggy mind, flipping through the metaphorical files until something clicks. And it does.

Edward Nashton. From your job at the press office. The senior editor for your department.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Admittedly, his presence isn't unwelcome— just unexpected. He'd only ever been polite to you, sure, keeping his distance in the office as best as a maze of cubicles with a conference table at the center would allow. But you didn't ever speak much, not unless you absolutely had to. Every "Good morning, Mr. Nashton," was met with a tight lipped smile and a dip of his head. The occasional "Should I leave the coffee pot on?" found its quiet "No, I can fix my own." Eventually you just stopped trying.

You came close to assuming he just flat-out hated you. As opposed to his hesitance to even look to you, it wasn't long before you noticed he had no problem giving your articles... special attention when he edited. Whenever you'd submit something for publishing, you could expect it back on your desk the very next morning, absolutely defaced by his handwriting in bright red pen. A detail you'd forgotten, a comma you didn't think you needed; little, nitpicky things that served only to get under your skin. It got to the point where you cornered him on your lunch break, demanding an answer, an apology, anything. In reality, that was the only real conversation you two have had...

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Your work is always amazing, this doesn't flow as usual. Fix your sentence structure. Could be better.

You just stared at it. Coffee in hand, bag still slung over your shoulder, not even sat down at your desk yet. The longer you stood and stared at those words, the harder they glared right back at you.

The urge to slam your leather bookbag right down into the desk was nearly unbearable. It was too early for this. Especially considering how you'd stayed up well past midnight working on that campaign analysis per the request of one Edward Nashton, senior editor of the Politics section for Gotham Chronicle, only for him to senior edit the entire goddamn thing to a sad, red-inked pulp.

Fix your sentence structure? That was just low. As you read his annotations, it became clear to you that none of them actually pertained to the content of your piece. Just the sentence structure. Or the indent you forgot. Or the fucking flow.

Bookbag clattering to the floor, you sat into your creaky desk chair and started up your computer to open your e-mail. The cursor hovered over the icon, some invisible force keeping your finger from clicking.

No. No e-mail this time. He didn't deserve such mercy anymore, you decided.

This shit ends today.

x x x

You offered him the decency of at least making sure most people had cleared the bullpen before you tore him a new one. You sat there, five minutes burned out of your lunch, reading through that damn article again. Not fixing a single thing.

You knew where he'd be. He didn't exactly speak to anyone else at the office, so you highly doubted he had any elaborate lunch plans. When you crept up that staircase that led to the top offices, he was right where you expected him. Sitting at his desk, hunched over some papers, red pen in hand.

You knocked at the heavy wooden door, and through the frosted glass you could see him startle. He was quick to scramble up from his chair, making a detour to turn down the CD player atop his filing cabinet (which was, as usual, playing something classical at an unreasonable volume), and finally peeking through the blinds to see who so decided to interrupt his routine.

The look on his face when he saw you. In the moment, it was priceless— satisfying in all the right ways. That split second of panic that had his typically unreadable green eyes widening.

You thought it was because he knew what was to come. But he didn't. That's what terrified him.

He wasn't hasty to open the door for you. If you were quiet enough, you might have been able to hear his thoughts racing. Is this a setup? Did I forget something? The place is a mess. Gonna hate me for it.

You watched, impatiently, as the doorknob twisted and the door swung open. Ready to let it all out, mangled article in hand, you thrust it at him but couldn't force yourself to speak once you saw his face.

He looked so... upset. His eyes couldn't even meet yours, training themselves on your hands and the papers between them. He reached tentatively for it but didn't make contact. Scared to touch you. Scared to even look at you.

A brief moment of sympathy enveloped you as you watched him there. So tall, but slumped over so much he seemed almost smaller than you.

And there you were. A standoff the in the doorway. He didn't seem inclined to speak first, so you broke the silence.

"What am I doing wrong here?" You slipped the papers into his hands, inevitably brushing his palms with your fingers in the transfer. "Every time I feel like I finally write something good, it's just... this. Every time." You motioned weakly to his annotations. Anger bubbled up inside you again, but you swallowed it back down.

"You always write something good," he mumbled. As he thumbed through your work, you realized his face had changed entirely. Appreciative. Proud.

