This Is Who I Am

by littlehollyleaf

Summary:

Sequel to We Are What We Are. Now he and Oswald are officially allies, and unofficially something more, Edward is eager to explore the more physical avenues open to them in their new relationship. But while Oswald is happy enough to oblige when it comes to some acts, he is surprisingly reticent when it comes to others, and a tense confrontation one night leads Edward to find out why.

 

It’s not until the fourth time he notices the pattern.

Sloppy. He should have seen it after three. But he defies anyone to have their cock sucked or otherwise ministered to by Oswald Cobblepot and not find themselves temporarily severed from higher brain function.

The first time had been after they toppled Barbara and her criminal entourage from the underworld throne. While the three stooges were scurrying away, caught unawares by his and Oswald’s alliance, and the various underlings involved in the coup were busy removing any evidence of the trio’s occupation throughout the rest of the mansion, Edward had been galvanised by the victory. Restless, giddy, a little bloody from the fight and in need of an outlet for it all, he might simply have laughed himself into hysteria if he’d been alone, but since Oswald was there and had been so accepting of Edward’s courtship of late, Edward had made the impulsive decision to consummate their new relationship instead.

He’s still not clear how that first time got so changed around. One minute he had Oswald pinned against the edge of the dinning room table, gripping the polished oak with both hands either side of Oswald’s hips, claiming the man with lips and teeth, moments away from tearing fabric so he could get at the rest of him. Then without warning he was thrust into a chair with Oswald on his knees between his legs, unzipping Edward’s pants and swallowing him down. He remembers little but blissful heat and white noise after that, followed by Oswald tucking him away and pressing a kiss to his temple, muttering about needing to attend to the clean up.

Not exactly the consummation he’d intended, but satisfying enough for Edward not to care.

The second time was less of a rush. Oswald had come to visit him at his latest HQ, dropping off a key to the manor and enquiring after intel of this man and that to see if there was anyone still loyal to Miss Kean he needed to worry about. The gesture of the key had been touching. Edward felt it deserved more in the way of thanks than an exchange of information, so he’d bent down to kiss Oswald’s cheek. It had meant to be chaste, truly, but Oswald’s acceptance roused something unexpected in him and his hands had roamed further, fingernails scratching skin, catching on buttons – wanting to mark, to take, to leave evidence that proved, for at least that one moment, Oswald was unquestionably his.   

It was the ball of Oswald’s hand over his crotch that had been his undoing, Edward remembers that very clearly. How he’d stopped to shiver at the sensation, biting back a groan, and in that moment Oswald had deftly spun them round, pressing Edward’s back to the wall while his fingers worked their way through buttons and cotton until they were tight about Edward’s flesh, coaxing him to climax. Breathless and trembling, Edward had tried to reciprocate, but Oswald took his shaking hand and held the knuckles to his lips, whispered something about work to do and promised to talk later.

Again, not quite confirmation of what they were to each other now, but it had reassured Edward that whatever their future, they were in it together, which was something.

The third time was embarrassing, so Edward tries not to dwell on it. He’d miscalculated the timings for one of his ‘games’ and the criminal he’d intended to capture and interrogate – a lowlife with information on a bigger score Edward had in mind – had awoken early from the sedative he’d administered, getting in a couple of decent swipes with a broken bottle before Edward managed to make his escape. It had been foolish to go to Oswald for help, the urge reeked of weakness and dependence and Edward suspects a combination of blood loss and concussion are to blame for the uncharacteristic oversight. But he has to concede that Oswald had patched him up with more efficiency and discretion than Edward could have managed alone given the circumstances.

Once the painkillers kicked in and after considerable time spent watching and feeling Oswald’s hands against his bare skin, Edward grew a little silly. The drugs had obviously been stronger than he realised. That’s really the only explanation for the needy whine he recalls making when Oswald drew his hands away after fixing the final dressing and the way he’d clutched at Oswald’s wrist, drawing his palm back to an unhurt spot on his waist and murmuring ‘please, please’ as he fumbled with Oswald’s belt. Somehow, the way Oswald had shushed him and eased him down on his old bed was both humiliating and erotic. It had taken only a few soft kisses to his stomach and a couple of hard ones through his boxers to have him coming with a yelp. Thankfully, unconsciousness had followed soon after.

Hardly the kind of dynamic exploits Edward had envisioned the two of them might accomplish together. Although reading about the thug responsible being mercilessly gunned down in the street a few days later had lifted his spirits.

Now here they are in the midst of time number four.

