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"Are you serious?" you kicked the washing machine, fed up. You'd been so busy moving you had no time to do laundry, and now that you actually did, your new apartment building's laundry room didn't seem to have any functioning equipment.
"Peice'a shit," you huffed, leaning over the appliance and placing your head in your hands. So much for all the 'amenities' the landlord had promised in exchange for paying an inordinate amount of rent. It wasn’t exactly fair to be shocked, as a dollar didn't spread very far Gotham, especially not for someone like you.
Your old place had in-unit laundry, was in one of the few rent-controlled areas of town, and had generally been a lot less seedy than this building. But it had been unsafe, for you, specifically. There were only so many places you could go, and you couldn’t keep dwelling on the past, as you pressed the heels of your hands into your eye sockets.
The squeak of boots sounded on the linoleum floor, and you glanced between your fingers to find a man standing in front of you, clad in a thick coat, rain dripping from the tips of his copper-colored hair. The clear-framed glasses he wore fogged up slightly, but you still could make his eyes out behind them, blinking once as he took in your form.
Feeling slightly uncomfortable, you straightened up. “Sorry,” sheepishly, you pulled yourself out of his way as he ignored you, brushing you aside and walking towards the mailboxes. It wasn’t a large building you’d moved into, so the small room you were in held both the laundry facilities and a mailroom, along with a bulletin board that held a few old torn-up flyers, many of the events being advertised had happened years ago.
Rude, you thought to yourself, turning your back once you saw him open up the mailbox. Focusing back on the array of buttons and knobs, you twisted and punched, slamming your hand into them to no avail. Anger was rising again, and you stopped caring about anyone who might witness the outburst that seemed inevitable. Too many things had gone wrong over the past few months, well, your whole life, really, and you had been impressive at bottling it all up.
This, however, seemed determined to be your breaking point. You wished it were a bit less lame of a reason to lose your cool.
“Here,” heavy footsteps sounded behind you, and the stranger was over your shoulder, smelling of rain and leather. This close, he stood much taller than you’d originally registered, one of his long arms reaching behind the appliance and twisting pointedly. Straightening up, he pressed the knob on the front, and the washing machine whirred to life, loudly.
You perked up at the noise, feeling a great deal of stress leave, having been pinched between your shoulders. “Oh, thank you. How’d you do that?”
“Lots of practice,” he said, looking down, avoiding your eyes, speaking so softly you had to strain to hear. “There’s a blue wire back there, you just have to make sure it’s in the right place.”
“Interesting,” you braced yourself on top of it, peering behind, and when you looked over your shoulder he was making his way towards the door. “Hey,” you called out after him. “What’s your name?”
Halting, turned his head so you could make out his profile. “Edward,” he murmured.
“Nice to meet you,” you said after giving him your name in return. “You know, you’re actually the first other person I’ve seen living here. I just moved in.”
“Oh,” He turned around all the way to face you again. “What floor?”
“Five,” you answered.
“Me too,” he said.
“I hope I haven’t been too loud,” you leaned against the machine. “Last night I dropped a box with all my ceramics and I was pretty sure half the block heard it happen.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I heard that.”
“I’m so sorry,” you apologized. “It won’t last long, I promise. I’m almost done unpacking. And otherwise I’m pretty quiet.”
He blinked once, before answering with one word. “Cool.”
You stood in a five-second awkward silence before he attempted to exit again, shuffling backwards. “I’ll see you around, then?” you called out after him.
“I guess,” he adjusted his bag over his shoulder, and slunk out of the room.
You had several more failed attempts at speaking to your other neighbors before you saw Edward again, and you realized that shockingly – he was the nicest one you had met – and that was saying something. Even after you saw him several more times in passing, he was rather aloof.
It wasn’t like you were trying to make friends. I mean sure, new friends would be nice. After the most recent developments in your life, you’d cut most of them off just to be safe. And of course, you really should’ve been laying low, all things considered. But you’d never been good at that.
At the very least, all you wanted was someone you could ask to borrow a cup of sugar from if you ran out, someone who’d water the herb garden you grew on your windowsill in case you went out of town.
Edward was reliably awkward in the handful of conversations you had, staring at his feet, giving one word answers, fidgeting and looking like he wanted to abscond, like you were inconveniencing him in some way. But even more evident was that it wasn’t just you he was trying to escape. He was also trying to escape himself, looking over his shoulder like if he stopped for too long to connect with someone, it might all catch up to him. At some point in your life, you’d known the feeling.
His reticence didn’t really deter you. Initially, it only served to spur you on. You’d been silver-tongued for as long as you could remember – though not without years of practice – out of necessity. And somewhere along the way it had become so second nature you just couldn’t stop yourself. You liked a challenge, even if you were now merely trying to befriend him out of spite. Or maybe you’d be better off just shutting up.
A month passed and very little came to fruition.
Edward exited his apartment early one Saturday morning to find you slumped over the threshold outside your place, legs tucked against your chest, forehead resting against the doorframe. At first he thought you were unconscious, perhaps having passed out after one too many at a bar, but you didn’t really seem to be dressed for the occasion. He stepped closer, not necessarily to intervene but to observe, and as he neared, you straightened up slightly, clearly having dozed off.
He gave you a small nod, and you offered a weak smile in return. “Everything alright?” he asked, tilting his head, feeling like he had no choice but to ask.
Clearing your throat, you nodded. “Yeah. I’m locked out. Waiting on a locksmith.”
He bobbed his head, looking over his shoulder.
“They said they’d be here within the hour and that was,” you pulled back the sleeve of your white shirt to reveal a watch. “.....three hours ago, so.”
Since you’d moved in, he didn’t know what to think of you. Something about you made him nervous, but not necessarily in a bad way. At the very least, your cordial personality was a little off-putting. You were always so overtly chatty every other time you crossed paths, asking him questions about his day and greeting him with a smile. He may have described it as sincere, but he didn’t have much faith in that word by this point in his life.
“Want to wait at my place?” he asked, not entirely sure what compelled him to make the offer. It wasn’t really a safe building to be passed out on the floor of. Few buildings in Gotham were. And, it sort of seemed like something you might do, if you were really as authentic as you tried to lead him to believe. He still hadn’t decided if you were yet, but it wasn’t on his list of many priorities.
“Are you sure?” you asked, but you were already making sure you’d collected all the things that were lying around you, bags and books and the like, shuffling to your feet.
Edward’s apartment was neat, tidy, decorated plainly but still felt surprisingly warm, lit mostly by lamps and not the harsh overhead fixtures. It was a good choice, you had to commend him. The only unorganized area was a cluttered desk in a dark corner of the living room – files, papers, and notebooks stacked high. Framed newspaper articles hung on the walls above it.
“Coffee?” he asked, eyeing you wearily, and twisting his hands in and out of each other, not seeming to know what to do with himself. It had been an embarrassing amount of time since he had anyone visit his place, so he wasn’t entirely sure how to act.
