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The door clicks shut, and you avoid looking in the mirror as you gingerly step into the bathtub. The ledge is quite high, and your injured knee protests, but you manage. For just a moment, you let the hot water soothe you before you start methodically washing your hair and body. The soap makes the cut on your side burn, but nothing can be done about that. One more stolen minute to enjoy the hot water, trying to ignore the throb in your leg and the sting in your side before you get out of the tub and reach for the towel. No need to push your luck. After you've toweled off and start drying your hair, your eyes finally fall on your reflection in the mirror.
There's no bruise on your face, which is good, but your eyes are red and sunken. Your skin looks shallow and pale, and the single fluorescent light over the mirror throws deep shadows under your eyes.
There had been toiletries on the ceramic shelf underneath the mirror just a day ago, but they're gone now. Just a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a flimsy plastic cup are left. The mirror itself could probably be pried loose from the wall, but the chance of Edward hearing you break it is substantial.
You run scenarios through your head:
Break the mirror, let Edward come in, and attack him with a shard of broken glass.
Nope. First, you don't really want to risk fatally injuring him by accident. Second, he's quick, and you're shaking and tired. So there is a high probability that he'll get the better of you anyway.
Try to break the mirror quietly, maybe warped in the towel, and use your dirty clothes to smuggle a piece into your cell.
Nope. Edward told you to leave the clothes. If you bring them out, he'll most likely take them from you anyway. Then you'll be faced with the choice of attacking him immediately, which could lead to either him or you getting injured - possibly severely - or you do nothing, and the shard is lost. Or worse, discovered. And even if that doesn't happen, you'd only have a brief amount of time before Edward will discover the mirror has been broken - somehow, you just know he'll check the bathroom after you're out.
The rest of the room doesn't offer any options, either: There's no shower curtain. The curtain holder has been removed (you can see the spots on the wall where it was once screwed in) and the window is too high to reach (even if you could balance on the ring of the tub with your injured knee) and much too small anyway. The showerhead is attached to the wall, so there's no hose you might be able to tear off the faucet and use… as a weapon? Nope.
One last deep breath to try and stop the shaking (it doesn't work) and you wrap yourself into the towel and open the door, leaving your clothes behind as instructed. Edward is mulling about in what might pass as a kitchenette and barely even spares you a glance before he goes back to what he's doing.
"Sit." It's obvious he means the pulled out chair by the table and, clutching the towel, so your hands don't shake, you start towards it. In the small space of the bath, your injury wasn't a big hindrance. But now, you can feel your leg shake, and a sharp stab of pain shoots from your knee up to your hip. Damn. Yet you manage not to wince or falter, just limp a little.
You sit down a bit awkwardly (your knee doesn't want to bend) and notice a tray with disinfectant and cotton swaps, as well as a roll of black tape. A second later, Ed appears, pulls up a second chair to face yours, and sits, placing the full syringe on the tray with the disinfectant. It's hard not to stare at the syringe until you feel his hand on your calf and start. Without a word, he lifts your leg from its somewhat awkward angle onto his knee, and you lean back in the chair with a barely suppressed hiss of pain.
"Bend it," he orders without even looking you in the face, and you can see he's in problems solving mode. So you keep quiet and do as he says. After prodding and moving the joint around a few times (quite painfully) he reaches for the tape, and barely half a minute later, he's secured two strips of it on either side of your knee and one across. You try to concentrate on staying still and silent, try to avoid looking at his face, and try not to be hyper-aware of his hands on your skin. Or the fact that you're still basically naked, and the towel begins to feel less and less like sufficient cover.
When he seems satisfied, he lets your leg down, gently, and scoots a little closer. You swallow against the growing lump in your throat. With your injured leg not bending, he simply pushed past it, and you scoot up in your chair a bit, subconsciously trying to bring more space between the two of you. You can't tell if he's annoyed by that or surprised or if he's enjoying your tension… And that makes you more nervous than anything else that has happened so far: the fact that you have zero conception of what's going on behind his dark eyes.
