A/n: hey yall…. It’s been a min so here is this ig loll
Warning: kind NSFW /touch starved Eddie duh ( never wrote anything smutty and posted so that’s a warning on its own)
-Touch Starved Edward: who seems to gravitate towards you every time your setting on the same couch, almost clinging to you.
-Touched Starved Edward: who hugs you a bit tighter and longer then normal just wanting to feel your warmth for a while longer
-Touched Starved Edward: who can’t help but hold your hands every time you go out together even if his hands tend to get sweaty
-Touched Starved Edward: who craves your touch and will do anything to intent it whether brushing his hand against urs to even having his hand onto the small of your back
-Touch Starved Edward: who even Daydreams about cuddling with u every second of the day
-Touch Starved Edward: who’s a shamed how pathetic he feels every time you show him an ounce of your attention and will do anything to get you to praise him
-Touch Starved Edward: who gets tense every time you set close to him, you can’t help but offer to massage his poor shoulders
-Touch Starved Edward: who’s mind is racing with a million thoughts, wanted to explain himself on why he’s so tense around u but doesn’t
-Touch Starved Edward: who almost lets out an shameful moan the second your pretty hands touched him
-Touch Starved Edward: who was so close to cuming onto his own pants when your touch gently started going lower onto his so aching back ( something else was aching too)
-Touch Starved Edward: who doesn’t notice he’s been grinding his hips onto the couch and groaning into the cushions hoping it’ll hide how pathetic he is for you and your simple touch.
-Touch Starved Edward: who begs you not to stop,and cums the second you called him your pretty boy.
Touch Starved Edward: who’s a pathetic whimpering, and needy mess around you
A/n: as I always say don’t forget to drink water my shawtys 👹👍
summary: Edward is finally rewarded with the warmth of your touch and affection – or is he?
contains: reader working at a bookstore, slight dom elements, obsessed Edward, religious imagery, suggestive touching, riding
warnings: MDNI, *AFAB!Reader but i don't specify gender, dub-con, stalking, degradation
word count: 3.1k
masterlist
For a moment, Edward feels as though he is floating. He is suspended in a massive plane of darkness, unable to move. He doesn’t remember the last time his mind was so quiet, so peaceful. It was as if he was in a realm between time and space – until he finally opens his eyes.
He was in the bookstore – your bookstore – standing in front of two bookshelves. You were there, standing in between them, shelving books. The sight of you surrounds him with a warmth that emitted from where you stand, ethereal and glowing. You were something angelic, and yet undeniably human. Edward could feel the weight of your presence settle in his chest like a blessing. You were an impossible vision, a being neither entirely of earth nor heaven, a force that demanded worship and devotion. The shelves around you seem to bend toward you, as though bowing in reverence.
The room stretches upward, spiraling to an unseen paradise. The air feels thick, and his view of the world is heavy. The shelves move never-endingly; they were no longer neat rows of books but towering spirals getting sucked into a luminous void behind your figure.
His breath catches as you finally turn to look at him, a kind smile on your face. You approach him with the grace of someone who already knew his every thought, every longing—someone who had chosen him. Your steps are soundless on the polished floors, and he feels an impossible pull to be closer to you, as though his soul is tethered to yours. He can almost not feel the pain in his chest. A throbbing, pulsing hurt that recedes once you get close enough. Or maybe it was that the pain had consumed him enough that he grew numb to it. It doesn’t matter in the end, you’re here now. You are warm, kind, and comforting – a stark contrast to the strange, twisted cathedral around you.
Your hands are soft, the kind of touch that felt both maternal and intimate. You cup his face like you were cradling something precious. Your thumbs graze over his cheeks in a way that makes his eyes sting. He is too afraid of you disappearing if he blinks. Your face tilts, studying him like he has any worth. He is fragile and tender, so tender. Edward feels cherished – safe. His knees shake slightly under the weight of this moment, but he fights it. He should be on his knees before you, but he wanted to stay between the warmth of your hands. As he gazes up at you, he can’t help but tremble.
For a moment, there is only peace – a powerful, sacred peace.
A whimper escapes him as you apply pressure to his face, fingers digging into his skin. Your nails sting while you grip him tightly, the smile on your face unwavering. Your fingers press harder, squeezing so hard that his mouth falls open with a sharp cry. And just as the pain started to become overwhelming, your grip loosens.
One of your hands slides down, dragging your nails over the curve of his neck, down his chest, and it burns. Edward shudders under your touch, the sensation not entirely painful, not entirely comforting – just too much. He swallows hard. The heat of desire and shame tangle together in a painful knot.
Then, the words came. Soft, lilting, but slicing through him.
“You’re disgusting.”
The words – so cruel – come from a place where malice and sweetness are one and the same. Your smile, still welcoming and pleasant, belies the puncture of your statement. His confusion makes him dizzy. There is nothing that feels right about the words, nothing logical about them, and yet… they are the only thing that make sense. They are what he needs to hear. He flinches, his body responding involuntarily.
His heart hammers in his chest as you tilt his chin up, your thumb pressing into his skin in a way that makes him ache. He feels small and insignificant under your gaze. The hand that wasn’t on his face travels lower, palming and pressing against his groin with deliberate force. His mind screams at him to reject the sensation, but his body betrays him. He jerks, hips twitching into your palm – seeking more of that sinful pressure. He can’t breathe, can’t think as his chest heaves. The shame twists inside him as his eyes widen.
“Please…” he whimpers, his voice cracking as the smallest shift in your hold on him causes him to moan.
You lean in, your face hovering just inches from his. Your beath was warm on his trembling lips.
“Filthy, filthy thing,” you whisper, the words ghosting against his skin.
The bookstore around you both begins to collapse, the arches crumbling into darkness. The shelves twist, warp, bend in on themselves. The golden light dims to an abyssal void – yet you remain bathed in a holy light. He is consumed by you – by your presence, by your touch, by the haunting words. You hold him in place, your smile syrupy and mocking as you get closer to him. He reaches for you just as your lips brush his.
Edward wakes up with a strangled cry, drenched in sweat. He bolts upright, wide eyes attempting to make out anything in the darkness of his apartment. His heart pounds like a drum, and painfully. The sensation of your touch still scorches his skin as his mind races. He touches his face where your hands had been.
There is a purpose to that dream, he rationalizes, you’re calling to me – touching me beyond this plane of reality.
Edward sits at the edge of his bed, staring at the empty coffee mug on his desk. The remnants of the dream still cling to him like a phantom touch. He’s spent the better part of an hour replaying it in his head. The way your voice had curled around that single phrase – “You’re disgusting” – makes him shiver even now. He is repulsed by the fact his body seems to enjoy how you insulted him with such a loving tone.
He needs to get out of his apartment.
It was suffocating him now. It was logical to get out, wasn’t it? He has been cooped up here for too long, buried in the glow of his monitors and the labyrinth of code he’s been pouring over for weeks. Normal people went out to public places. They sat in cafes, walked in parks, and – yes – they read in bookstores. It wasn’t suspicious for him to do so. It wasn’t strange.
I need to take care of myself.
The thin veneer of his words failed to hide the truth he is unwilling to admit. His attention drifts to the books relevant to his research on his desk. And now, here he is, preparing to go back to the same bookstore under the flimsiest of excuses.