“That’d be great,” you answered.
You followed him into the kitchen, each glance over his shoulder he noticed you were peering around the space, still, taking it all in.
On his counter was a steaming mug of coffee and a newspaper that was open to a crossword puzzle, a pencil lying atop it. Tiny sketches had been drawn in its margins. Just as you were peering closer to look at them – doodles of a man dressed like a bat, a large question mark, the face of a scared-looking boy with his arms wrapped around himself – he pressed a warm mug into your hands.
“Thank you,” you said, taking a sip, desperately needing the caffeine. You didn’t love pulling all-nighters, but now you didn’t have a choice.
You wandered away from him, towards the couch, reaching out to run your hands over the worn spines of the books that sat on the shelf above it, paperbacks with bright colors and lettering. Puzzle books, mystery novels, comics.
He wanted to be annoyed – would have been annoyed – at anyone else walking around his place and poking through his things but for some reason, he sensed it wasn’t so much a diagnosis, it was rather candid.
“Nice place,” you said, finally turning around and sitting on his couch. He hadn’t even offered it up, but you did it anyway, resting your mug on the coffee table next to you and crossing your legs.
He sat at a barstool, all the way across the room, there was an inappropriate distance between you. “Thank you.”
There was something very deeply unsettling about him, really. The instinct to make such a judgment to the surface, even now. Years ago the feeling would have driven you away entirely. But you had to train yourself out of that mentality. You couldn’t use such strong words to brandish someone you hardly knew.
“Are you off work?” you asked. It was a Saturday, most people usually were, but you could never be sure.
He nodded, waiting a moment to speak. “I am.”
“I never asked…what do you do?”
“I’m uh, a forensic accountant….” he tucked a piece of hair behind his ear.
“Oh wow,” you said, tilting your head to study him. “Sounds important.”
He snorted, short and through his nose. “Not really.”
“Well, it looks like you’re really smart,” you observed, gesturing towards the books behind you.
Edward gave a soft laugh this time, which was a surprisingly sweet sound, his fingers tracing a pattern on the countertop, hesitantly meeting your eyes. “I guess.”
But as short as his response was, the casual compliment clearly flipped some kind of switch inside him, because he stood from where he sat, treading closer to sit across from you in a chair a much more reasonable distance away. Still, he remained closed off, his hands folded in his lap. He was cute, you realized, baby-faced and unassuming, you’d been so focused on the way it seemed like he wanted to crawl inside himself you hadn't noticed until now.
“What do you do?” he asked, after a spell.
“Oh, I work at a restaurant right down the street. I’m the sous chef.”
“That sounds….fun,” he answered, voice going up at the end of the phrase, almost sounding like a question.
“Yeah, it’s great,” you said, tilting your head. “Especially if you like getting yelled at.”
“I can’t say I do.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to think I might,” you didn’t break eye contact. “I’m sort of a masochist like that,” you smirked at your own joke.
But it was partially true. You’d been yelled at so much growing up, always in some kind of trouble, almost always because you weren’t doing something you’d been told to do. So you pegged it as a bit ironic that working in a fast-paced, high-stress kitchen was the career that made you feel complete. “No, but, it’s not so bad,” you continued. “It’s all I really know, anyways.”
His head was tilted, and a smile played along his lips, but he was staring at the floor, mind clearly turning. You could tell the silence made him slightly uncomfortable, but you personally didn’t mind it, because it became clear he was trying to keep the conversation going, even if it was difficult, when he spoke again. ”Is that….why you moved here?”
Your stomach turned at the question, a few unpleasant memories churned up by his question, whether he knew it or not. To anyone else, you would’ve lied. “Kind of. Well….it’s sort of a long story.”
He stole a glance up at you, didn’t say a word.
“It’s going to make me sound a lot messier than I actually am, so, you have to promise you aren’t going to judge me,” you continued, and lifted your coffee mug to take a sip, narrowing your eyes at him over its rim.
He crossed his fingers on one of his hand and held it up. I promise.
“Well…I basically just had this…shitty ex-boyfriend who kept showing up to my place and following me to my job and yelling at me. So I had to get away. I packed up all my stuff, found a different restaurant, and then found this place.”
You didn’t want to go into the details. The black eye you had to hide from your coworkers, the bruises on your arms, legs….your neck, on occasion. Another bit of irony. The scrappiest kid amongst your peers growing up, and yet – you still ended up as someone else’s punching bag.
“You didn’t try filing a restraining order?”
You snorted. “Believe me, I did,” you felt your face fall when you said the next part, the wound still awfully tender. “He works for the police commissioner, so it’s never actually worked out.”
His jaw set, a flash of something crossing over his face, the most expressive you’ve ever seen him before, and then it disappeared. “I’m sorry.”
You shrugged. “Worse things have happened. And a fresh start is always nice.”
He was looking at the floor again, something reminiscent of a kicked puppy. Outside in the hallway, you heard the elevator ding in the hallway.
“Hey, I think this is the guy,” you sat up, looking at your watch. “Only three and a half hours late.”
Sure enough, when you made your way to the door with all your things, you looked out the peephole to see a maintenance man walking down the hallway.
“Thanks so much for letting me sit in here, it was much better than my threshold,” you chuckled, turning around to face Edward, who was hovering behind you. “Hope I didn’t impose.”
“No…” he trailed off, looking at the floor. “Not at all.” There was just something about him, you decided, following his gaze down to his socked-feet. Soft-spoken, quiet, and sad. Because of it, you couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, understanding him a little better than you had before. Slipping out the door, you left him behind.
You didn’t see a ton of Edward, but when you did, he was gradually less guarded, to the point that sometimes he was the one that initiated general pleasantries. Maybe it was because in the past few months, each time you got the Sunday paper, you had plucked out the page that had all the puzzles and games and left it on his doorstep. You hardly read the news anyways, so you figured it was the least you could do.
And you hadn’t even been sure he was getting them until one day, when you were coming home from prepping the kitchen, you spied him picking it up off his welcome mat. He gave you a sheepish smile before ducking back inside. It dawned on you that your spiteful attempt to make him talk to you had become far less spiteful, which was why you were knocking on his door with a stack of letters in your hand.
Edward would have no reason to expect company on a Monday night, or any other night for that matter, but when he saw you through his peephole, he decided to open it up.
“Hey,” you said, giving him a bright smile, which was infectious somehow, his heart rate increased and his hand worried the doorknob. “How are you?”
“I’m alright,” he adjusted his clear, plastic glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“I got some of your mail, I think,” you said, holding out what was most likely just a stack of bills and junk, all with his name on it.
“Thanks,” he said, taking them from you.