Luckily he doesn't seem bothered by your unconscious effort to avoid him. Maybe he's amused. You just can't tell.
As he turns and picks up a cotton ball to douse with alcohol, you steal a longer glance at his face. Unreadable, at least to you. That could be annoyance or simply concentration, but mostly it's blank. Not like 'Ed' at all. This is pure Riddler.
You know where this is going, of course: the graze on your side. So when he puts the rubbing alcohol down and leans forward with the soaked cotton, you allow him to open the towel and push it out of the way. Only, it stings far more than you anticipated, and you force out a breath you hadn't even realized you were holding. He's so close now that if you were to lean forward, you could easily rest your head on his shoulder.
Not 48 hours ago, you would have done so.
And he would probably have been warmer about the whole thing—more 'Ed.' Shown sympathy. Compassion, even. While circumstances forced him to cause you pain. But now you can't shake the feeling he's enjoying himself. Especially as he, in turn, leans a little closer, his free hand coming to rest lightly on your thigh. For several seconds his long, strong fingers press the stinging cotton onto your cut - definitely harder than would strictly be necessary - and you're too tense to move.
(***)
It's not because of the pain. The first shock has worn off and the pain, though unfamiliarly acute, is manageable. It's because his other hand is slowly pushing the towel up your thigh, and his eyes are focused on your face. He's so close you can feel his breath on your bare shoulder, cool in the summer-heated building. The pressure of the cotton ball eases up a little the moment his hand reaches your hip, his thumb ghosting over the spot your leg meets your body.
Soft pressure eases your leg open, and you let it, feeling breathless and slightly light-headed. He inhales deeply, and while one hand lets his fingers ghost over the inside of your thigh, pushing it further out of the way, the other discards the cotton and reaches behind you, pulling you toward him with a sudden tug. One of your hands is still clutching the towel over your chest, but the other reaches for his shoulder to steady yourself.
You could try to fight him. Or even just ask him to stop. But you don't really think it would change anything. Over the last few days, you never tried to stop him. Even when he hurt you - not intentionally perhaps, but simply because he was too big to go in easy, and he hadn't bothered with as much foreplay as he usually did. You allowed him his power play because you needed him to help you. And because you had hurt him so much worse. It feels… almost fair.
His hand leaves your thigh, and his knuckles softly drag across your folds instead. Your body reacts, your breath hitches a little, and your mouth feels dry. If he decides to hurt you, you'll have no warning. Is he teasing you, or is he preparing you for more? Is he enjoying himself, or is this a twisted way of taking out his frustration on you?
Your hand tenses on his shoulder, but where you'd usually pull him toward you, or maybe put your head against his, you're just frozen, not knowing if you'd please him with seeking contact or piss him off.
Between your tension and the physical stimulation, you feel a hot flush spread over your face and, well, pretty much everywhere Ed's fingers are.
Not Ed, though. The Riddler.
His free hand comes up between your bodies and brushes against your hand as he takes away the towel you've been clutching. You're sitting on it, of course, so he can't pull it away completely. But as you let go, it falls to pool around your hips. You're holding onto his shoulders with both hands as his knuckles move upward and press against your clit.
You moan softly as he takes that sensitive nub and rubs it between two fingers. You can hear that he's breathing deeply and maybe a little quicker than normal, but compared to how vocal, how caring he usually is during sex, it's nothing. And this uncertainty is terrifying.
You don't dare to look at this face. You're not looking anywhere, really. Just close your eyes and squirm a little as the hand between your legs shifts. Two of his fingers are now brushing over your faults again, and you can feel yourself open up for him. And he can feel it, too.
When two long fingers push inside you and his thumb ghosts over your clit, your grip on him becomes more desperate, and your head drops against his shoulder. Your hips move forward, too, taking you to the edge of your seat and making it easier for him to move in and out of you, which he does.