Edward stands and moves to his closet, fingers brushing over the very few neatly hung shirts as he tries to decide what to wear. It wasn’t like this was a date – it wasn’t – but he can’t help the flutter of nerves in his chest as he debates between the gray sweater that makes him look softer or the green button-up that matches his eyes.
He settles on the sweater. Soft was better. Non-threatening. Approachable.
Next comes his hair. He stands in front of the cracked mirror, meticulously combing it into place only to muss it up again. He runs his fingers through it over and over, muttering under his breath how it refused to cooperate. Finally, he gives up and leaves it as it is. He wipes his glasses clean on the corner of his sweater, holding them up to the light to check for smudges. He can’t help but picture you noticing them, leaning in close with a teasing smirk to point out a speck he’d missed. The thought makes his cheeks flush, and he shoves the glasses back onto his face almost frantically.
“Okay,” he whispers, taking a deep breath and facing his mirror again. He attempts at practicing a warm, friendly smile – but it seems too unnatural on his face. He raises a hand and waves, practicing what he’d do if he saw you. “Hello. How, how are you today?”
It was completely normal for me to rehearse like this. I’ve seen it in movies.
Doubt creeps in as he assures himself.
He sits back down on his mattress, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Was this really okay? As self-reproach gnaws at him, he replays the dream – your voice just as sharp and cutting as you call him disgusting.
Edward’s stomach churns. Maybe he is disgusting. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to block out the image of your kindhearted, smiling face from the dream. The image of your hands had roamed over him, one of them traveling lower and lower until—
“No,” he snaps, standing abruptly. He can’t let his mind go there; he can’t let his body failing him again before he stepped out the door. He doesn’t have time to touch himself – to relieve himself – again.
He paces the room, his steps uneven and hurried. He mutters to himself that it’s fine to go to your bookstore with no other reason than to just be there.
With a determined breath, he grabs his coat and slings it over his shoulders. He hesitates only once more at the door. His hand stills over the knob as your voice echoes in his mind again, soft and cruel all at once. “Filthy, filthy thing.”
His grip tightens, his knuckles whitening around the doorknob as he shoves the memory aside. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of your touch – the comfort he felt as you held his face in your hands.
Edward steps out into the deafening silence of the hallway, the door closing behind him with a resolute click. He tells himself that he isn’t walking toward you. He isn’t trying to chase the fleeting connection he felt in the dream. He is only going to read.
And that isn’t a lie. Not entirely.
Edward pauses in the doorway of the bookstore for a moment, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of paper. There were a decent amount of patrons this evening, the distant hum of conversation creating a low symphony of activity. Edward’s gaze sweeps the room until he catches sight of you. You stand behind the counter, your back to him as you help someone. Even from this distance, you are magnetic. Your presence commands his focus with the same intensity as the figure in his dream—
His heart beats so fast it feels like it might bruise his ribs. The dream! It was vivid and consuming, filling his chest with reverence, dread, and arousal.
“Just… sit,” he tells himself, forcing his legs to move away from you.
He wanders through the aisles, feigning interest in the messily arranged books but barely registers the titles. His sole focus was finding the perfect vantage point. At last, he finds it – a small table tucked into a corner with a direct line of sight to the counter.
He sinks into the chair with a small smile, placing the book he’d grabbed at random on the table in front of him. His fingers fidget with the edges of the pages. His eyes flick up to you every few seconds despite his best efforts to focus on the text.
Stop staring, he berates himself. You’re making it obvious.
But your pull is too strong. Each glance was a sin, a stolen moment of connection.
Edward’s mind begins to betray him as the dream bleeds into reality. In the dim bookstore light, your form seems to glow faintly. The edges of your silhouette blur and he blinks hard, trying to dispel the illusion.
“You’re disgusting.”
He whips his head to the right, a soft gasp on his lips. You were not there – nobody was. The words echo in his mind and his stomach twists. He snaps his attention back to his book, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on him. You didn’t say that. You wouldn’t – not to me.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he feels your hands snake all over his body. He was starting to feel remorseful again, but it isn’t enough to make him leave.
Then it happens.
You turn, making eye contact with him almost immediately, as if you had felt his presence. For a moment, your eyes meet, and you smile. A smile that was merely a polite gesture to others, but to him, it was as inconsequential as it was devastating.
Edward’s heart hammers so loudly that he is certain you are able to hear it. His face flushes, and he quickly looks back down to read the words swimming before his eyes in a meaningless blur.
You saw me.
The thought reverberates in his mind, equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. He clings to the image of your smile. It is everything to him. A slow smile spreads across his face, eyes wild and glued to a single word on the page. “Passion.” It is almost fitting – actually, it is perfectly fitting.
The minutes tick by, stretching into an eternity as he sits there and sneaks glances when he thinks you won’t notice. He can’t stop – not even when each look feels like a delicious risk.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a darker thought begins to spread. This isn’t enough. Sitting here, watching you from afar. It is a poor substitute for what he truly wants. What he truly needs.
Edward swallows dryly, his hands gripping the book as his imagination runs wild. He pictures you looking at him the way you had in the dream – not with polite indifference. But with a look of intensity of someone who wanted him.
You’re touching yourself – or touching him, he can’t tell from the proximity – breathing heavily and looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Neither of you are wearing any clothes. He can feel your skin, but his mind refuses to conjure up what your body might look like even as he desperately tries to look down at you. You both moan, sweat covering both of your bodies in a sticky tangle of limbs. The fantasy spirals, painting an intense picture of you closing the distance between you. What he believes is your perfect, naked body on top of his – thighs caging his hips and grinding sensually as you throw your head back in pleasure. He's embarrassingly loud, sputtering and panting like a dog while you’re mewling softly and elegantly.
He grunts in frustration, trying to squint and make out your peaked nipples or how your heat rides his length in vain. His hands grab onto your hips to bring you impossibly closer to his stuttering hips – he was so close. You look down at him to smile sweetly. It softens into something fond as you lean down to whisper in his ear. He can almost feel your breath on him, hear the saccharine venom of your words—
“Stop it,” he says under his breath, shaking his head to dislodge the fantasy.
He needs to leave. He’s throbbing with a discomfort that borders on pain.
Edward stands, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushes it back. He grabs the book and returns it to the nearest shelf, his movements clumsy. As he makes his way to the door, he can’t resist stealing one last glance at you. You are busy again, helping yet another customer with the same warm grin that had shattered his composure moments before.
The bell chimes violently as he steps outside, the cold evening air hitting him like a splash of cold water. That’s what he needs – a cold shower. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his mind buzzing with visions of him and you. He was disgusting.
The water steams down Edward’s back in scalding rivulets, but it does little to wash away the lingering sensations of the day. His shower was supposed to be freezing – a penance to purge himself of the memory of your smile and the fantasy that followed. Yet, it hadn’t taken long for his resolve to crumble.
Edward had given in – his mind stuck on every detail of your fleeting glance at the bookstore, every imagined touch from the dream and fantasy. He’d cursed himself through gritted teeth even as his body betrayed him, chasing an unbearable high that left him slumped against the shower wall. He felt ashamed and hollow.