And it had started out so promising -

After letting himself into the manor Edward had taken up position just so in the living room in order to surprise Oswald by the fireplace, throwing an arm about his unsuspecting friend’s shoulders when he arrived home for the night and announcing himself with the riddle he’d crafted especially for the occasion.

“A partner in crime, though I wear a disguise, I hide in plain sight, averting all eyes. What am I?”

Oswald’s gasp and jump and curse were taken as evidence his plan had been a resounding success and Edward beamed down at his partner’s scowling face.

“Do you get it?”

“Ed, I have no idea what you’re talking about and you almost gave me a heart attack,” Oswald griped, although he made no move to shake off Edward’s arm, Edward was eager to note.

“Justice,” he’d answered, patting Oswald’s chest as he added – “And I have some for you.”

Releasing Oswald to reach inside the silky folds of his jacket – just as gleaming inside as out – Edward had removed the rolled up paper he’d come to deliver, presenting it with both hands at either end, the length of green ribbon he’d tied about middle adding just the right touch of theatre.

Oswald had raised an eyebrow, but taken the paper without question.

“I paid a visit to that lawyer you were telling me about,” Edward explained as Oswald propped his cane against the fireplace so he could better slip off the ribbon and unroll the page. “The one that was refusing to release the deeds to that casino you oversaw the construction of as Mayor? And, well, we played a little game.” Edward had to bite back a smile at the memory least it escalate into a fit of giggles. “And he decided to change his mind.”

By then Oswald had surmised that the paper in his hands was, of course, the deeds in question and he’d cast Edward a shrew look over his gloved fist at the top of the roll.

“Hmmm, it must have been some game.” How Edward’s pulse had raced at the way Oswald curved his lips to the side in praise. “I take it he lost?” 

“Alas,” Edward confessed, nose scrunching in distaste. “It was best of three. He lost the deeds, but solved the following puzzles correctly. So I let him go. A shame, I was looking forward to teaching him the true meaning of bind justice.”

Then Oswald had laughed with him, which is always a treat – after a lifetime of being the butt of a joke, the novelty of sharing one with someone has yet to wear off. 

“Perhaps next time,” Oswald had consoled, rolling the deeds up again and even returning the ribbon. “Thank you,” he’d nodded, setting the paper down on the mantelpiece and turning to add – “We should have a drink, to celebrate.”

But Edward, flush with his success and Oswald’s gratitude and pride, had caught Oswald’s arm as he walked passed, jerking his friend to him. So close Edward had to tip back his hat with his free hand so the brim didn’t cast obstructive shadows when he looked down.

“I can think of another way,” he’d grinned, taking the hand from his hat and sliding the fingers along the inside of Oswald’s belt.

Which was what led them here –

Oswald blinks – with shock, it would seem, but a couple more flutters of mascara-coated lashes sees him grinning back. Then Oswald is reaching forward, flicking back the edges of Edward’s jacket so he can run gloved fingers over the waistcoat beneath and grip the edge of Edward’s pants.

At first Oswald walks backwards, cutting a path towards the sofa and drawing Edward with him, so Edward moves his hands to Oswald’s waist to better comply, thinking his friend intends to sit back on the cushions and position Edward on his lap. A scenario Edward is happy to work with. But a few paces from the seat Oswald glances over his shoulder to check how far they have to go and that’s when he stops and turns them round, now pushing Edward back, fingers already working the button of Edward’s fly.

And the pattern is clear.

Every time things between them grow remotely sexual Oswald is arranging for Edward alone to be on the receiving end of the affair.

How interesting.

“Ah,” Edward exclaims, partly a verbal acknowledgment of his deduction, partly a means to stop Oswald proceeding further. The latter Edward assists by clamping a hand over Oswald’s wrist.

His new policy of wearing gloves at any and all times it is even remotely feasible denies Edward the opportunity to check Oswald’s pulse, but judging from the way Oswald stops still at the touch, shoulders tense, body rigid, he imagines it must have jumped to a pace well above normal. Oswald’s eyes dart up to his, fearful. Then questioning. It’s an excellent recovery, someone with lesser observational skills might be forgiven for overlooking how suddenly and completely afraid Oswald is. But Edward is acutely aware. Tut. His mistake. This is not the first time a sudden move from him has caused a reaction of this kind. One of the unavoidable side effects of shooting your best friend in the stomach and leaving them for dead.

Edward is confident he can put an end to this lingering tic of Oswald’s in time, but for now he can do nothing but accept it and address each new incident as it arises. With this one the answer is obvious, Edward merely unlocks his fingers from Oswald’s sleeve, restoring his friend’s freedom and in doing so indicating he means no harm. He lifts his hand between them in a non-physical stopping gesture instead.