What did you want from him? Why did you insist on greeting him with those overzealous smiles and questions about his day, going out of your way to pay him any attention? His entire life he’d been branded the weird kid, the creep, the outcast, and probably for good reason. Even now, his coworkers left him out of most of their gatherings. Not that he wanted to be there anyways. When were you going to get it?
He was just fine being alone. This had been his life, always. Waking up feeling exhausted after a nightmare-f sleep, going to work, coming home, and then going back to sleep. Existing unnoticed. That was how he’d survived this long. It would be how he’d ensure his innocence, just like it did when he was younger.
Or maybe he was jaded. He wanted to believe you, that part of him was still somewhere inside, couldn’t turn it off. He got the sense that you might understand, though.
“Did you eat yet?” you asked, eyeing him carefully. He was still in a dress shirt from work, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. It looked like he’d just gotten home.
“No,” he answered.
“Oh great,” you said, brimming with energy. “Well, I’ve been workshopping this recipe for a beef wellington we want to put on the menu at the restaurant. Have you ever had one?”
“No."
“Get out,” you smacked his arm, playfully, not missing the way he jumped slightly, like he thought for a second you actually meant to hurt him. “You’re coming over for dinner.”
Your eyes were wide, peering up at him, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t know, I-”
“Edward,” you cut him off. “When are you going to stop pretending we’re strangers?”
Was it that obvious?
“Anyways, I need someone else’s opinion on it. Please?”
He had work to do, this should’ve not been a priority. But he had already done so much, made so much progress. Maybe he deserved this. “Okay,” he answered, agreeing pretty quickly.
In your apartment, there was still a stack of boxes piled against the door, an array of mismatched furniture and trinkets that hadn’t seemed to have found a home yet were scattered around. But more impressive were the plants growing all over – huge fiddle-leaf figs, vines weaving across high bookshelves. He watched you pluck fresh herbs from a tiny garden in front of your windowsill. Everything was colorful, so alive.
And your kitchen was surprisingly tiny.
Even though Edward knew he couldn’t help much – the extent of his cooking abilities being scrambled eggs – he still offered it, and you refused.
“No I’m okay, just keep me company,” you rolled out your knife bag pulling one out to rest on your cutting board and tucking a towel in the tie of your apron.
So he sat at the bar, a glass of wine you poured in front of him, which he nursed. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but you were having some too, and it seemed fine, considering the occasion.
There was a pencil behind your ear, you pulled it out to scribble something in the notebook you were holding. “That can’t be right,” you muttered to yourself, crossing something out and jotting something else down to replace it.
“What is this?” he asked, reaching out to tap what you were holding. He had his fair share of notebooks, all marked up with his puzzles, riddles, drawings. But yours was well worn, spine splitting, pages dog-eared, wrinkled, stained.
“Notes, recipes,” you said. “From when I first started out in the kitchen.”
“You went to culinary school?” he asked.
“No,” you snored. “I couldn’t afford it,” your gaze never left the pad in your hand. “I just started as a dishwasher and worked my way up. Wrote everything down along the way. I’m still in development on this, but…I want to make sure I get it right, for you,” you said.
For you.
He was ashamed of the effect those words had on him. Ashamed at how nice they sounded. There were plenty of people in this building for you to befriend, why was it him? Why couldn’t you let him be invisible? It had been so comfortable, until you were stumbling down his hallway late at night, sitting on his couch, having coffee, leaving your papers on his doorstep because you remembered he liked them, smiling at him, even with those sad eyes.
“For me?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had it before. You said you haven’t. If you’re going to have it, it has to be done right.”
He chuckled, staring at the countertop.
“I’m serious Eddie, you think this is a joke? I’m not fucking around.”
Edward sat and watched while you worked. In the small kitchen, you were a force – chopping up onions, garlic, mushrooms while not even missing a beat in the conversation. In fact, you weren’t even looking at your hands that weilded an impressively-sized knife — moving so swiftly he thought for certain you might cut yourself, and but you didn’t. Driven by prowess and the unwavering confidence of someone who had spent years perfecting their craft, he knew what it felt like, even if his was different.
Most of the time when you spoke, you had an unnerving habit of direct eye contact. But now, with your attention elsewhere, he could focus on you. Upon further inspection, he couldn’t help but find you beautiful. And for more than just the way you looked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made that observation about anyone, or if he ever had.
It was the most he’d talked to someone at length in years, even before you put together two pristine plates and set them at your dining table, topping off both your wine glasses and lighting a candle.
He ate what you made him, which was delicious. Most of his meals were prepacked or takeout. Those things had never been taught to him, and he didn’t really have the time to waste these days.
After he’d finished the last bite, you spoke up.
“So, what did you think?” you asked.
“It was great.”
"I think my knife cuts on the mushroom deuxelle are a little sloppy," you frowned, looking at your fork. "I should've minced this finer."
He just laughed, tilting his head to stare at you.
"But I think that flavors are all there."
“I couldn’t even tell,” he said, then continued, after a pause. “I thought it was delicious.”
“Do you want more?”
He shook his head. He hadn’t been eating much, as of late, and he was already feeling full enough as is, and even a little tired. Like he could curl up into a ball and take a nap. Of course, he was always exhausted – but that didn’t mean he ever felt like he could sleep.
“Well, you’ll have to take some home,” you offered. “I have a ton leftover, and I end up eating at work every night, so I won’t do anything with it.”
Edward nodded.
“When’s the last time anyone cooked you dinner?” You asked, absentmindedly as you picked up your plates to run them to the sink.
He was still trying to think of an answer when you returned to sit across from him. Mostly because he was pretty sure it was never. Nobody had ever done that for him.
Holding your wine glass to your lips, he caught a glance at the time on your watch. Eight o’ clock. Fuck, had he really been there that long? Guilt pooled in his stomach. Suddenly, all of it felt very….wrong. This was not what he was meant for.
That evening, Edward had been in sharp contrast to the man you’d met months ago in the dingy laundry room. He’d been cracking jokes, and even explained how to solve an old and allegedly ‘unsolvable’ rubix cube on one of your shelves that you’d bought at a thrift store years before. And all the sudden, he was withdrawing, eyes glazing over and focusing back on the floor, the table, and you didn’t know what you’d done wrong.
“Are you okay?” you asked him, eyeing him with hesitance.
He looked up from tracing his finger along the pattern on the tablecloth, nodding. But he didn’t speak.
“Are you sure?” you asked, pressing.
The weak smile plastered on his face was fake, you could tell because it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which crinkled enough at the corners to give away his age when he was really happy – something you’d just noticed for the first time tonight.
“No one,” he said.
“What?” you asked, mostly confused.
“No one’s ever cooked me dinner,” he said, voice low and soft. You felt him pull back into himself, his brain had caught up to where he was. “And I guess I don’t understand…..why you would do it for me…”
You sighed, his question taking you partially off guard. “I just…I need a friend right now. I think, maybe, you do too,” you leaned forward, putting your elbows on the table. “And….I know what it’s like to be the only one looking after yourself. It sounds crazy… but I can feel it all over you.”