But he doesn't want your head resting on him, apparently, because you feel his free hand around your throat, pressing you slowly backward.
You really don't want to look at him, not when his face is so unreadable - or worse, what if he looks cruel? Or cold? And why do his eyes have to be that soft brown color?
Your face feels like it's burning, and you keep your eyes closed, riding his fingers. Maybe all he wanted was to see your expression because he doesn't tell you to open your eyes, doesn't tell you to look at him, not right away. His hand is tight around your neck as you swallow, pressure building inside and your hips moving with the rhythm he's set up.
Just when you think you're almost there, ready to let the sensation wash everything else from your mind, he orders you after all.
"Look at me."
Is his voice slightly strained, or did you imagine that? You do as he says, albeit hesitantly, and despite sitting down and holding on to him, you feel like you're about to lose your balance. His face is oddly blank, except for his eyes, which stare at you through his glasses. The hand around your neck tightens and pushes your chin up slightly, just as the pressure of his other hand and the pressure of his gaze make your whole body shudder. It's difficult to keep your eyes open and even more difficult to meet his gaze. But that's what he told you to do, so you do it.
Normally, you'd know if he wants you to move your fingers over his neck, through his hair.
Normally, you'd know.
But now you don't, so you just keep riding his fingers inside you and his thumb rubbing over your clit. You're close again, and boy...that didn't take long now, did it?
The last thing you see before it becomes just too much is a smile tugging at his lips. Mercifully his hand moves away from your throat and into your hair, allowing you to put your head back onto his shoulder. A final curl of his fingers, a final rub just there, and you shudder against his hand, your body shuddering against him with a deep moan. Not a loud one, mind, but oh, there's feeling behind it. He chuckles softly (Bastard) as he lets you ride out the last throws of your orgasm on his hand. You moan again, or maybe it's a sigh, as you grow still and nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck without thinking.
After a moment of catching your breath, you straighten up, finally daring to move your hands from his shoulders, where they have thoroughly crumbled up his shirt, to the black of his neck. His eyes are dark, and his face looks mildly amused. But not in the good way you remember. Smugger. His fingers finally pull out of you, and his gaze becomes too intense to hold. With his arm out from between you, you can see that he spots a raging boner. Of course.
While his hands push the towel the rest away from your body, your hands start to unbutton his shirt, pulling the front free from his pants. It's late August, and he's wearing a matching t-shirt under his white dress shirt… and yet, while you're covered in a thin sheen of sweat, he seems totally composed. He leans back a little as you open his belt to give you better access, and after dealing with the button and zipper, you reach in to firmly grab his shaft.
Since he won't tell you what he wants, you look up at his face to see his reaction. Same expression: smug, but impossible to read. You want to kiss him, but you don't know if he wants you to, so you don't. When your hand firmly glides up his shaft, and your palm settles against the top, his eyelids flutter, and he inhales sharply. Aha.
His hands, which had been resting on your thighs (which are spread a little obscenely, what with his legs in-between yours, but who cares) move up to your hips, and he gives a slight tug as if he wants you to get up. Normally, he'd tell you exactly what he wants or ask you what you wanted. But not today.
You move a little awkwardly (since your knee is informing you that it doesn't care for carrying weight right now nor bending as it should, thank you very much) but, with one hand on his chest to steady yourself, you manage to lift yourself out of your chair without having to stop what your other hand is doing. You're pretty sure stopping is not what he wants you to do.
You could move in between his legs and take him into your mouth - Ed surely wouldn't object to that either. But your knee will. You could also scoot onto his lap and guide him into you… but he's barely free of his pants and briefs, and you're not going to risk that zipper getting between you in such a sensitive spot. So you scoot back a little while getting up, leaning over him and using your hand on his chest to keep weight off of your injured leg.