Steam fills the small bathroom, the heat now oppressive as his mind begins to clear. Edward slides down on the wet tiles, burying his face in his hands. The sound of water drowns out his sobs.
The words from his dream ricochet through him, cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. He winces, stomach feeling like it’s coiling at the memory – no longer making him feel aroused.
No, you’re wrong, he protests pathetically. I’m not disgusting. This isn’t disgusting.
He clings to the threadbare justification like a lifeline, dragging himself back to his feet as the water cools to a lukewarm drizzle. Edward shuts off the shower, the sudden silence amplifies the turmoil in his mind.
He dries himself and avoids his reflection in the mirror, unable to face the pale figure staring back at him. Instead, he focuses on his hands – hands that had sinned against you. The same hands that would someday cradle your face like you had done his. If only he could make you understand.
Back in his room, Edward plops down into the creaky chair at his desk. Like a robot, he searches for your computer. The webcam feed blinks at him, and there you are again. At the sight of you, he almost wants to cry once more. The smile from the bookstore lingers in his mind. His eyes drank in the soft curve of your lips, the way your hands moved as you organized something on your desk. The image of your hands from his fantasies resurfaces, making his heart ache.
“Thank you.” Edward wets his lips, his voice a dry whisper in the quiet room. “For bringing this angel into my life.”
He clasps his hands together, fingers interlocking tightly in prayer. He isn’t sure who he was thanking – a god he’d long since abandoned, fate, or perhaps the dream itself. All he knows is that he feels chosen, as though your existence is a message meant solely for him.
The fantasy builds again as he stares at you, unbidden and unstoppable. In his mind, he sees you smiling at him the way you had in the dream – soft and cruel all at once, yet impossibly kind.
Edward Nashton x Fem!Reader [1/2]
Word Count: 2,393
Summary: You bake the pies, serve patrons, and all the while, you feel the oppressive weight of eyes on you. Unaware of the terror you've attracted, you try your hardest to make the most of your thankless job in this hopeless city.
TWS//: Reader uses fem pronouns, Stalking, Voyeurism, Mentions of masturbation, Mentions of sex, and Mentions of nonconsensual sex, I have not yet read Year One, Takes place years before the events of The Batman (2022), Edward breaks into your apartment and watches you sleep.
AN: This is a rewrite of my first published fic; I've been thinking about it a lot and wanted to try and polish it off. This silly guy lives in my head rent-free. My inbox is open along with requests, xoxo.
It's a night no different from the one before; even in mid-September, the weather is oppressively cold and wet. A foggy haze overlooking the city. As the gutters flood with grime and filth from the streets. City-dwellers scurry around to evade the downpour. Rain like this usually only lasts until later in the morning. It's half-past eleven, and it isn't necessary to check any clocks; your body language makes it so painfully obvious what time it is. It's a Friday, meaning your shift ends at twelve. By the end of your shift, your homely and congenial disposition declines. The differences are subtle; your shoulders hunch slightly, and you walk much faster, no doubt in an attempt to get things done more time efficiently. You just want to go home, he's sure; it's evident in the way your typically nervous laugh seems much less polite and much more exasperated, teetering on dismissive when some of the older men try to start up small talk as you top off their coffee. The changes are slight, but Edward has an eye for them. Every small and insignificant thing you do can be viewed and analyzed to his liking.
Edward always had a habit of staring at people, though he isn't shameless about it. While he might tend to gawk, it's habitually only once they've turned away from him. To look directly at someone for too long makes him feel uneasy. Most people don't take notice of him anyhow; living in a city, one learns to brush past the watching eyes of strangers; he assumes you didn't grow up in a city, not such as Gotham, anyway, because you seem to take notice of it all. There have been many different instances of you taking a look back at him, often not directly, but regardless, he's sure you can feel his eyes boring into you. You have this peculiar habit of looking yourself over after you've given a table their order or anything at all. You peer down nervously at your hands or check that your uniform is not wrinkled or pulled down in unsavory places. It's almost obsessive, and he can't tell if you're just that self-conscious or that self-centered. It's likely just some nervous tick you have, but even as Edward might know and understand that notion, you do it even in the comfort of your apartment. It planted this terrible belief in his mind that you know he's there, watching you.
You have yet to interact beyond taking his order and politely casual remarks. Despite his delusional and selfishly idealistic mindset, he isn't stupid. Edward is well aware that his social ineptitude is crippling his perception and understanding of you as a person. He can watch you and know your routine, mannerisms, and what you love or hate, but there's a difference between knowing something about someone and understanding them. Edward desperately wants to crawl into the cavity of your mind and settle himself inside. So much so it hurts; however, whenever the chance comes about, he can't even bear to look at you, much less speak to you casually. A sickly feeling fills the pit of his stomach, and all he can do is quickly state what he wants, which is typically just 'the usual.'
From across the diner, he watches with wide eyes. It's like an alarm goes off in your head, eyes watching with intent you can't place. You turn your head, and his eyes quickly dart up to the TV above in the corner of the bar counter; his chest tightens with overwhelming pressure. It's a thrill, the thrill one experiences after they've been caught in the act of something presumably wrong. You don't look at him directly; your eyes passively run over the remaining customers or lack thereof. It's a quarter to twelve, and the uneasy feeling you have won't let up. It never does; it used to be this idea in your mind. Ever since you were a child, you've always been horrifically paranoid of someone watching you. Even living in a small town, you'd always felt faceless eyes on you, whether alone or in a crowd, glued to you, judging every move you might make before you even made it. Though now, as you've gotten older, that once dominating feeling has been watered down. This is different, you think, unlike what you've felt before.
You don't quite know his name, but you see him everywhere. You've tried telling yourself he looks that typical, that you see him in so many different places because his haircut is popular and clear-rimmed glasses are in fashion right now. For almost a year, you've seen him here at work, on the train home, in the lobby of your apartment, in the bookstore you frequent, and sometimes you see those big green eyes in your dreams. Faceless, never speaking, never taking action, but always watching. Sometimes, you feel he looks exceptionally ordinary and commonplace because it's an easy disguise. When you first saw him, you must admit that he seemed sweet with his boyishly round face and dorky veneer, perhaps even cute, but that glint in his eyes—the eyes you rarely ever found peering back into your own, made you feel uneasy. Despite your intuition, you shove the thought from your mind, throwing the last cotton-wrapped silverware set into the big green-grey plastic bin. The only people left were you, the head chef, and that man at the end of the bar counter. Turning your head again, you appeared from the little hallway between the kitchen and the main diner. That man is gone. His coffee cup is empty, the plate is nearly clean, and three five-dollar bills are left behind. Sighing, you clean up what's left and collect your tip.
Everything else was done and taken care of. The head chef, Mickey, had already wrapped up the remnants of that evening's pie. You caught him practically stuffing it into his 'man-bag,' as he insisted on calling it. Going on and on about how good it was, so naturally, his kids would want some, and his wife might like a slice tomorrow with her coffee.
"Y'know, I don't get why they got you makin' 'em but not plannin' 'em? I mean, it's almost October, and cranberry apple seems… more…a Christmas typa pie, right?" He asked, his voice heavy with an accent you couldn't place. You just knew some people around here had it, and some didn't. Slinging his 'man-bag' over his shoulder, waiting for you to be ready. All you would do is shrug in response.