When you glanced up, he was staring. You saw something in his eyes that nearly scared you, but it vanished quickly, replaced by a more forlorn expression, which turned into something that looked a lot like tenderness.
“It’s not crazy,” he said softly. “I’m uh….usually pretty fucking lonely.”
“Me too,” you answered. “I mean, that's the only reason I’m good at any of this,” you gestured towards the still-messy kitchens. “My parents were addicts and I was in and out of foster care. I was desperate for something to take my mind off it all, and the kitchen was the first place I ever felt like I had a family.”
Maybe it was the wine. Sure, you were open, but not usually like this. Both of you had hardly drank at all. Deep down, however, you knew what it really was.
“Yeah,” he said, voice barely registered, choked. “I grew up in the orphanage. My dad was a journalist, he was murdered when I was young and I…don’t even remember my mother.”
Everything clicked into place, and without thinking, you slid your hand across the table, palm facing up. He reached out, making to touch you, but was seemingly terrified to close the gap. Like this was some kind of trap or game and if you touched, it would all slip away.
But after a moment, his hand closed over yours, soaking in the warmth that radiated through your palms. No one had ever touched him so innocently before, with no ulterior motive, just to comfort, to soothe, to empathize, and he had to suppress a full-body shiver. “I’m so sorry,” was all you said.
It’s not like you wanted to find someone else who understood. It meant he’d lived it, too, an upbringing that you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy. His silence said more than words could, and yours answered it.
You lived nearly the same lives, and both turned out so different. You either rose from it, or it swallowed you whole. He wished somehow, he would’ve ended up more like you.
There was only one person you prayed to never see again. The man in the corner booth of your restaurant a few nights back, waiting for you, asking for you. God only knew what strings he had to pull, what research he had to do to find you there, just as things were starting to feel normal. Your line cook had given you a ride home, but it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened.
The inevitable very well could’ve caught up to you by now, you suspected, when you heard a steady knock on your door. Breathing shallowly, you held a chef’s knife flat over your heart, clutching the handle and listening for any indication of what was at the door.
It was your fourth day like this, delirious from lack of sleep, running out of movies to watch, books to read, but terrified of leaving. Your boss had given you a week off. No pay of course, which you could barely swing, but was worth, potentially, the price of your life. You were going to go crazy living like this, trapped in the small space, a curtain of rain droning outside your window, perpetually painting your walls gray.
“It’s Edward,” you relaxed at the sound of his voice almost immediately. You didn’t have a peephole, so you cracked the door slightly, only showing half your face.
“Hey,” you kept your voice even.
“How-” he looked you up and down. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.”
“Oh yeah, just taking some time off,” you were as nonchalant as you could be.
You looked over his shoulder briefly, down to the end of the hallway. All clear. When you focused back on him, he was staring down at you. “Why, what’s going on?” you asked.
“Oh, well I was just hoping…” he trailed off. There wasn’t any energy left for you to help him along, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other for a bout of silence, a puzzlebook tucked under his arm.
Since you had made him dinner, you’d grown quite fond of Edward. Maybe embarrassingly so. And it wasn’t necessarily in a romantic way – you just liked him. And it seemed, with each week that passed, he had less and less reservations about you. Whether it was sheepishly asking you to teach him how to chop an onion, or playfully chastising you after you proudly showed him a very poorly-completed sudoku puzzle. It was the easiest understanding you’d felt with someone in awhile, even if it had taken him some time for him to get used to it.
And he was still adjusting, evidently, as he finally finished his thought. “I wanted to come and say hi, that’s all.”
“Oh,” you answered. “Do you wanna come in?”
“Sure,” he answered, and you stepped out of the way so he could enter, kick off his shoes. You turned around to lock the door, diligent. The deadbolt, the one on the doorknob, and the chain lock you’d installed yourself the night everything initially went down.
When you turned around, Edward was facing you, staring at the door, then down at you. “Sorry, my place is a little messy,” you said, realizing it for the first time, looking at the sink full of dirty dishes, the few empty bottles of wine and cups crowded on your countertops. Your plants were even wilting, you’d kept your curtains drawn and windows locked most of the time. Not that you usually had much sun anyways, living in the city. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m okay,” he said.
“Make yourself at home,” you said weakly, and he treaded over to your couch, moved aside the pile of blankets to sit at one end, staring at the TV, which was playing reruns of Forensic Files, a bad choice of programming for your anxiety, but nothing else had been interesting. You clicked the remote and it landed on the news, where they were covering a murder of a local politician that had happened recently.
“Oh my god enough about this,” you groaned, the coverage had been nonstop for the last few days.
“Yeah, that’s pretty wild, isn’t it?” Edward piped up from behind you, and you glanced over your shoulder, where he was watching the coverage intently as they revealed the suspect – some masked vigilante who was only taking credit for it online.
“That guy is the reason I have to pay for my own health insurance so…” you laughed curtly. “Good fucking riddance.” You didn’t really follow the news in this town. It was too depressing. Maybe it was naive, but you didn’t care.
Edward chuckled at your joke, his laugh sounding a bit more manic than you remembered. But maybe you were just being paranoid. Finally, you landed on a channel playing reruns of Hell’s Kitchen.
Looking over, Edward studied you, curled into a little ball at the opposite end of the couch. Something was off. “How are you?”
“Hmmm?” you asked, dragging your attention over to him. “Oh, I’m good. How about you?”
“Fine…busy with work,” he said. “What have you been up to?”
You gestured to the television, the stack of books piled high in front of you. “This, mostly.”
That drew Edward’s attention to the knife laying out on your coffee table, the one you’d been keeping within arms reach all week. You focused on the TV and hoped he didn’t bring it up.
But he was still sitting rigidly, hadn’t opened the book to doodle or relaxed against the cushions. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” you said.
“When do you go back to work?”
“Next week.”
He sat back a little, and paused, just for long enough to make you think he had given up on the conversation, and you were in the clear. “Why are you taking time off, anyways?”
“Gee, you sure are talkative tonight,” you mused sarcastically, turning your head to face him. Immediately, you regretted your clipped tone, answered by his with a look of pure dejection.
His shoulders slumped, ever so slightly, but a flash of anger fizzled in his eyes. “I can leave, if you want me too.”
So much for being nonchalant about your current state. Unfortunately, the truth was, you had never been good at being fake in front of those you really trusted. Things were different when you had your guard up.
“No Ed- I’m…I’m sorry,” you apologized. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just have a lot going on…”
You weren’t sure why you felt such shame. Why it was so hard to talk about, to the point that you were lashing out at someone who didn’t deserve it. Now you felt you owed him an explanation.
“What is it?”
You shrugged, and for once, felt yourself slipping away, pulling inward, terrified to tell the truth. The knife on your table sat idle, glimmering in the light of the table lamp, Edward’s face reflecting back at you, all warped and distorted.