"Then why do you constantly feel the need to give me bullshit about my grammar?" you snapped.

His gaze shot up to you, and the guilt was back in an instant. But it was different than right before. It was deeper.

He reached for you, fingers almost brushing your arm, but redirects himself and leans for the door instead. "Please come in," he all but whispered, "Let's not do this out... here."

You sighed, stepping past him and into his office. You noticed an antique clock beside the filing cabinet, just out of view of the window into the bullpen. 12:43. Lunch was nearly halfway over.

You continued into the room, taking just a couple more steps to assert yourself. It smelled of him, the little whiffs of his cologne that you got when he brushed past you every now and again: like coffee and linen and old wood. Really, most of his office was wooden. Wooden desk, wooden clock, wooden trim. All the while he stood stiffly at the doorframe as if it were him you were staring at, and not just his workspace.

"I just want a straight-forward answer, Edward." It felt informal to use his first name— especially since he was technically your superior. But in the same vein, it felt necessary. You wanted respect. You earned his respect. "Do you hate me or something? Because if you do, I just want to know, and I can submit my work to be edited elsewhere if it really bothers you that much—"

"Do you think I hate you?"

You stopped dead in your tracks. Turning over your shoulder to see him, you locked eyes. And he held your gaze. The ferocity in his tone shook you, like he was offended that you even considered the possibility. When you turned to him, he was simmering. Not quite boiling over, but something within him burned. You couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was before you were crumbling beneath his intensity, and then he was pushing off the doorframe to take a slow step toward you.

"I-I didn't... I wasn't trying to imply that you did, I just figured since you were so harsh with the paper—"

For a moment you regretted turning to face him. He was tracking you like prey, scrutinizing every movement you made. Analyzing you. Picking you apart to your core. Accusing you, and yet begging you to prove him wrong.

Another step. "But you asked. Do you really think I could hate you?"

For as small as he was earlier, a tiny presence in the doorway as you stared him down, he was now abnormally, intimidatingly tall. He was lean, long, and calculated in each of his movements, slinking toward you in a way that couldn't be solely human. He looked animal then, his hair tousled, top buttons undone, head cocked to the side in backhanded curiosity.

Your mouth dried up immediately, eyes going doe-wide. You took a step back, trying to restore the space that he was rapidly closing, but you were stopped short by his desk. You damn near fell into it, stumbling but catching yourself on the edge of it. When you swiveled back to face him, he was barely inches from your body, papers held out beside you two as if he were offering to look at them together. His other arm came down on your other side, and his hand planted itself firmly on the desk. You couldn't look up at him. You didn't figure you'd be able to handle it, even though his eyes boring a hole into the top of your head couldn't have felt much better.

"Answer the question, please." He phrased it like a request, but it came out as a demand. There was a quiet rage that lurked at the base of his tongue. Briefly, you toyed with the idea of drawing it out further. Where are we going with this?

"Answer mine first." Despite your will, you still sounded meek compared to him. You pressed your tongue to your teeth indignantly as you finally looked up at him. And just as you expected, any bravado you could have dreamed of in that moment melted away.

His gaze wasn't cold, or mean. His eyes were a beautiful kind of green that wasn't quite emerald, but softer and more inviting. But the way he looked at you then... it's as if he wanted to throw you out of his office and bend you over his desk at the same time. You learned in that instance why he didn't make eye contact much. There isn't a soul on this earth that could stand under that sort of glare.

But you held him there. Nails digging into the wooden underside of his desk, head tilted upward, you kept him right there. And even as you felt his entire body tense at whatever urge he was resisting in the moment, you and him kept each other locked in that moment, waiting until the other caved.

He shut his eyes slowly, taking in a deep, long breath. His head drooped forward, and out of the corner of your eye you could see a smile forming on his face. An amused chuckle silently leaving his nose. When he lifted his face again, he didn't look back at you. Instead, he toyed with the paper he held out before you both.

"No, I don't hate you. And I apologize if I went overboard with the suggestions, I just..." he trailed off, taking the inside of his lip between his teeth as he wrestled with his next words. There was that bashfulness again, as if he wasn't just stalking you like a carnivorous beast. "I see a lot of potential in you. Raw talent. Raw talent needs to be refined in a way, and sculpted.”