"Well, Joel bought a fuck-ton of those apples, Mickey, and I know damn well he's trying to get his money's worth by getting rid of them. Besides, pie is pie; nobody cares much about how seasonal it is. As long as it's pumpkin in October and pecan in December, nobody complains about the 'typa pie'... except you," You put your coat on; a little smile spread across your lips as you grabbed your purse. Mickey put on a comically hurt expression, his wrinkled and liver-spotted face putting on a pout. "Well, keep talkin' like 'at an' maybe you won't have an escort to the train station." You'd only roll your eyes. Mickey always walked with you; being one of three servers with no kids, you were typically the one left to close, and Mickey usually stayed behind for the extra fifty dollars it added to his paycheck.
"Yeah, sure," You'd mumble. You both took the train with different routes, and Mickey, being the old man he is, hated the idea of a 'pretty young thing like you walkin' 'round at night in this part of the city.'
– ——<-?->—— – = – ——<-?->—— – = – ——<-?->—— –
The train ride and walk home are vague in your mind, a flash of pointless happenings you don't bother mulling over. The eyes never leave, nor do you expect them to, within the company of others. In recent years, the subconscious worry of prying eyes has seemed to dull down. Things felt fine on the way into the station; idle talk with Mickey and his almost annoying insistence on eye contact didn't bother you anymore or less than ever before. You felt exposed when he left, even more so once you crossed the threshold into this big tin box—not taking immediate note of the oddly familiar indigo coat and well-maintained sandy brown hair. You kept your eyes glued to your shoes, just as always.
It can never just rain in Gotham; no, it pours. The rain is violent and greedy as it floods, covers, and consumes everything it can—even your little apartment. You push open the shabby door to your studio apartment, glancing at the microwave hovering over the stove and reading the time; it's midnight. Your eyes mull over the rest of your small yet cozy living space until they focus on the water puddled under the window closest to your bed.
"What the fuck," you quietly huff, looking up at your water-damaged popcorn ceiling, making sure it isn't leaking anywhere. After the inspection, you walk closer, eyeing the slick hardwood floor and those cheap green satin curtains you bought when you first moved in; why weren't they wet? Only the very bottom of the set touched the water. There was no draft blowing the curtains away; they covered the window. Could you even remember to close them? Pulling away the dry, cheap satin, the window is closed and locked. Just as you assumed you'd left it. Peering out into the wet street, pitch black save for a singular yellow streetlight, you can't shake the terrible feeling you have. The anxiety that throbs within the pit of your stomach. Worst case scenario plaguing your mind before you try to push it all away. "I'm just freaking myself out over nothing…This.." You habitually spoke aloud, even privately; Edward found that almost cute. He could hear your trembling voice even in his little spot, which he always nestled himself into during these nights.
On nights like these, he decided he wanted to spend more time than he ought to, drinking up your routine. He hadn't meant to leave such a mess; he almost cleaned it up before realizing it might be better to leave it than leave evidence a mess was cleaned in the first place. With wide, vigilant eyes, he watched you walk away from the window and into the bathroom. The audible click of the switch and yellow light pouring in, even from under your bed. A little split at the right corner edge of your bed skirt, giving him an almost clear view of you as you cleaned up the cold, wet mess. Perhaps you assumed your window leaked, the wind coming in so treacherously and violently it managed to get past the cheap oak.
Something feels off; he notes how you sit and stare momentarily. You couldn't know he was here, and if you'd taken a little longer on your route home like you usually do, he wouldn't have been so messy and quick about finding his way in. Usually, he just used his key, which he had stolen a while back. You'd already paid for a replica to be made, something he felt terrible about, but it couldn't be helped. He just tipped you a fifty the next day, anyway. Today, while still in his pocket, he couldn't help but feel intimidated by the flood of people in the lobby of your apartment building—too many people to possibly remember his face if the questioning was necessary. Not that he would ever hurt you, but the future is unpredictable, and Edward can't afford any genuine risk concerning his little hobby. He can't see your face, but he can tell; the way you stand up and keep your head tilted downwards to the still slick wood, you're lost in thought.
You feel so numb, unsure of yourself, and you try to justify how on earth the water could have gotten in. No matter how you try to rationalize, that dangerous feeling returns. You're being watched, aren't you? Did someone break in, or is the window broken in some area you can't see? This heavy part of you wants to check, to search around and hope you're crazy, but another knows you aren't. If you look, you'll find those eyes. This isn't the first time you've felt this; it feels like you have proof of something, but every time you see it, you try to ignore it. Try to cast it away and not worry because if it is true, if there is a man or woman in your apartment, wouldn't they have hurt you by now? If you find them, they may as well kill you unless they're waiting for you to fall asleep. See, how stupid does that sound? Why on earth would someone break into your apartment just to watch you? No, this is all silly. You feel those eyes, intense and imposing, but you walk away to the bathroom anyway. You have a routine to keep up, of course.
– ——<-?->—— – = – ——<-?->—— – = – ——<-?->—— –
The alarm clock on your bedside table reads precisely 2:30 A.m., and you've managed to fall asleep. Your breathing becomes heavy, and occasionally, you snore or hum something incoherent as you shift onto your other side. Edward always loves to take mental notes of what you do; he isn't sure why, but the details are his favorite part. The little things, the signs and signals he feels, make his job regarding you easier. Even now, standing over you, hidden in the shadows of your room, given your placement in the city, it was a wonder how you managed to keep it so dark, No yellowed light peering in from the cracks in your curtains and even the neon green of your alarm is dull and soft. You can't sleep with any light or noise; you're an exceptionally light sleeper, much like him. The white noise in your room is from the heater and fan, and there are no cars or screaming. Stark silence aside from your and his own breathing.
The scene would be almost peaceful if it weren't for his hefty and ragged breathing, for the disgustingly vile reality that Edward could not admit even to himself. The reality of what he was about to do.
summary: Edward guards what's his when he finds someone else watching you.
contains: reader works at bookstore, obsessed edward, religious imagery
warnings: dub-con, stalking
word count: 2.2k
masterlist
Just as if Edward had never stopped, watching you once again became part of his evening ritual– his unspoken liturgy. And after a few nights, he thought it had been foolish to have stopped in the first place. With a near-religious fervor, he paid devout attention to your movements and the tasks he’d found you doing again. His cheeks would feel sore by the end of your “sessions” from all the smiles that lit up his face. He was entranced by all of it. The way your hands moved as you tidied up your desk, the soft concentration etched into your brow as you stared at your laptop screen – he absorbed it all like a sponge. He would absentmindedly circle one of the keys on his keyboard—not typing, not working—simply resting as he watched you.
Everything was perfect. Your unawareness made the connection so pure. If you knew, it would ruin everything – turn his devotion into something you might reject.
But tonight, the feed flickered.
It was a subtle thing at first, the kind of anomaly that Edward might have brushed off on another night. A momentary glitch, a lag in the stream – that was normal. But when it dared to happen again – this time accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible pop-op in the corner of the screen – his focused sharpened. And so did rage. The muscles in his jaw tighten as a cold prickle of unease crawls up his spine.