“Did I do something?” his body was taut with tension. You were smart. Maybe you’d figured him out already, if you’d been watching the news enough. It was his greatest fear. Why laying low was so important. He had been naive to think that he could play delusional and pursue the comfort that he’d come to find with you.
“What?” you asked, incredulous. “Oh no,” you shook your head fervently, answer so honest that he didn’t hesitate to believe it. “It’s….” you sighed, took in a haggard breath.
“...my ex. I may have mentioned him before, he’s uh…figured out where I work,” you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. “And he’s been showing up asking about me. I took the week off to kinda see if he’d lose interest but…my coworkers are saying he hasn’t. I don’t know. I don’t really…know what to do.”
It had been awful before you’d left your old place. The pounding on your door in the odd hours of the morning, the rocks pelted at your window, the death threats screamed at you through your front door, as you trembled in bed and desperately tried to block out the sound. It was unhinged, disturbing behavior. All because he didn’t own you, and couldn’t control you anymore.
White heat rose up your neck, accompanied by a telltale pinch behind your eyelids. You weren’t a cryer, you didn’t cry. And you couldn’t in front of Edward. You didn’t want to burden him with any of this in the first place. All things considered, after everything you’d been through, you were so afraid that if you started to cry, you might never stop.
“I’m sorry,” Edward answered, voice so gentle, and you turned to look at him, your hands kneading into the couch cushions. He’d moved a bit closer to you, a pained expression on his face.
“It’s okay I just…” you squeezed the heel of your palms into your eye sockets in case any tears threatened to spill and groaned, instead of letting out the choked sob rising in your throat. “I feel fucking stupid, you know? I never thought I’d be that girl, always fucking running….”
You should’ve known better from the start. Should’ve seen it coming, and you didn’t, not until you were in too deep. But it’s not like you had any good models of what a healthy relationship looked like growing up. You had just been stumbling around, trying to figure it all out on your own.
“I’m so fucking tired,” your voice broke, and you cleared it instantly, taking in a shaky inhale and sitting up straight, desperately trying to compose yourself. He watched helplessly at the sight of you, curled onto yourself, looking so small and vulnerable. Anger stirred inside of him.
When you stole a glance to your side, you saw Edward hovered over you now, one of his hands extended towards you slightly, but holding still in space. “Is there…anything I can do to help?”
You shook your head no, laughed wryly. “Not unless you can make this all go away somehow.”
He sighed, lowered his hand to fall idly in his lap. But his facial expression startled you, something impossibly dark in his eyes, swirling through them, cavernous, consuming. You turned away.
“But no uh, I’m….I’m glad you’re here,” it was true. Even though you hadn’t wanted to, it felt a little better to tell someone about it. A few of your friends knew, but it wasn’t like they could do much. I mean hell, none of them had even bothered to visit your new place since you moved, let alone support you through this mess. Of all the people to actually have your back, you were a little surprised it ended up being him. “I hope you don’t think less of me.”
“Of course not,” he answered.
And then you felt something press between your shoulderblades, just a ghost, featherlight. You sat up a little, looked over to see him, palm pressed flat against your back, tentatively, like you might smack him away. The contact was a surprise, and you tried not to shiver, to not melt under his touch. Years and years it’d been since you’d been offered any type of physical comfort, and you didn’t realize how desperate you were for it, suddenly, could’ve taken it from anyone, but it felt even better from him.
Slowly, you leaned back, never breaking your eye contact as he looked down at you, breathing shallow, bringing yourself closer and closer, the closest you’d ever been. So close you could see the swirling green of his eyes, slightly obstructed by the thick frames of his glasses. And then your gaze worked a little lower, flickered down to his lips, feeling yours sting at the sight, just for a split second, before you came to your senses and turned away.
Edward held back a shudder when you made contact, even if it was one of the most innocent ways you could’ve touched him, seeking comfort. Your arm slid across his chest as you pulled yourself flush against him, and he closed down his eyes, relishing in the warmth of somebody – not just anybody, but you, curled against him.
Maybe you should’ve asked if this was okay, you thought, your fingers finding purchase at his hip, where his jeans met the bottom of his plain grey t-shirt. But you didn’t have to. The answer of his hand moving to wrap around your shoulder, to smooth down your hair, to pull you tighter towards him, told you it was.
You didn’t dare move or speak for at least a minute, exhaling shakily as the pads of his fingers traced patterns into the skin on your upper arm. He was so steady beneath you, despite the fact that you could tell he was nervous. His heart was pounding, you could hear, could feel it hammering against your cheek. One embrace and you learned more about him than you had in months of just trying to talk. He needed this just as much as you did.
Of course, wanted more. All you could do was want more. He was so solid and sturdy and firm underneath you, and you had to resist the urge to bury your face in his neck, to wrap your arms around his shoulders and let your lips rest on his collarbone. This had to be enough, for now.
And your eyelids were heavier than you’d ever felt them, every facet of you utterly exhausted. Right now, he was the only person you could trust, even if there was always that voice in the back of your mind telling you not to let your guard down. Something had to give. You had been so resilient. “Will you stay here with me, while I take a nap?” you asked.
He turned his head, you felt his breath fan over your hair. “Of course. You should get some rest,” the sound of his voice vibrated in his chest, rumbled in your ear, so tender and soothing.
“Thank you,” you murmured. You shifted your weight so you could tuck your feet underneath you and bury yourself under one of the blankets. In the meantime, he had reached out for the book he’d brought over, brandishing a pencil and staring at one of the pages, taking a deep breath and focusing.
“I think it’s cute you still do those,” you said, peering over as he looked down at it, a book of cryptograms that translated to famous literary quotes. No one had any reason to own something like this under the age of 65. Except for Eddie.
“Well,” he chuckled, which felt extra nice when you were pressed up against him like this, struggling sheepishly, head tilted down as he focused on the page. “They’ve always helped clear my mind since I was little.”
You watched him for a moment, scribble in a few guesses before he settled down.
Rain pattered on the window outside, along with the sound of his pencil scratching. And then your head was on his lap, one of his hands on your shoulder. He solved the problem he’d been working on before you fell asleep, and you made him read it to you, a quote from The Scarlet Letter.
No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.
The next time Edward saw you, he was coming back from the laundry room with a basket full of fluffed blankets and sheets, something he’d definitely been neglecting over the past few months. He had more pressing matters at hand, but he felt he’d been slacking at committing to the ruse, to play the guy next door and be just the right amount of invisible.
Of course, even if he failed at that, they’d never find him. There were too many precautions put in place – the disguise, the secret apartment, the saran wrap that masked his voice, deepening it significantly. If he was going to be found, it was because he wanted to be. And if things went according to plan, he probably would.