"There are better ways to do it," you quipped, and suddenly the hem of your shirt became the most interesting thing you'd seen in a while. Taking it between your fingers, you rolled it over, and over, and over... waiting for him to speak. Testing him again.

What he wanted to do was apologize, again and again until you accepted. Drop to his knees and kiss your knuckles until you leaned down, hand under his chin, and brought him back to his feet. Maybe he'd stay down there anyway. Apologize for nearly snapping on you, apologize for any way he made you feel about your work with his comments, apologize for not speaking with you about it earlier and forcing you to waste your lunch on him, but you didn't know that. You didn't need to. It was in your best interest to be wary of him. To fear him, even.

I can submit my work to be edited elsewhere. Why was that what almost sent him? Initially he figured it was the thought of someone else mentoring you, but that wasn't it. It was the idea of someone coming between the only thing he shared with you. The work you two, as a pair, created. Despite the distance between you, Edward knew you and him were a well-oiled machine. Minds, great and powerful, thinking alike. You researched the corruption, he annihilated it. You were a team. That hadn't been threatened before.

He wasn't prepared to let it go so easily.

"You won't need to take this to be edited elsewhere. I can work on being less critical. No one else here is worth a damn for editing anyway."

He tried to lay it out stoic and flat, but the jealousy was difficult to water down. You were quick to pick up on it, but you doubled down. Why would he be jealous over something like that?

You didn't fully comprehend yet the way he looked at you. His treasure, his prodigy, his perfect little thing. Never before had he encountered such a beautiful creature with an impressive mind to match, and the idea of you taking your genius to anyone but him for review? No one else reserved that privilege. Even worse, someone else validating your work? Praising you? It made his blood boil. And God forbid anyone else dare to criticize you.

In that moment, mere inches from you for the first time, that's when he became certain. You were made for him. The only one capable of understanding the vast expanses of your brilliance was him. You would be wasted on anyone else.

He’d claimed you before you could even realize it happened.

"Thank you, Mr. Nashton. I appreciate that. I'm sorry for hijacking your lunch," you murmured, pulling the papers from his hands and standing from your place at his desk. He nodded and shoved off from it abruptly, returning from the incessant mumbling of his inner monologue. Clearing his throat, he smoothed down his shirt to avoid meeting your eyes.

As if this entire encounter hadn't happened, back to not even looking at you.

You sighed and stepped over to the door, tucking your article under your arm as you reached for the knob. Just as you were about to make your escape, you heard him call your name, like an afterthought. You glanced back at him to find him leaning against the desk where you previously stood.

"Yes?"

"Just 'Edward' is fine."

You smiled, nodding and disappearing down the stairs on shaky legs. The heavy door swung shut behind you, and the music returned soon after.

And he was never so harsh again.

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The rubbing at your knuckles makes your entire hand tingly. It feels electrified, like it’s limp and warm and shaky all at once, but you assume it’s probably just the morphine. The same feeling is in your throat as you stare at the man beside you. His name rests heavily on your tongue, but it takes a moment to muster up enough courage— and energy— to put it out there.

“Mr. N—“ You catch yourself. “Edward?”

He swallows thickly, blinking his eyes open. They’re still droopy and glossed over when he turns to you, and he looks at you for a second before the situation registers in his mind. And when it does, the panic that wakes him fully is evident both on his face and in the way he yanks his hand from your hold. Suddenly he’s alert, wide awake. His ears are tinged pink.

Surprising yourself, you miss his touch immediately. The electricity is gone from your fingertips, and left in its place is the heavy, groggy feeling deposited in your muscles by the morphine.

He just stares at you, blinking, wide-eyed, like he was waiting on you to yell at him. To chew him out for being a creep, a disgusting pervert, waiting at your bedside for an hour after the doctors drugged you up to pop your finger back into place. The pulling away of his hand revealed the bright blue bandage taping your middle and ring fingers together. Is that what he was doing? Soothing your wound?