“What the hell…” he murmurs, leaning closer to the screen. His fingers dance across the keyboard precision born of obsession. He pulls up the backend of the hacked website, bypassing its layers with a practiced ease. The usual thrill of discovery that accompanies his hacking was absent, now replaced by a gnawing anxiety.
The truth hits him like a physical blow. Someone else was accessing the feed.
Edward freezes, his breath suddenly catching in his throat and refusing to return to normal. The very idea was an affront, a desecration of something sacred. Who would dare? Who would dare intrude on you – and him – like this?
His mind races, paranoia sharpening into anger. His hands tremble as he navigates through the data logs, tracing the IP addresses of recent visitors. There were multiple intrusions, but one stood out. Most of the other ones have only been there for a minute or two – seemingly getting bored and moving onto the next webcam. But a single, persistent user has been accessing your webcam feed almost as consistently as Edward has. The thought of it made Edward’s stomach churn. Someone else was watching you, seeing what he saw. The idea was unbearable – sickening. They wouldn’t respect you like he would, they were monsters. It was as though someone had entered a confessional and stolen his absolution, twisting his holy act of devotion into something profane.
They don’t deserve you.
His vision blurs as a flood of possessiveness surges through him, dark and unrelenting. The sacred connection he has cultivated, the bond he believes fate has bestowed upon him, was being violated. This is wrong. This isn’t fair.
But then, a darker thought starts to take root. What if they hurt you?
His pulse quickens. Of course, that had to be it. He wasn’t the only one capable of hacking into a camera, but most people don’t do it for the same reasons he does. He wasn’t like them. He wasn’t some predator – he was different. He is different. He was meant to protect you, and he has finally been given his chance to.
“Yes.” His hands tighten into fists. “I’m protecting you. I’m going to.”
He repeats the words like a mantra, each syllable solidifying his resolve. This isn’t about jealousy – not entirely. It’s about your safety. If someone else was watching you, it is his duty to stop them. They don’t see you the way he does – they don’t understand how special you are. They won’t respect you, or your privacy. They won’t, they won’t, they won’t. Not like he did.
Edward’s anger crystallizes into a cold, calculating determination. He is going to find this intruder, and he will eliminate the threat.
Leaning back in his chair, he adjusts his glasses and stretches his neck. His fingers move with mechanical precision as he begins the hunt. IP logs, data packets, shared streams – Edward dissects them all, his mind working faster than it ever has before. Each clue brings him closer and closer to his target. The rage simmering beneath his skin makes it harder to think clearly. He pauses for a moment, running a hand through his hair. He huffs, hoping that he would release some of the steam. He needs to focus. This isn’t about rage; it was about justice. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, imagining your face as he had seen it earlier this evening. The calm the image brought him was fleeting, but it was enough.
Edward’s hands resume their work, the faint clicks of the keyboard punctuating the silence. Time is of the essence.
And Edward knows one thing with absolute certainty: by the end of the night, you would be his to guard – completely.
He knew he shouldn’t, but Edward was starting to look at this like a game. A game where he could prove to himself how devoted he was to you. A part of him felt the thrill of a challenge, the rush of problem-solving. But it was all muted beneath the weight of his purpose.
He wasn’t breaking into your computer for fun. This isn’t just another project – another puzzle to solve. It was for you.
“Almost there,” he mutters under his breath. He had spent hours piecing together fragments of your life in his journal, studying the details you had unknowingly offered him: the name of your childhood pet (gleamed from an old blog post), your favorite numbers (a recurring theme on your profiles), and the song lists you’d referenced in passing on your social media. Each clue led him closer, narrowing down the possibilities until he eventually found the key.
Edward is all smiles when he finally gains access. With a triumphant click, your computer’s desktop blinks into view on his screen. The modest, organized space is filled with folders and icons that felt distinctly, intimately you. His heart races as he leans closer, his glasses catching the light. He begins to hesitate. This was a threshold, a boundary he hasn’t yet crossed – though he’s gotten close before. But something always held him back, something he was feeling now. He told himself that this was for your own good, but deep down, he knew this was about making you his.
I’m not like them, he assures you in his head.
His fortitude hardens as he navigates through your system. It didn’t take him too long to find the exploit – a vulnerability that had allowed someone else to access your webcam feed. Edward’s lips press into a thin line as he disables it, erasing the traces of intrusion with ruthless efficiency.
There. No one else will see you now. Only me.
But… this isn’t enough. Edward needs more than just the satisfaction of locking others out. He needs to make sure he can always watch over you somehow. His fingers move swiftly as he sets up a secure backdoor, embedding himself into the heart of your system. The code he is writing is elegant, seamless—a private key that only he can use.
He pauses to stare at the lines of code on his screen. This was his signature, his mark upon your world. It was as if he was carving his name into the edges of your existence – claiming a piece of you for himself. And you would be protected because of it. The tension in his shoulders eases as a wave of pride washes over him. He did it – he protected you, just as he vowed to do.
Still, Edward wasn’t finished. His fingers start to move again, installing anti-malware software onto your system and setting up subtle security measures to keep your webcam undetected for good. He adjusts your settings so that no one—not even you—would notice anything out of the ordinary. When he’s done, Edward sits back to stare at the screen. The webcam feed is still there – still live – but now it feels different. It is not just a window into your life anymore; it is a fortress, a sanctuary that only he can enter.
You’re safe now.
There was something deific about you in this unguarded state. The flicker of your laptop screen against your skin, the way you rub your neck absentmindedly as you work – it all struck him with the force of revelation. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way – it wasn’t right to claim you, not like this. But wasn’t it inevitable? Wasn’t it fate that had drawn him to you? He had been chosen – guided by something greater than himself – to find you and watch over you. This world was undeserving of you, and he would make sure you knew your importance as much as he could. Even if you weren’t aware of his efforts.
Edward’s gaze lingers on the feed as he watches you type on your laptop, blissfully unaware of the lengths he has gone for you. And he knows in his heart, you would be proud of him if you knew. You’d thank him – maybe even kiss him. The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
He stayed there – watching you – for hours, eyes never leaving the screen. He barely moved; his breath shallow as he watched you go through your nightly schedule. The intensity of his focus was almost meditative, a sacred act that left no room for distraction. By the time you had turned off your laptop and left the room, Edward felt the strangest mixture of satisfaction and longing. The feed was dark now, but that didn’t matter much. He could still see you – still feel you in his mind’s eye.
Edward’s heart is still buzzing with the afterglow of victory – but now he couldn’t sleep. You had long since gone to bed, and nothing but darkness appears from your webcam feed. His glasses sit crooked on his face, pushed askew during the hours of relentless focus. He didn’t fix them like he usually would. Instead, his mind wanders, unraveling a thousand threads of thought that all began and ended with you. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how natural this all felt. Protecting you wasn’t just an impulse; it was his duty, his purpose.
His fingers drum lightly on the desk as ideas begin to take shape in his mind – the online world isn’t enough anymore. He had secured your digital existence, locked down your safety where others couldn’t reach, but what about the rest of your life? What about the people you interacted with every day, the places you went, the dangers you didn’t even see while walking through Gotham?