More and more time the past few weeks had been dedicated to his purpose, his righteous path. It was more than just him, at this point. There were others. He had to remember. Despite that, you plagued his thoughts, more than you should’ve been.
But there you were, locking the door of your apartment, wearing a black jacket and, to his surprise, what looked like heels. The weekends were when he saw the least of you, usually at work until early hours of the morning. That was when he worked the most, too.
“Hey!” you said when you turned around and saw him, perking up instantly. “Where have you been?”
Seeing Edward was a bit of a shock. He was even more elusive than normal these days, and it sort of felt like things had regressed from the last few times you’d hung out. It hurt a little, at first. But you had to remind yourself he wasn’t yours to lose.
“How are you?”
“Good,” he answered.
“What are you doing?” you asked. You seemed in better spirits than the last few times he’d seen you. He had an idea of why.
He shrugged, looked down at the basket in his arms. You were beginning to think he was more adorable every time you saw him, that soft-looking auburn hair falling onto his glasses, into his eyes. Even though you knew him much better than you did before you moved in, nearly a year ago at this point, his slightly evasive nature just continued to draw you in. Well, that, and all your unfortunately shared history.
“That’s lame,” you frowned, leaning against the wall. “Come out with me instead. I actually have tonight off, for once. ”
He snorted, looking at the floor. “I don’t know, I’ve never really been one for all that.” the idea of being jostled around by a crowd of people in some dingy club had his heart rate spiking. Plus, he didn’t really want to deal with watching a bunch of douchebags drool over you, buying you drinks while he sat around looking like a fool.
“It’s just a couple drinks,” you insisted, looking at him coyly from under your lashes. “I know a place you’ll like.”
He didn’t answer right away. Your eyes narrowed slightly, you tilted your head. The sight of you, staring him down like this stirred something deep inside of him. What had he become? What had you turned him into?
“Eddie,” you said his name, a nickname. Which was just another reminder you had him even deeper in his clutches. Nicknames were something given by friends, and even though yours was as simple as a shortened version of his own name, he realized he never had one.
He had always been Edward. Edward. The name of the nerdy freak in school with the old-fashioned name and glasses so thick he couldn’t even look anyone straight in the eye, let alone when he was being shoved to the ground, the sketchbook he carried to doodle and write ciphers torn up into pieces, months of his work erased. The name he heard at the orphanage, most likely being hollered at him by one of the houseparents right before the sharp crack of their palm against his cheek.
As of late, that didn’t feel like the person he was anymore. For a number of reasons, but one of them being you.
“Okay,” He nodded, despite himself. “Yeah, I-I should probably change first at least.”
You grinned, he liked the way your smile reached each corner of your face, lighting it up entirely, especially when you were looking at him.
A half an hour later you had both ducked into a small pub, which was lively and loud. Still not his scene. But it wasn’t so bad in the dark corner where you were both sitting, tucked in a small booth and a safe distance away from where a handful of overserved patrons stumbled their way around the dancefloor.
“Okay, okay,” you said, eyes all glassy as Edward turned his head to look at you. “Here’s one I bet you’ll never get,” Then you giggled, giving yourself away, clearing your throat and becoming suddenly serious. “What’s black and white and read all over?”
Edward shook his head. “A newspaper?” he sighed, unable to hold back his smile as you nodded. “I mean, if you’re going to lie about coming up with it yourself, I’d venture past the first page of Google.”
“It’s the best you’ll get out of me,” You laughed, giving him a playful shove away. “We can’t all be geniuses…”
He leaned back towards you, looking at the floor and grinning. Having been ridiculed his whole life for his interests, it was just nice to be with someone who played along.
“I can’t remember the last time I had a Friday off,” you mused, changing the subject after a silence fell between you, drink in hand, Although time off wasn’t necessarily the occasion to drink, if anything, it was more because your ex seemed to have given up on his insistent stalking. He hadn’t been at the restaurant looking for you, so you could finally rest a little easier. But not too much. After all, you did live in Gotham.
“Yeah, it’s been forever,” you decided out loud. Edward smiled at you, that bashful one he liked to do when he kept his lips closed and looked at the ground. Fucking precious, god, you could tell the drinks were hitting now, admiring the way his long fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. You wondered what they would feel like pressed against your bare skin, kept yourself up at night thinking about it on more than one occasion.
Shaking away the image, you reached for the menu and pulled it to yourself. “I might get some food,” you mused.
“What happened to your hand?” He asked, pointing at the one poised over the menu, the lowlights catching on the scars more drastically then you might have thought.
“Cooking,” you shrugged, able to see the places in which a mandolin had sliced your knuckle, where a knife nicked your palm, various burns from hot pans and oils. “It just happens.”
“You should be more careful.” His cheeks were flushed, and it dawned on you that he might be fairly tipsy, especially after the two drinks and the shot that he’d had. You knew you definitely were, as well.
“I’m okay, Eddie,” you laughed, but felt the smile fall from your face when you noticed just how serious he was. And was staring at your hands so intently, studying them like a code he could solve, one of his fingers traced over each mark and blemish. Your stomach fluttered. There was so much still you didn’t know about him, he was so secretive, quiet, and yet, there was that irrefutable familiarity.
A blast of cold hit you as the door to the bar swung open, you jumped with the intensity of it, maybe also because your mind was wandering. Unintentionally, you had shifted closer to him, and you were face-to-face with the collar of his green windbreaker, your nose practically brushing against it as you looked up at him, making to apologize for coming so far into his personal space.
But you looked at him and forgot what you were going to say. He was holding his breath, peering down at you. It would be easy to blame what you did next on the liquor, but then, you’d be lying.
Gently, you hooked your pointed finger around the frame of his glasses, dragging them down the bridge of his nose. All you wanted was to see more of his face, to remove one simple barrier between you.
“You have such beautiful eyes, you know that?” you whispered, they were bright green and warm, focused on you, even though now, his whole world was fuzzy.
“Thank you,” he murmured, head spinning, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the sound of the music blasting over the speakers, the buzz of the crowd, or the alcohol coursing through his veins. Maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with how close your mouth was to his. But he was frozen.
So when you leaned in, your lips brushing his ever-so-gently, he pulled away instantly, drawn back in shock, even though there was some buried part of his consciousness that dared to believe you were going to do this. That voice, the confidence that had only arisen on one other occasion – when he was committing acts he’d never speak a word of to you – had been right.
He was thinking about it too much, he decided, especially when he adjusted his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, saw the sting of rejection on your face, and then leaned to kiss you properly. Well, properly probably wasn’t the right word. It was clumsily, searching, desperate for reassurance. Luckily, you seemed to like it.
Your hands rose to cup each side of his face, which was burning and red, each sweet and tender press of your lips making him shudder and tremble as your thumbs found purchase along his jaw.
You drank off of him, tasted the beer, still sweet on his tongue, feeling his hair tickle your nose, the sides of your face.