“You have been more than attentive to my needs thus far,” Edward says. “But I fear yours have been neglected.”

He makes sure to capture Oswald’s gaze before dropping his eyes down the, as always, immaculate suit, over the tie – simple black today – down the waistcoat and stopping at the edge of his pants. This way he knows Oswald will have followed the look and won’t be caught unawares when Edward reaches both hands to the buckle of his belt.

“Oh,” Oswald answers, breathless, followed by gulp of forced laughter that doesn’t quite tally with the relief Edward was expecting. “That’s alright,” Oswald continues, resting his own gloved fingertips – this pair coloured a deep velvet green, Edward notes with a measure of pride – over Edward’s busy ones. “I don’t mind.”

Ah. Chivalry is it? He should have known Oswald would strive to be the perfect gentleman in matters like these. By all accounts Gertrude had been charmingly old fashioned in many respects and would have raised him to be nothing less. But while it pleases Edward to have his needs deferred to on the whole, for something like this the giving, or rather the taking, is just as important as receiving.

“Be that as it may –” Ignoring Oswald’s touch he continues to work on the belt. “– I think it’s only fair for you to have your turn.”

“Ed really,” Oswald insists, a little sharper than Edward would have thought necessary for a token resistance. “You don’t need to.”

One side of the belt slides free and eagerness turns to impatience.

“Yes I do,” Edward mutters, yanking Oswald closer as he works at pulling the infuriating piece of leather through its final constraint.

“Ed, wait.”

Almost done.

“Wait. Wait”

Oswald’s hands grip tighter, with force enough to prevent Edward finishing his task and he hisses in frustration. It’s almost as though Oswald truly doesn’t want Edward to touch him and that confusion is what causes Edward to snap, the need for caution with his movements forgotten as he snatches at one of Oswald’s hands and pulls it away, not heeding how biting his grip may be as he holds the other man’s arm to one side.

“What?” he demands, drawing back just enough to glare into Oswald’s widening eyes. Adding another – “What?” – soon after when Oswald remains unforthcoming.

“I just –” Oswald starts, eyes flashing from Edward’s face to where he has Oswald’s arm outstretched, then finally to Edward’s other hand still clasping Oswald’s belt. His lips flicker upwards in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and his shoulders bunch up as another uneasy breath of laughter escapes him. “Nevermind. It’s – it’s fine. Don’t – I mean – I’m sorry, keep going.”

The hesitance makes Edward frown, but only for a moment. Since the behaviour makes little sense it’s easy to ignore and lean forward instead to claim Oswald’s lips with his own, holding him silent while Edward reaches down and finishes unlocking the belt. He can feel the weight of Oswald’s hands hovering about his arms, as if he wants to hold Edward back again but is resisting the urge. No matter, Edward thinks. Oswald will be over this empty opposition soon enough.

Or perhaps not – for when Edward reaches in to cup his hand over Oswald’s boxers he finds the flesh beneath unexpectedly soft.

He must have frightened him again.

Very well. This is a problem soon remedied.

Edward draws back from Oswald’s – rather slack, now he thinks about it – lips to kiss a path along his jaw and up to his ear, lifting both hands to Oswald’s face, thumbs rubbing slow circles over his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the shell of Oswald’s ear. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Most of the time Oswald is easy to calm – Edward had unlocked that secret long ago when he’d brought him home from the woods. Such a simple thing, but immensely effective in almost any circumstance. For you see, at his core Oswald just wants someone to recapture how his mother made him feel – warm and wanted and, most of all, safe.

“It’s okay,” Oswald answers, voice tight. But his breathing slows as Edward presses light kisses down from his temple and when Edward finds his friend’s mouth again Oswald meets him in kind.

It’s a slow, easy kiss and, as Edward expected, once Oswald settles into it the rest of him begins to relax. When Edward is sure Oswald is calm again he slips his hand back through Oswald’s open fly.

Only to find one part of Oswald’s anatomy that has undergone no change.

Which wouldn’t be so disappointing were it not for how full Edward’s own cock has grown over the last few minutes, already well on its way to needing release. Surely a momentary fear wasn’t enough to keep Oswald this far behind him?

“Oswald?” Edward mutters.

But when he starts to pull away Oswald stops him by grabbing his lapels and holding him close.

“It’s fine. Don’t stop,” he breathes across Edward’s jaw.

“But –”

“Ed, it doesn’t matter,” Oswald insists. “You can still – you can still take what you need.”

Perplexed by this, Edward doesn’t resist when Oswald tugs his hand free of his pants and it’s not until Oswald starts untucking his own shirt that Edward comprehends where this is going.