“I heard what… happened,” he murmurs. It wasn’t often that he spoke first, but you’re grateful he did. He’s still watching you, not quite making eye contact but instead waiting for your face to twist in disgust. When it doesn’t happen, he continues. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You just nod, unsure of what to say. You glance around the room for a clock, trying to get your bearings and take a guess at how long you both had been there, but there wasn’t one to be found. “What time is it?”

“Oh, it’s…” he trails off, squinting at his watch. Without his glasses, he has to hold it barely an inch from his face to read it, and the sight of it pulls a small laugh from you.

He turns red immediately. “Two twenty-three.” He’s hurrying to rub the lenses clean of the rain and put them back on his nose.

Now he sees you. Hello there, you tell him silently with a smile. Then it processes.

“Two? Like, in the morning?” you gasp, turning around in your bed to take a peek through the window. Pain radiates upward from your tailbone, clicking each excruciating disc on your spine as you twist yourself. You yelp, clutching your side as you try to lay back down. Another hand, large and warm, appears at the back of your head and guides you back into the pillows.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Edward coos. His touch lingers a moment, a comforting presence at the nape of your neck, as he notices the tears pooling on your waterline.

And while you look up at him, you see it again. That same complex guilt that you recalled from your confrontation, splayed across his face. Like there was context you were missing, a depth to the situation you didn’t fully comprehend. Like all of this ran so much deeper than you could even begin to know.

He reaches across your bed and plucks a tissue from the side table. As he looms over you, you smell him again. The scent of him makes you want to bury your face in his neck, especially with how he’s exposing it to you as he fumbles with the items on the nightstand.

“Here you are, be careful,” he whispers down to you, and he places the tissues gently in your hand.

“Thank you…” Christ, it hurts. “What even happened? Everything just… aches,” you mumble, more to yourself than anyone else.

“The doctor told me that you got knocked backward and smacked your head on a curb. You must have tried to brace yourself judging by how your finger popped out. They said once you came around, you should be able to go home tonight.”

“You spoke to the doctors?” You’re thinking aloud. The words leave your mouth before you can think, and suddenly he’s caving in on himself again and his eyes are blowing wide and his ears are turning red again.

He detaches from you, sitting back in the chair beside your bed. “I-I did, yeah. When I came in, he was in here, and I just… wanted to know how things were going.”

His thoughts are relentless. Now you’re certain he’s a creep. You’ve got to be. It wasn’t his place to stick his nose into your business like that, but here he is, lurking in your fucking hospital room at your bedside. What was his problem?

To be fair, it wasn’t like he was lying to you. The doc was in to make sure you were stable when Edward arrived. But he wasn’t itching to let you in on how he just had to tell the doctor he was your fiancée to be let into the room with you, and to get the details in the first place.

And really, that wasn’t much of a lie to him either. He knows he’s going to marry you at some point anyway. In a way, that did make him your fiancée, even if you weren’t quite aware of it yet.

You could see him running through it all in his mind, eyes dancing on the bedspread as opposed to looking you in the face. You’re tempted to ask what’s on his mind, but not wanting to intrude, you just nod in acceptance. Much to your relief, whatever chaos was happening in his head visibly dissipates at that.

“Glad to see someone’s awake! How are you feeling, honey?” The new voice slices through your thoughts. You hear him before you see him, all impersonal amiability and stiff charisma, but still he’s everything you expected him to look like. White, middle aged, with flashy veneers and a shitty box-dye job on thinning hair. He’s exactly the type of man that makes your stomach churn with dread. You know he’s done his research on how to stay humble but consistently remind people I live on a doctor’s salary.

“I’m fine, thanks,” you reply, trying to keep it curt. You don’t want to stay here any longer than you have to, even though you genuinely have no idea how you’re meant to get home.

“How’s the finger? Any pain?” You shake your head while Edward stares, eyes cold, right at the doctor. You try not to read too much into it when he moves the chair ever so slightly closer to your bedside.

“Okay, great. I’m just going to take a quick look at the swelling and see where we’re at, and then we should be all clear to let you two head out for the night.” You two? He keeps addressing Edward, and not you. And Edward doesn’t seem to mind, not with the way he’s got his sight locked on to every last one of the doctor’s slightest movements.