And then abruptly, you pulled away, pressed your forehead against his, and let out a breathy sigh – a sweet, unassuming noise that made his gut twist yet again. Why him?
He didn’t have time to contemplate before you were on him again, this time, not so innocent. Your tongue swept through his mouth, you were pressing as much of yourself up against him as you could. Edward wasn’t quite sure what to do with his own hands, one of them hesitantly sliding along your waist.
As if to respond, your touch traveled down his arms, leaving him entirely for a brief second before one of them immediately dropped to his thigh, squeezing, then kneading, working upwards to where he was already throbbing in his pants. It was pretty promiscuous to feel him up in a bar, potentially in front of several other people, but the whimper he let out when you brushed over him made it worth it.
Suddenly, it felt like you might die if you couldn’t have him.
Between the kissing, the music pounding, the buzz of the liquor and the overwhelming arousal surging through him, he had to pull away, taking in a haggard breath for air.
“Was that okay?” you asked.
“Yeah, I just-” he began. “I just, uhm…it’s-it’s,”
He was squirming, eyes darting around. “Too much?” You asked, he nodded quickly. “Should we head home?”
“Y-yeah.”
The minute you closed the door to your apartment, after you’d locked the both of you inside, you were on him again like an animal in heat. Your hands shucked off his windbreaker, tossing it out of eyesight like garbage on the floor. Both of you standing up, you realized how solid he was under your hands, the same way he’d felt on the couch. But he was skinny, skinnier than you remembered. Had he not been eating? You knew better than to ask and spoil the moment.
“Mmmmm,” you hummed against his lips, which had gotten much more dexterous since you first kissed him in the bar just a little bit ago. You tugged him in the direction of your bedroom, refusing to pull away from his mouth, so much so that you stumbled, your back hitting the wall and sending a picture frame to the ground with a loud clatter.
Neither of you noticed it.
You took the chance to tangle your fingers into his hair, the impossibly soft chestnut locks the perfect part of him to hang onto as your leg hooked over his hip, his hand grabbing behind it to hold it in place. There was a bit of impotence, you’d noticed, he was trembling and breathing far too aggressively for what you were doing – but it didn’t bother you at all. In fact, you found it endearing.
Despite being lanky and unassuming at first glance, he shocked you entirely with his strength when he lifted you up, wrapped your other leg around his torso, and shuffled you both the remaining distance to the bedroom.
“Are we- is this- is it okay?” he stuttered when your back hit the mattress and he all-but fell on top of you.
“Of course,” you said. “Of course it is.”
Hesitantly, he lowered himself next to you, his lips returning to your own. Swinging a leg over him, you rolled yourself upright to keep him trapped between your thighs, and even in the dim light you caught the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard, waiting for your next move.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” You mused. “I feel like I’ve known you forever.” The honey in your voice seemed to calm him down.
Shifting under you, he sat up slightly, onto his elbows, as he regarded you carefully. “Me too,” he answered. “No one else….has ever really seen me.”
That comment seemed to upset you, just slightly, as you tilted your head and frowned. Maybe it was true, but you weren’t sure how it was possible.
He was letting himself explore, albeit a little tentatively. This could very well still be some sick joke. He wanted, no, needed it to be real. You’d kept him so distracted from what was important. This had to be worth it. Because if anyone from his other life knew the man he really was, he could lose everything in an instant.
His palms settled on your hip, pushing underneath the hem just ever so slightly to let his fingertips graze over your bare skin, relish in that amount of closeness alone.
However, your hands were roaming much more shamelessly than his. You yanked at the hem of his shirt as an answer, watching him squirm out of it beneath you before tugging off your own and exposing so much more skin to him. The heat of your palms on his bare chest had him lightheaded.
Not to mention how he was throbbing in his pants, had been since the restaurant, and it definitely wasn’t letting up anytime soon. He had to actively remind himself to breathe as you undid his belt and shucked his slacks down around his ankles.
Pushing his boxers down over his hips and hovering over him, you didn’t touch him at all, just raked your eyes over his nearly naked body. He was big, and you wondered for a moment if you’d be able to take all of him. It wasn’t the time for those concerns. The sight of him leaking and straining made your mouth water.
“I want you so bad,” two of his hands rose to rest on your hips, still straddling him. Once again, just the mere brush of your hand had him crying out, hips lifting off the bed to seek more friction, something, anything to soothe the pain.
“I know,” you whispered softly. “I’ve thought about you a lot, Eddie.”
His cock twitched under your hand at those words as you leaned into him, didn’t miss the loyalty in his eyes as they followed your every move. Your tongue swept through his mouth, one last taste of him before you pulled away, pressing searing, open-mouthed kisses down the length of his torso.
“You don’t-” he gasped as he realized what you were going to do. “Have to-”
“Shhh, sweet boy,” you murmured softly, looking up at him, so pure and gentle. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Oh-ohkay,” he stuttered.
No one had touched him in ages, you could just tell, though you’d never mention it to him. Especially not like this, as you relished in the noises he made when your mouth wrapped around his tip, drawing him as deep as you could take, which….wasn’t far, considering his well above average size.
“Fuck,” he cursed, his hands balled into fists at his sides as you sucked and licked and stroked him, his hair falling into his face.
You hummed around him, sliding your hands up the v-lines on his torso, reaching for his own, which were balled up in tight fists at his side, moving them to place on top of your head. He was hardly sure what to do except tangle his fingers in your hair, tug you along the length of him, drag himself deeper into the heaven that was your mouth, warm and wet and perfect. “So good, so…so…so good.”
He was loud, much louder than you thought he might be, whiny and pitiful under your careful touch, hips jerking recklessly. You loved watching him fall apart, the heaving of his chest, the heat radiating off of every inch of him, so fucking enthusiastic.
When you dragged your tongue up his length again, hollowing your cheeks and taking him so deep he felt your throat clutch around him, he realized with horror how close he really was. He had been so focused on you, on how perfect you felt, without checking in, and now he was going to embarrass himself.
“I’m fuck-I-” he stuttered, voice breaking, a weak attempt to make you slow down. “So close.”
But, you didn’t stop the pace you’d built up, even though it had only been for a short time. For some reason, it only spurred you on, the desperation and pitiful nature that clung to him everywhere, but especially now. Maybe it was part of why you liked him so much. You just wanted to help him.
He came hard, the sharp cry he let out echoing off the ceiling of your room. You swallowed him down, licking him clean while his fingers loosened in your hair, carefully trying to smooth it back into place, to no avail, head falling back against the bed.
“Good boy,” you cooed, and he groaned at the words, your lips on his lower belly before you climbed to lay bedside him.