And it’s not that fucking Oswald is unappealing – the truth is very much to the contrary. But it’s growing clearer all the time that something about all of this is very wrong. He’s missing something. And a puzzle with missing pieces is no fun at all.

So he presses both hands over Oswald’s, halting him in the act of pulling his pants down his hips.

“Wait. Stop.” He shakes his head. “What… what exactly is happening here?”

Oswald blinks up at him, full of doe-eyed innocence. Much too full.

“Nothing,” he says, too quickly.

“Well that’s abundantly clear,” Edward responds, nodding at Oswald’s crotch.

The flush across Oswald’s cheeks and the way his eyes press shut in a grimace is almost a victory – it’s a while since he’s managed to strip the Penguin of his cool veneer. But the thought of besting Oswald now only intensifies Edward’s physical cravings, making it a bittersweet conquest at best.

“Is something wrong? Are you unwell?” Edward presses. If this is the case best to determine it at once, while there is still time to end things, rather than letting himself reach even greater heights of physical need only to find Oswald incapable of following through.

A logic it would seem Oswald doesn’t share, since his answer fails to illuminate the situation.

“No I – it’s not –” he stammers, eyes downcast. “I’m not sick…” He shuffles back and away from Ed, stumbling a little on his bad leg, no doubt because of the extra strain the recent tension has placed on it. “Or maybe I am,” he murmurs as he zips his pants back up and reties his belt, more to himself than by way of an answer.

A rush of anger mixes with the dull throbbing emanating from Edward’s cock, because this is verging on absurd now.

“What does that mean?”

Either Oswald is ill or he isn’t, it’s not a difficult question.

Oswald hunches over, arms criss-crossing his body in a nervous gesture Edward hasn’t seen him make since those early days after Arkham, when the two of them had tried, in agonisingly slow fits and starts, to share the different horrors they’d both endured in that god-awful place. Oswald kneads the arm of his jacket for a moment, then takes a breath.

“The truth is…” he starts, looking up but then to the side once he catches Edward’s eye. “The truth is… I’ve never been… intimate… with anyone, before…”

Edward sighs.

“Oswald, please.” He crosses his own arms as a means to try and curb what is now building into fury. “If you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong just say so and at least have the courtesy not to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Oswald hurries to answer back, bending forward a little, beseeching in a way that is uncomfortably familiar, lacking only the coils of rope about his hands.

The reminder of the docks, one of the many aspects of his past Edward was supposed to have purged from himself for good, leaves a bitter taste in Edward’s mouth and he doesn’t appreciate Oswald putting him in such a position.

“Well then, you are very skilled for someone who has never been intimate with another,” he spits.

Whatever nonsensical emotions Oswald has been plagued with until now are masked by a sudden anger of his own in response to this criticism and Oswald jerks back, nostrils flaring.

“That’s not intimacy, Ed,” he snaps, straightening up. “That’s business.”

Something about the cold, flat way Oswald makes this statement hits Edward hard, his mind at once replaying and reassessing all the times Oswald has conducted such ‘business’ with him.

“What?” His mouth shapes the question slowly, lingering on the final ‘t’ to make it sharper.

Ever defiant when it comes to a fight, no matter how outmatched he may be, Oswald unfolds his arms and balls his hands at his sides, chin lifting.

“We can’t all jump straight to the top of the criminal ladder,” he exclaims, cheeks flooding with hot red that paints a vivid contrast to his usually pale skin. “When you start at the bottom, from nothing, sometimes you have to let other people fuck you over to get ahead! And sometimes that’s not a euphemism.”

The vulgarity of the phrasing makes Edward pause and he has to fight the urge to physically recoil. Even at times of passion Oswald has always striven for finesse and refinement in his speech – in a city of ingrates it was one of the first things that had captivated Edward about him. This is the first time he can recall ever hearing Oswald resort to language so base and in truth Edward can’t tell if it shocks him, or excites him.

“So, if you must know, that’s how I learnt my skills,” Oswald concludes, lifting a shoulder in a bony shrug. “People tend to be more accommodating if you’re good at it.”

Accommodating.

Just the sound of the word tastes sour and Edward swallows hard as if hoping this will remove the flavour. But the bitterness remains of course, along with disturbing, imaginative flashes of Oswald’s past – young and helpless umbrella boy Cobblepot bent over and crying while a series of faceless goons take him from behind, or forced to his knees with a meaty hand around the back of his neck holding a fat cock down his throat. Only they aren’t all faceless, are they? Edward knows the men, and women, Oswald rose to power on the back of. Did he drop to the floor between Falcone’s legs as willingly as he had for Edward? Or for Fish Mooney? What about the Italian – had Oswald prostrate himself to his cock as well?