Edward sits up straighter in his chair, his gaze sharpening. He could just imagine how many people had lingered for too long at your counter. How their eyes looked over you as though they had the right to admire you. Maybe a coworker of yours would laugh a little too hard at your jokes, as though he could ever understand the complexity of your mind the way Edward did. It appalls him.
They don’t deserve to be near you.
It wasn’t just unbridled possessiveness, it was love – pure, selfless love. He is the only one who truly understands you, and he would go mad for you if he had to.
His imagination wanders further, unfurling visions of the ways he can guard you more closely. He pictures himself trailing behind you on your walk home, staying far enough away that you wouldn’t notice but close enough to intervene if some animal approached. He imagines slipping into the bookstore unnoticed, keeping an eye out if your coworker or a customer smiled at you, ready to step in if it ever went too far.
Edward’s breath quickens as the fantasies grow darker, more vivid. He imagines greedy hands snatching you into the shadows of grimy alleys, someone sneaking into your home. The thought has him clenching his teeth. But the anger melts into something softer and sweeter: the vision of him stepping in to save you. You’d look up at him with gratitude, maybe even love.
The rational part of his mind—the part that had once questioned the morality of his actions—was now silent. It was drowned out by the growing tide of his obsession. This wasn’t about morality anymore – it was about what was right. And what was right was ensuring was your safety. He could almost feel your presence as he closes his eyes, letting a shiver run through him. He can hear your sweet voice in the back of his mind. If protecting you meant crossing more lines, pushing further into the shadows, then so be it. He was going to do whatever it took.
Edward opens his eyes, his gaze fixed on the dark screen in front of him. His reflection stared back—calm, composed, and unwavering. He feels no doubt, no hesitation. The boundaries he once tiptoed around now vanished almost entirely.
since you suggested the Eddies - 🙈 for Eddie Nashton? i know its either gonna be completely wholesome or completely unhinged XD
thx
Thanks for the suggestion, my love!!
🙈 something they’re shy about asking for
Eddie would definitely chicken out before creeping on you in public, but that doesn’t mean the idea doesn’t get him off. His near-constant masturbation fantasies have given him a Pavlovian hard-on any time you wear a skirt in public, thinking about slipping his hands up your thighs when no one would notice. He starts praying the train cars will be full while you wait together at the station, hoping you’ll be forced to stand right up against him, your ass soft and warm against his dick, even through the layers. Thinking about how he’d wrap an arm around your waist like he’s trying to keep you from falling, hope the jostle of the train and other bodies would mask the way he juts his hips against yours, grunts feathering softly through your hair. He’d like it if your ignored him, if you pretended you didn’t notice, didn’t care that he was humping you like a stray dog where anyone could see.
And maybe a seat would open up, there in the corner. Would you want to . . . sit on his lap?
Eddie never gets farther than that. The daydream ends with him dribbling cum into his palm.
Yeah so I know that almost no one sees what I post But I just wanted to show off the drawings that my friend makes of the two of us, I love her style and I am extremely happy with each drawing, look at them, they are really pretty, the second one is me and her as Riddler and Sofia
summary: Edward finally gets the courage to return the books he doesn’t need. Or maybe he just finally gets the courage to see you again.
contains: reader works at a bookstore, obsessed edward
warnings: dub-con, stalking
word count: 3.5k
masterlist
a.n: i uploaded this first on ao3 under the name "cam" - deerrat
Edward had forced himself to stop watching you every night, and it was agony.
He sits hunched over his cluttered desk, pushing aside the left-over container of takeout from last night. Or is it from the day before then? He can’t remember. His brain felt more jumbled than usual, much like his apartment. Papers were strewn in an organized chaos, books he had bought stacked in front of him, and a desk lamp casting a pale halo over the whole mess. He stares at the black void of his monitor, fingers steepled under his chin as though in prayer. But the object of is devotion wasn’t something traditionally divine. It was you.
He closes his eyes, letting the memory wash over him, just as it had for days now. It still haunted him, wracking him with humiliation – how he hadn’t reacted more to your joke. He had been too worried about his financial situation to notice the way your voice had risen in soft amusement as you made that small joke – ”You sure this is all?” You weren’t making fun of him. You were too kind to do that. You wanted to engage in a lighthearted exchange. At least he hoped this was the case. He should’ve said something clever – wittier. Banter – that’s what people liked, right? Instead, he giggled pathetically, like a nervous schoolgirl. How mortifying.
How did I not find out that you worked there? he thinks. It wasn’t a coincidence, no. Coincidence was too random, too cold for something as perfect as this. This was fate. It was a deliberate act of providence pulling him into your orbit. How could he have been so blind? All these weeks of watching, observing, and protecting you, but he never thought fate would intervene so directly. You, his angel, his penance and salvation, worked in the very bookstore he had visited for his plans without any prior knowledge of this.
Edward shifts in his chair, picking up one of the books from the pile on his desk. He thumbs through its pages, inhaling deeply to pick up any remnant of the bookstore. The words swam meaninglessly in his head – he wasn’t even sure he needed this book for his research. Only a few that he bought were helpful, the rest…had been props that gave him more time with you and not between monitors. The guilt began to claw at him, then, sharper than it had been in days.
That thought burned in him, a smoldering ember of shame. He wasn’t supposed to be monitoring you. He wasn’t supposed to follow your life like this. It was wrong for him to do this – he knew that. Edward swallowed hard and lowered his head. I am more than unworthy. He watched you in secret, through the forbidden lens of your webcam. He worshipped you like a sinner who itched to dare touch the divine. It was maddening torture. He was holding back as much as he could.
He glances at your crumpled photograph on his desk, a grainy printout he’d taken from a frozen frame of the feed. Your eyes were wide – unaware – staring back at him. And, for a moment, he hated himself. He hates how much he grew to need you, how much he craves the heat of your gaze to leave scorch marks all over his body. He wanted you to see him – to see him for who he truly was. He knew you could since you had such a kind soul. Edward presses his palms against his eyes, the edges of his vision turning red.
“Forgive me,” he whispers. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to you, to God, or to the hollow space inside himself.
But Edward had always struggled with the line between right and wrong, hadn’t he? Especially when it was down to something as overwhelming and consuming as you. He clenches his fists, shaking his head violently as if it would get rid of the thought.
But, as he often does, he found a way to justify it. You had come into his life for a reason. He didn’t seek out your hacked webcam – it just happened to be there. He didn’t seek out where you worked – he was only there for his research. He stumbled into the store, nothing more than another nameless customer to you. But he knew there was something more. Surely, there was a purpose behind this. His breath hitches as he remembers your face, the way the overhead lights and fell across your features. Divine. Just… divine. He was, honest to God, grateful that he had bought so many books; his plan for just a few seconds more with you worked somewhat. He only wishes he paid more attention to what he picked up. Some of these were of no use to him whatsoever.
The receipt.
Edward, suddenly frantic, begins digging through the piles of trash on his desk. The thin slip of paper was slightly crumpled, the ink faintly legible. He smooths it carefully over a clean spot on his desk.
He couldn’t go back to that bookstore, right? Could he? What if you realized what he was this time. What if you looked right through him and witnessed the depravity in the recesses of his mind? But what if he couldn’t bring himself to ever go back? The that of letting this chance – this miracle - slip away made his chest tighten almost painfully.