Your chair scrapes across the floor loudly as it's pushed back, and the towel falls away. Edward's hands tighten on your hips, but he doesn't stop your movement. When you're standing in from of him, leaning on him but steady on your feet, you let go of his shaft (his hands tighten a little more) and push both your hands into the waistband of his briefs.
Luckily, he understands what you're trying to do and, as you tug, he lifts his hips so you can push his pants and underwear down and further out of the way.
Now it's this chair that scarped across the floor a little.
Up until now, everything about him has been controlled, and everything about you has been tense and insecure… but once his pants are out of the way, and you finally settle down onto him - one hand back on his shoulder, the other braced against the table for leverage - he urgently pulls your hips against his as he fills you, stretching almost to the point of being too much.
Luckily this time, you're properly prepared - not like a few of the other times you had sex with him lately - and it feels good to have him push up against you, into you, as his hands start roaming over your body, finally pulling you into a kiss.
His damn glasses get in your way, and you pull them off, slamming them down on the table. A little harder than you had intended to (he doesn't seem to care) but you need the leverage of the table to be able to keep lifting off of him and coming back down. Because your leg just won't take the weight.
His eyes are closed, and his hands are roaming over your body, grabbing your ass and squeezing your breast. You enjoy kissing him, but mostly you're trying to concentrate on moving for him.
You didn't expect him to last long - why would he bother? - but now you're starting to realize he's holding himself back.
Bastard.
You break the kiss to look at his face - the only face in the world, you reckon, that looks more serious without glasses than with - and he's smugly smiling up at you.
Smug Bastard.
You lean back over him to kiss him. Only this time, when his tongue enters your mouth to explore, you suck on it hard, remembering what that did to him last time. He moans and tenses up, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully, before he shudders.
Gotcha.
Only, almost out of nowhere, you feel your own pressure build - totally sudden and completely unexpected. You have to break away from his lips to suck in a breath and cry out. It barely registers, but he's stopped moving up into you, letting you ride him freely instead. You clamp around him, and he's still so big and firm, and it feels wonderful, but it's just not fair. Didn't you just feel him tense and release?
Don't play games with Edward Nygma.
He chuckles, chuckles, as you feel his legs move under you and your moan of - what? Frustration? - turns into a startled cry as he lifts you and turns, placing you on the table. Once he has you where he wants you, he starts to move. Hard and rapidly, and it's intense. Almost uncomfortably so - but what are you gonna do? At least you're wet enough, still riding on aftershocks. So, despite his size, he moves in and out easily.
And now he's doing all the work, too.
It only takes him a few hard thrusts, hard enough to make the table shake and creak, and just as the intensity threatens to turn into real discomfort, you feel him shudder - definitely for real this time - and the hot sensation of him spilling himself into you. He rides his orgasm out with a few more short pushes and a grunt, and you grip him tightly inside you. Because, why not?
His head is resting against your shoulder, and you're holding onto him as you both catch your breath. You can feel the tightness inside you easing up as he softens and a warm, tickling sensation spreading through you. He straitens up and pulls away a little, just enough to look at your face to face, and for a second, you expect him to kiss you again. You want him to kiss you again.
Instead, a cool smile tugs on his lips, and you're suddenly aware of his thumb and then his knuckles stroking over your neck. It makes you tense up again and, well, you don't know, but you think he can feel it, being still inside you. Then he pulls out.
He only needs to take a small step back before he can bend and pick up the discarded towel, which he uses to clean himself briefly before he flings it at you. Wordlessly he pulls up his pants and straightens his clothing, and it suddenly strikes you how different that is from the Ed you used to know… It's been nearly half an hour since you came out of the shower, and he's barely said three words to you.
Before, he'd ask - if you were ok; if you liked the way he touched you; if you wanted him to go slower or faster.
Before - even with the Riddler - sex had always been something intimate and equal with him. Pretty much the only time playing games was out of the question. Always considerate. And honest.
But that had been before, and what was happening now was your own damn fault