Undercut, there is a submitted nsfw fanfic! Thank you, dear person who submitted it (apparently through e-mail? I have no idea how this thing works)! And I say you should totally continue it! <3 (Oh, and it’s a Scarecrow/Riddler one!)

Eddie was used to coming home to silence, and even though there was an exceptionally nondescript apartment now instead of a typical hideout, the silence was something that’d stayed. Until recently.

                “Edward, come into the bedroom. Right now.”

                It was a little jarring, and he wouldn’t lie, it made him jump. But if it was going to be put like that, how could he say no?  He stripped off his jacket, first, though, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor that Jon would doubtless be angry about later, although Eddie was pretty sure you couldn’t sterilize a carpeted room anyway. …Nearly as sure as he was that you also couldn’t go about your business in utter darkness, but apparently that wasn’t true either. He went where he’d been told to go, because he was very good at following rules.

                Very, very good.

                So why was a pair of handcuffs now securely locked around his wrists? Uh-oh.

                Uh-oh, in the best of ways. When they’d started dating some month or so ago, Eddie hadn’t known how insatiable Jon was. But then, he supposed it sort of made sense. After all, a man like that needed something to concentrate on, and if it wasn’t (constantly) fear toxin anymore, it might as well be Eddie’s dick. He was alright with that.

                He was alright when he felt hot breath hiss against his neck, still alright when spidery fingers touched his lower back, pushing him toward the waiting bed, still alright when he was on the bed on his back and there were hands somewhere above him in the darkness deftly fastening the first pair of handcuffs to another that was waiting at the headboard.

                Yep, still alright. “Jon, what are you—“ He stopped short when he felt something distinctly sharp against his belly, and he immediately thought syringe. But it wasn’t. And for just a moment he felt bad for thinking as much, until his shirt was ripped straight open. The knife wiggled a little and broke through his tie as well. “Jon. Buttons? Does that word mean anything to you?”

                The only sound above him was a whispery chuckle. Then everything was silent for a moment, and then there were lips close to his ear. “You’re so vain.”

                There was humor in the good doctor’s voice, humor that wasn’t always there and hadn’t been for very long. So Eddie figured he was thankful for that, but nonetheless. “Those shirts are expensive. You want to let me know before you cut them off me?”

                “Mm. No.”

                Eddie heard a smile there and saw the glint of what might have been white teeth or an eyeglass lens. He didn’t dare reply, so he just pouted instead, up until the same thing happened to his pants.

                “You may want to stop wriggling.”

                “Jon!”

                “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

                There was something darker there, beneath the somewhat-congenial veneer. It made one Mr. Nigma’s stomach flutter in a way he couldn’t quite tell the meaning of. Frightened? Not really. Intimidated? Quite. Excited? That too.

                Surely Jon could tell as much. Lithe fingers danced over the front of Eddie’s boxers, faintly tracing outlines and contours. And then the boxers were gone, too, under the knife’s blade. Where had he gotten that knife from? The kitchen? Eddie hoped it was a scalpel, or something that Jon had owned prior. Did psychiatrists use scalpels? Probably not, although Eddie would not have put it past Dr. Crane.

                There wasn’t much he’d put past that man, though. His shoes and socks disappeared at some point during his train of thought, and then there was something sliding up his ankles, calves, thighs, until it reached his groin and… constricted. Hard.

                “F-fuck, Jon…!”

                “That’s the idea.”

                “What the hell was that?” Eddie spluttered, shifting his hips to try and feel a way free. Or something. His fingers clenched and unclenched uselessly above his head. Now he was finding himself fairly irritated for having let this happen.

                “It’s called a gaff. Calm down, Edward.”

                “M-my dick—“

                Jonathan laughed again, soft and utterly self-assured, but gave his boyfriend no further instruction on the matter. Eddie found himself wondering if he’d been this enigmatic when he was a college professor. Besides, enigmatic was his thing! Asshole. Crimping his style.

                Style-crimping was the last thing on Dr. Crane’s mind. He drew his fingers over the newly smooth shape of Eddie’s groin, grinning in the darkness. He felt more at home there, anyway. Pleasure was an operation, just as creating and testing his toxin had been, just as studying had best been done in the wee hours of the morning.

                Sometimes he still thought himself foolish for ever having agreed not to use Edward for his experiments anymore, but there were ways besides fear toxin to elicit the response he was looking for. He’d found his own silver lining in all of this – specifically, the very attractive silver lining that came at the edge of a finely-sharpened blade.

                Jonathan didn’t use dull blades for knifeplay, wherein the goal was to tease, but never cut. He liked the excitement of holding something deadly in his hand, the power trip, the threatening sheen of it… all in all, he supposed it wasn’t too different, and besides, a man at knifepoint was easier to command than a man at the mercy of one’s fear gas.

                Edward’s shiver seemed to extend, crawling into Jonathan’s body while the doctor slid the blade against his neck. He licked his lips, but made no sound, instead drawing the point over delicate muscle and soft, unmarked skin. Wouldn’t it be a shame, Mr. Nigma, if something were to happen to that pretty throat of yours?

                Jonathan was never a man for hollow threats, but he didn’t have to threaten to get Edward to shut up for a while.

                The younger man’s breath trembled in and out of him, while Jonathan traced soft designs over his skin, swirls and points. There was something meditative about it, something calming, something that drew lids halfway down over oddly honey-colored eyes. Not that Edward could see. Jonathan could operate just fine in the night, and his eyes had long ago adjusted. Edward, though… Crane knew he was blind, at least for now, because otherwise he’d be commenting on the choice of dress.

 Or lack thereof. As it were.

~~~

Continue? y/n? :)