His thin lips twist into a nervous, trembling smile. The books he didn’t need anymore – they were his excuse. The reason he gave himself to go back. How had he forgotten? But it wasn’t just an excuse – it was an offering. He would place himself before you again, risking rejection, risking everything, because that is what you deserved.
With unsteady hands, Edward begins to sort through the books on his desk. He would stand before you, hoping you would see him as him. Not as a stranger, but as someone meant to be there.
Because he was meant to be there.
Fate had made that so.
The soft humming coming from the computer was the only sound in the room, steady and swallowing the silence. Edward sits before the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard in hesitancy. He doesn’t know if he should proceed. He swore to himself – swore – that he wouldn’t do this anymore. No, not after seeing you. Not after speaking to you. That encounter should have been enough to quench any thirst of watching you without your knowledge. It should have been sacred.
But he was weak. Weak and pathetic.
“It’s not wrong,” he murmurs, his voice cracking under the weight of his lie. “It’s not… I’m just making sure you’re okay.”
The mouse moves under his trembling hand, navigating through various folders and encrypted paths until a hacked feed blinks to life. It flickers for a moment before stabilizing, revealing the small, intimate view of your world. The camera is angled to show just enough of this corner of your apartment – your couch, a bookshelf, and part of your kitchen.
God, there you were.
Edward’s breath catches in his throat as he leans closer to the screen, glasses slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose. You are in the kitchen, back turned to the camera as you reach for something in a cupboard. The nature of the mundane scene was supposed to have reassured him. It should have been proof that you are safe, and that you didn’t need him hovering over you like this. But he can’t look away.
You move with an unconscious grace that he finds absolutely mesmerizing. Every gesture of yours was imbued with meaning. The way you tilt your head as you pour water into a mug, the soft sigh that escapes your lips are you settle on the couch with your tea. You look so cozy; he almost wants to get up and make himself a cup of tea.
“I’m not doing anything bad. This isn’t wrong,” he whispers, brows pinching together. He presses a hand to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater to quiet the rapid pounding of his heart. “It’s not. I missed you. I just wanted to see you.”
The guilt was there, he could feel it, but he pushes it aside. He can’t stop now. You were just too precious, sitting there in the comfort of your apartment. The world was filled with many dangers you couldn’t possibly anticipate. Edward wanted to shield you from them.
His chair creaks as he leans back, tearing his gaze from the screen for only a moment. He taps his fingers on the desk with a relentless rhythm. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. He’s not strong enough to let you go – not yet. A soft sound from the feed draws his attention back to the screen. You had pulled out a book and were now reading, tucking your legs under you. His mouth went dry. This was almost too much for him. His lips part in a quiet gasp as he tries to keep himself from letting his eyes stare greedily at your bare legs.
In a sort of distraction, Edward reaches for the black notebook on his desk. He flips to the page where he had written your name. He adds another line beneath the things he already scrawled:
Reads in the evening. Looks peaceful. Like a saint in quiet contemplation.
The words blur as his eyes fill with unshed tears. He quickly closes the notebook with shaking hands. He didn’t dare look back at the screen.
“Enough,” he mutters pathetically. “That’s enough.”
He minimizes the feed but doesn’t close it, the tiny icon blinks at the bottom of the screen like a beacon. His resolve wavers for only a brief moment before he turns his attention to another task. Pulling up the bookstore’s system, he had found this to be quite easy. He hacked the website shortly after learning you worked there. He navigates through the interface with a practiced ease, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he looks for a schedule. When he sees your name appear, his heart skips a beat.
“Tomorrow?” he whispers, lips curling into a smile. “You’ll be there tomorrow.”
He sits back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing. What he was doing wasn’t wrong. He was just preparing – it was part of his mission. He had to know and make sure that you would be there when he returned the books. Edward glances at the icon where your feed was, hand over the mouse. Just one more look - just to make sure you were still safe.
Instead, and with all the strength he could muster, he closes it and stands up, the wheels of his chair scraping against the floor. He turns away from the computer, closing his eyes and clenching his fists at his sides.
“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “Forgive me for what I am.”
The words hang heavy and low in the air as he moves to his bed. The screen behind him glows on, casting long shadows across the room.
Tomorrow. He just had to wait for tomorrow, and then he would see you again. Patience was a virtue.
Edward stands in front of the glass door of the bookstore, the strap of his canvas bag digging into his shoulder as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His pulse is erratic, the beats thundering in his ears like a drum signaling an impending reckoning. Edward had timed his arrival perfectly. He couldn’t be too early because returning books wouldn’t take too long, and he wanted to see you. He couldn’t arrive the second you got there because you wouldn’t have settled in immediately. He came just in time, assuming you’d be behind the counter or doing some other tasks around the store.
He adjusts his glasses with shaky hands and pauses momentarily to mumble a small prayer. He lets his arm fall back to his side and grips the door handle. Stepping inside, the small bell above the entrance chimes. The sound reverberates through him like a church bell, calling the faithful to worship. The bookstore was warm and inviting, the scent of paper and wood polish attacking his senses. He stores every detail – the layout of the shelves, awkwardly placed stacks of books, the other customers browsing the aisles, and the distant singing of a playlist drifting through the air.
You are crouched near one of the lower shelves next to the counter, sliding a book into place with careful precision. Edward’s breath falters, body tensing as though struck by a divine force. You’re entirely unaware of him as you focus on your task. But, to Edward, you are the center of the universe and the axis upon which everything turns. He clutches the strap of the bag tighter, knuckles whitening as a thousand thoughts race through his mind. Should I approach you now? Would that seem strange? What if he says something wrong, something that shatters the fragile connection he believes you share?
For a moment, he considers turning around and leaving – never to return. But the thought of wasting this chance – this gift – was unbearable. He forces his legs to move before the instinct to run away fully takes over. The sounds of his shoes against the wooden floor must have caught your attention because you stand and turn toward him. When your eyes meet his, Edward’s stomach twists violently, a heady mix of elation and terror floods his senses.
“Hi there,” you say sweetly and softly. Recognition lights up your expression, and you offer him a small smile. “Back so soon?”
Edward freezes, his tongue suddenly feeling too large for his mouth. The logical part of his mind screams at him to say something - anything – but the words are tangled in his throat.
“I… uh…” He shifts the bag on his shoulder and awkwardly fumbles with the strap. “I… bought too many. I mean-I don’t need all of them. I thought, thought I did, but…”
His voice trails off and he averts his gaze, rounded cheeks flushing a deep red. You tilt your head slightly, your smile growing a fraction wider. Edward swears he could see some type of glow in your eyes – like a little switch went off. Was it kindness? Patience?
“Hey, it happens,” you shrug and gesture toward the counter. “Go ahead and set them down. I can take care of the return for you.”
Edward moves closer to the counter; his movements were stiff and mechanical as though he were a puppet on strings. He pulls the books from his bag and stacks them as neatly as he can, careful not to let them tumble. You glance at the titles as you begin processing the return, fingers moving deftly over the register.
“Guess you had an ambitious reading list, huh?” Your eyes flick up to his, a playful smile on your lips.