He doesn’t like the way the other man’s touching you, the way his fingers slide up your palm. He should be more gentle. Nevermind that, he shouldn’t even be touching you at all. Is this really necessary? He already had his hands all over you when he was getting the glass out of your forearm. And the way he put the bandages on… they should have just let Edward do it. It’s not right for others to be able to feel you like that. He’s not a fan of other people touching his things.

You glanced between the gloves moving against your fingers, gently prodding at the now protruding flesh, and your coworker sitting rigidly beside you like he’s ready to pounce. His leg is bouncing undeterrably and his knuckles are white as he holds his opposite knee. The silence that settles over the room is heavy and thick. Eventually even the beeping of the heart monitor disappears as you’re unhooked from everything.

“You’re gonna be tender for a few days or so, but everything is stable and back in order,” the doctor tells you firmly. He removes his gloves and discards them, reaching out not to shake your hand, but Edward’s. Hesitantly, Edward takes it and offers a firm shake. What is going on here?

Turning back to you, he continues through an uncomfortably fake smile, “I wouldn’t recommend driving yourself back home considering there’s still some sedatives kicking around in your bloodstream, but I assume you can drive, sir?”

Edward opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. “Oh, no no, you don’t have to drive me home. It’s okay, I can call–” You pause. Scanning the room for your belongings, the realization hits you.

Your phone is in your bag. Your bag is in your car. Your car is still parked two blocks up from Grange Street, in front of that goddamn sushi place you were meant to be at… about eight hours ago.

The doc cocks a brow at you. “I’ll let you two figure that out then. Have a nice night, you guys.” His tone is different. Tense, like he’s intruding on something. With that, he turns and strides out, sliding the privacy curtain shut behind him.

“Shit,” you mutter, holding your head in your hands.

“What’s wrong?” Edward leans forward, shrugging into his green overcoat. He reaches out to help you as you sit up from the bed and swing your legs over the side, but you don’t take his hand. Something’s up with him.

“All of my stuff is still in my car.” You brace your hands on your knees as you sit all the way upright for the first time in hours. Your back still aches and your head is dizzy, but it’s better than being stuck on that lumpy hospital mattress. Your clothes were beginning to stick to you. “I– I’ll be okay. You can go home, I know it’s really late. I’m sure I can find a ride home,” you begin to ramble at him, not wanting to inconvenience him any further than you already had. You’re still unsure of why he’s here, why he stayed here, but either way you were grateful for his presence. It wouldn’t have been fun to wake up after that evening alone, and it didn’t seem as though anyone else had stopped by.

He waves his hand at you, trying his best to maintain his composure, to swallow down his excitement as he tells you, “No, I can drive you home. It wouldn’t feel right to leave you stranded in the middle of the night.”

You’re hesitant to agree. Part of you is suspicious of him, picking up on little things about him that send your mind screaming like a fire alarm. Things that aren’t just right. There’s a good deal of his behavior that you couldn’t interpret, and while that intrigues you in a way, it was also one of the most threatening aspects of his character.

But then you remember his hand at the back of your neck. His thumb stroking featherlight circles on your swollen joints. The way he smells, and how quickly it comforts you. The feeling of being tucked between his chest and the sturdy wood of his writing desk at the press office.

And against your better judgment, you nod. The inside of your head is screaming at you. No! No! No! Don’t go with him! Somehow, though, you find yourself standing from the bed and when your legs almost give out, and there he is beside you, forearm braced against your back and fingers holding firm on your waist. And he’s looking down at you with care forefronted in his eyes, and that falls quiet again. How quickly he could silence your thoughts is terrifying.

In a way, the fear is what thrills you.

《♡》

PART 3

#edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #paul dano riddler #riddler fluff #edward nashton fluff #im gay 4 dano tbh #cliffyfics

[littl3-val3ntine]

hey my friends!

sorry for the very long wait for part 3 of ebyt, unfortunately i just injured myself kinda bad but it’s in the works rn!1!!1! expect an update in the next couple of days :3

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#cliffyfics (the one at the bottom!!)

so creative, ik. when i eventually figure out a taglist, comment on this post to be added to it. thank you for your patience my friends!1!!

much love,

CLIFFYYY

#cliffyfics

[littl3-val3ntine]

the fandoms are eating my brain

hi! ☠︎

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cliff

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