You’d just had his cock in your mouth, and yet, he was still so nervous. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-,” his eyes were closed. “It’s been awhile.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched by anything other than just himself, and usually that was out of frustration. That had become a more recent habit as he spent time with you. Until now, sex had been only unpleasant. He didn’t really see the point in it at all. He’d lost his virginity to a woman who had been dreadful enough to chat him up at a bar, who told him after that it was just a pity fuck. He hoped that wasn’t what this was.
“It’s okay,” you said softly, laying your hand on his cheek, turning it towards you soothing his worries without having to communicate them.
“We have all night,” you were lying nearly on his chest, palms flat on his shoulders. He grazed his thumb over your hip, watching you shudder and sigh, eyes falling closed, and knew he needed to help you, too.
At some points you had shimmied out of your pants, leaving you bare in black underwear next to him. He dragged his fingertips up the length of your spine, smoothing it down your back. There was still a part of him that couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you like this, especially as he grew a little braver. Your leg hooked over his hip and he grabbed at your thigh, massaging and kneading the flesh there, gauging what you liked by the soft sighs, moans, whines you let out, vibrating against his neck.
Your lips interlocked once more, the feeling of his hands roaming your body, squeezing and pinching had the space between your legs just aching. And it was him you wanted.
Edward’s long fingers teased up your stomach, you shivered, particularly as his hand closed around your breast, rubbing and pinching your nipple through your bralette with his thumb and forefinger. Your walls were fluttering around nothing, and you squeezed your legs together for relief, finding none and realizing only then just how wet you were.
“Just tell me what to do,” he said, face buried in your neck. You sighed, breathless, when his tongue rolled over a sweet spot on your neck. You were just enjoying being there, being so close to him, feeling his bare skin on your own.
You clasped your hand over his, clutching it tightly and dragging it down the curve of your waist, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your panties. He pulled away to look into your eyes, both of you out of breath, his forehead falling onto yours.
Those long, slender fingers were tugging off your panties, rubbing up and down your center. You were impossibly, impossibly wet for him, it was embarrassing, and you moaned as one of his digits pressed fully into you, back arching up to press against his chest.
“Yes,’ like that,” you gasped. “Good boy, so good…for me.”
He worked another finger into you at the sound of your praise, panting as he opened you up, and you rutted your hips against him in return. But you didn’t let it last very long.
“I want you to fuck me, now,” you managed, wanting nothing more than to have him completely. Maybe you were impatient, but he was so willing, so eager….
He smiled, shifted. “Hold on, let me just, uh-” you watched him take off his glasses, fold them up, set them down on your nightstand. You smiled watching him. Then he rolled on top of you, the length of his cock pressed between your stomachs. He was already hard again. “So good, you’re so good,” you said, hand on the side of his face as he leaned to nibble on your lower lip.
Edward held himself while he lined up, you felt his tip nudge you open just the slightest, and wholeheartedly, you wanted him to tear you apart as tenderly as possible.
Oh so cautious, he inched forward, studying you carefully for any signs of discomfort, any confirmation that something was wrong – because he couldn’t still believe you were like this, all pliant and sweet beneath him. And you were intoxicating, overwhelming as he looked down at you, all doe-eyed, a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. Speared down all on his cock, you squirmed. He drew back just a little, before pressing forward. “Yeah,” your sighed, eyes and your eyes fluttered shut contentedly.
Edward was obsessed with you. Couldn’t help it. Even though he knew he was going to have to choose between one thing or another. He couldn’t have both, and he knew it.
He rutted into you like that, barely pulling back and then just grinding his hips forward so you could feel him so deep, all the way in the back of your throat,
If only you knew what he really was. The things he’d done, one of them selfishly just to keep you safe, even if it had never been a part of his original plan. He didn’t feel like he was that horrible thing right now, and didn’t want to.
Before you’d even met he had his duty to himself, to the city. And it was now a duty to you…for people like you, people like him. You were the same, and he was willing to make the sacrifice, the sacrifice that was going to ultimately save this city, purge it of everything evil.
But why, when Edward was with you, did he want none of those things, none of that responsibility? What would it look like if you were there instead, where you were his everything. With you, he could have the life he had dreamed of as a child, late at night, shivering on a cot under a thin blanket. A family. He could be understood, nurtured, loved. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?
He was selfish, perhaps. He was going to give himself over to you entirely.
Each time you locked eyes, the warmth in them was overwhelming, had him burying his face in your neck just to keep from crying. He had to remember every bit of this. Brand it into his memory so he’d never forget any details. Your eyes closed, mouth hanging open, the rise and fall of your chest with each heaving breath you took. The way you clutched at his hair, his shoulder, his cock as he moved with you.
He was paying too close attention to detail and – Fuck. Without warning, Edward withdrew from you entirely leaving you empty and cold. He was panting heavily.
“Sorry, you got me so-” he gasped. “Didn’t wanna come yet.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you mewled, pulling his head to your chest, shaking at the loss of contact and looking for something to hold onto. “It’s so good, you feel so good, Eddie.”
It didn’t take long for him to steady himself. And when he returned to you, already slightly sore from the size of him, you clasped at his hands, holding them on either side of your face as he rocked forward – “Like this?” he asked.
He was so desperate for validation, so fucking willing. It was near pathetic, but it was only turning you on even more. Inexperienced but dirious. That he would do all this just for you. To be good for you. And you only.
“Yes, yes,” you shivered, answering in time with his thrusts. He moved faster, pressed himself deeper, using your intertwined hands as leverage. Unable to keep himself from holding back, so frenzied in his goal of getting you off.
“That’s it. Just like that. Don’t stop”
He obeyed, even though you were so impossibly tight around him he was convinced he was going to have to pull out again.
And then you came –his cock dragging one too many times deep within you, pelvic bone grinding on your clit – squeezing your eyes shut, gasping his name, holding onto him so tightly it could’ve left bruises behind. Not that he would’ve minded.
He was right on the edge, not quite ready to topple over again, until your voice was in his ear. “Come inside me,” you begged. “Please, Eddie…you’re such a good boy-”
That was enough for him, all he needed to pitch forward, stuttering out a breath as he filled you up, your legs locking around his torso.
The comedown was a little more drawn out than you were used to, clutching at one another for several minutes before you finally pulled away, but not too far. Edward rolled onto his stomach to face you, and you rubbed his bare arm, realizing you’d been so frantic you’d hardly gotten to look at him, all freckled and soft. His hair was all over the place, cheeks flushed.
“Are you….was that okay?”
You nodded, scooting closer to him, limbs heavy and fatigued. “It was perfect.”
“I thought so, too.”
Letting him wrap around you, your head fell to his chest, and listen to the familiar sound of his beating heart. You let yourself drift somewhere where sleep and consciousness blended together, still aware of his lips when they grazed over your forehead, hands on your waist.
You wondered how it was possible to find someone like him. Like and unlike you in so many different ways. But still, something perturbed you, particularly now, the same thing that had on the first day you met him. There was something just a little bit wrong. But you knew him, you know that couldn’t be right. Could it?