Edward blinks, stunned by the sound of your voice addressing him directly. He nods – too quickly – and clutches the edge of the counter to ground himself.
“Yeah,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whistle.
You chuckle softly, the sound light and airy and perfect. Edward’s chest tightens. That noise had just carved itself into his memory. He watches as you start the return process, using the receipt and credit card he fumbled to place on the counter.
“Well,” you say, sliding the receipt closer to him. “If you decide you need them after all, you know where to find us.”
Edward stares at the receipt for a moment, willing himself to respond, to say something witty or memorable. Instead, all he manages is a mumbled “Thank you.”
As he tucks the receipt into his bag, you give him one last smile. A simple, fleeting thing that leaves him both ecstatic and hollow.
“Have a great day.” You give a small wave before turning your attention back to the register.
Edward lingers for a moment longer, feet rooted to the spot. He wants to say more and extend the moment, but the heavy weight of his nerves presses him back. He turns and walks to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last.
After stepping outside, the cold hair hits him like a slap, shocking him out of his haze. He seizes the strap of his bag tightly, heart still pounding. You spoke to him more than he thought you would. You even smiled at him. And though the interaction was short-lived, it felt monumental.
This wasn’t the end, he tells himself. It can’t be. This was only the beginning.
The walk home was a blur for Edward. The world had reduced itself to muted colors and distant sounds as his mind churns in relentless turmoil. His hand clutches the receipt in his pocket, the thin paper crumpling from the force of his grip. He replays the encounter over in his mind, each iteration punctured by a fresh wave of self-recrimination.
“Idiot,” he mutters under his breath as he climbs the stairs to his apartment. “Why didn’t I say something normal? Anything?”
He fumbles with his keys, the jangling sound sharp against the oppressive silence of the hallway. He finally manages to shove the door open, and slam it shut behind him. He turns around and leans against it, chest heaving as though he ran a marathon. His eyes flutter closed and he presses his forehead against the cool wood. Your face lingers in his mind like an afterimage burning into his vision.
Edward’s heart clenches painfully, the memory of it both calming and tormenting. You smiled at him—four times. Not only out of obligation or politeness, but with a genuine warmth. The kind of warmth that someone like him doesn’t deserve. He pulls the receipt from his pocket, uncrumpling it. This – it wasn’t just a piece of paper anymore; it was proof. Proof that you saw him, spoke to him, shared the smallest moment with him. This was sacred, a tangible fragment of your interaction. He crosses the room with hurried movements. He pulls open a drawer, retrieving a small, unassuming box. He stares at the pictures he has of you in there before gingerly and reverently placing the receipt inside. He stares at everything in the box again, his breathing shallow. It was all wrong, all of it. And, he knew that. But even as shame courses through him, so does something else. Something that’s deeper, darker, and more powerful.
“I can’t help it,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “You’re… you’re my everything.”
He shuts the box quickly and pushes it aside, making his way to his desk. The computer was waiting for him – as if expecting what he was going to do. He hesitates even letting his hands go near the keyboard.
“I just want to make sure you got home safe,” he murmurs as he searches for your webcam.
The soft flow of a nearby lamp shines a light on your figure. You are seated at a table, a pen in hand, scribbling something in a notebook. You bite your bottom lip in concentration, briefly glancing up at your laptop to see whatever you were writing notes for. Edward pretends that he’s sitting across from you – admiring you. He rests his chin on his hands, eyes fixing on you.
But beneath all that adoration, a storm rages. His thoughts spiral into darker places, every moment of calm shattering by the fresh surge of self-loathing. What was he doing? Watching you like this – hoarding every moment like you were lovers. Pretending to be in the same room as you. How could he claim to care for you when his actions were so disgustingly invasive, so wrong?
“I’m protecting you. I’m doing this for you.” But the words sound hollow in his own ears.
The lie is becoming harder to sustain. He knows that. He can feel it in the way his chest aches. His fingers itch to reach out through the screen and finally bridge the impossible distance between you.
Edward pushes back from the desk and stands abruptly. He begins to pace in the claustrophobic confines of his apartment, his hands gripping his hair as he struggles to contain the chaos within him. And yet, he knows he can’t stop.
He can’t walk away. He can’t let you go. The though to removing himself from your life – even in this unseen way – was too painful. You were a light in his darkness and the only thing that made the endless nights worth enduring. He sinks to his knees, hands clasped together, pressing his chest against his thighs as though in full supplication.
“I swear,” he whispers, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I swear I’ll protect you. From everything. Frome everyone.”
He whines as the final vow slips from his lips:
“Even from myself.”
But, deep down, Edward knows that it was a promise he was too weak to keep.
Plssss I need new updates on the #Edward Nashton x reader.. I'm going crazy.... Please send help... I need new fanfics I need to read something about that fat and mentally unstable old man
i really have this. thing. with casual physical contact. i'm just watching this movie, and i guess it has me. thinking, and contemplating and. Edward. with a clear disclaimer, i don't believe that Edward is comfortable whatsoever with physical contact when it comes to people. as a whole. strangers. ex: Zach touching his shoulder. the initial reaction. because well, the act was paired with condescension. i believe that Edward would view anyone's act of wanting physical contact with him, in the beginning, as an act of pity and condescension. infantilization, even. though i feel like it'd be an incredibly layered thing for him. this contradiction, this.. intense swirl of frustration, vexation, annoyance, fear, so so much anger, but want, too. i think Edward is an inherently wanting creature. yearns. for so much. all of the time. reprieve. understanding. fragile and horrifically human, until he.. isn't. and is. all in one. (this doesn't make sense blair. whatever.)
okay i'm - getting off track here.
my point being, in regards to Edward's defenses crumbling. a trial within itself, a herculean feat, but gods, you've done it. this casualness would seep its roots deep into his daily life with a, he realizes with a sort of terrified realization, ease. picks up on it one random evening when he comes home and you approach him at the door, that sunset smile on your lips and such a heavy weight of love in your eyes as you stare up at him. the way your fingers reach, and he doesn't flinch, doesn't immediately shrink back - and they meet the collar of his shirt. straighten out the fabric, and he can feel the warmth of your hand radiating against the exposed skin of his neck. it doesn't petrify him. this closeness. no rush of disgust boils in his belly.
instead, Edward finds himself reveling in it. when had this shift occurred? when had he allowed himself to.. fall into the routine of comfort you radiated? so simply, so effortlessly. he can't stop looking at you. your lips are moving, and your speaking he's certain - god, he'd be listening intently any other time, he swears. but this is pivotal for Edward. you haven't stopped playing with the lapels of his overcoat, prattling on, not meeting his gaze anymore but watching your digits trace calico-coloured buttons. Edward can only watch you in this awe-struck orange haze. you overflow with so much goodness, probably asking him about his day, his pointless work - not his real work - and it hits him. when had he let this happen? did it matter?
your eyes flicker upwards, meet his green sheltered gaze. your own are swimming with something - still love, always love - and envelop him once more in the blaze of your smile.
Why is that anon acting like, liking Edward is a competition? Lol
"I know" To that anon, not as such, because I don't know who they are, but they have been harassing my profile for some time, sending anonymous hate messages and some riddles, So I guess it's just to tell me something and discuss