Or that moron Butch?

That’s the one that really has Edward seeing red – to think of that imbecilic Neanderthal of a man touching, knowing Oswald in ways Edward has yet to discover. His dirty great hands – both intact back then – smearing all over Oswald’s pearly white skin.

It’s too much.

And worse – these thoughts do nothing to diminish the frantic pulse of Edward’s cock. If anything the burn seems stronger now, though it’s hard to say if that’s down to thoughts of Oswald powerless and abused, or over what vicious, bloody acts Edward desires to perform on any who dared to touch his Penguin in such a way.

He breathes in deep through his nose to try and clear his head.

Focus. Focus on the relevant point.

Accommodating.

“I see,” Edward nods, keeping his voice even. “And is that what you hoped to make me? More accommodating? Are you saying that this –” He holds a hand straight up in a line, moving it forward and back between them. “Everything between us up until this point, has been nothing but business?”

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. He can barely hold a relationship with a partner he is consistently loving towards – what possessed him to think he could possibly have something deeper than a working alliance, at best, with a man he’d tried to kill for Heaven’s sake?

The negotiation after Oswald’s return from the dead, the gift of Edward’s father, Oswald’s claim of undying love – that had all been part of the ruse, no doubt. And like a sap Edward had fallen for it.

“What?” Oswald frowns, brow still lined with frustration. But when he meets Edward’s gaze and registers the full extent of the anger there those lines drop away, face falling, eyes shinning, lips parting in an expression so completely of horror Edward struggles to remain unmoved by it. “No! No not at all! We’re not –” The panic in Oswald’s voice sounds real enough. “Ed –” Despite his limp Oswald rushes forward so fast Edward barely has time to lower his hand before he is being clutched tight about the elbows, Oswald’s head tipping back to stare up at him, imploring. “Ed, I love you! You can’t possibly still doubt that.”

It’s the first time he’s said it since his return and everything about the declaration is pitch perfect, as fierce and impassioned as every other time with absolutely nothing to suggest Edward’s crime has altered Oswald’s affections in any way. But then there’d been nothing in his manner to suggest he’d killed Isabella either, so another unwanted memory is quick to remind him. Deception is the man’s modus operandi – a fact Edward has been too quick to overlook of late. So he holds himself stiff and silent under Oswald’s embrace.

“Please, you have to believe me!” Oswald continues, rubbing his hands up and down Edward’s unyielding arms. “These last few weeks – they’ve been some of the happiest of my life. I didn’t mean – I don’t –”

The stuttering Edward can’t help but read as authentic. Oswald’s lies are always so measured, so confident and meticulous in their detail. This is… painfully not.

“This isn’t – don’t –”

Oswald’s eyes press shut as he shakes his head and when he opens them again Edward notes that some of the lashes have clumped together – moisture seeping from Oswald’s eyes perhaps, although not enough for tears. Not yet. And what a contrast this all makes to the cool, commanding figure Oswald has been with him of late, to the man who confronted him so brazenly only a few weeks past and proceeded to pick Edward apart with nothing but words and bravado. Would Oswald truly demean himself so utterly in order to garner Edward’s affections?

He wouldn’t put it past the man.

But if so, this is an exceptional performance.

“Don’t think that – that this –” Oswald frees a hand to gesture vaguely downwards, presumably to indicate his lack of arousal. “– is in any way a reflection of my feelings for you, or evidence that I am trying to dissemble. I just – I don’t know how to –”

He drops his head with a sigh, speaking the next part to the toes of Edward’s shoes.

“Ed, no one has ever… reciprocated… before…” He releases Edward and drops his hands to his sides, lips twisting in a mockery of a smile. “And of course, of course they haven’t,” he mutters, flapping his hands up and down at his waist in a move not unlike his avian namesakes. “Why would they? I mean, look at me?”

When he looks up he raises both hands either side of him – half a shrug, half a theatrical display.

“I am looking at you, Oswald. Make your point,” Edward says, appalled at how his voice wavers towards the end. If he’s going to be pathetic about this he should just leave. Or perhaps do as Oswald suggested before and simply take what he needs. Better than just standing here, meek. Giving Oswald one more desperate chance after chance because Edward wants so badly to believe him. 

Braced for more persuasive rhetoric, Edward is caught off guard when Oswald throws up his hands and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be obtuse, Eddie, it doesn’t suit you,” he says and although the insult lacks venom the tightness of a light scowl about Oswald’s eyes implies it is very much legitimate, which – what? “I’ve always known that I would never be the kind of man anyone would find…” He circles his wrist at the side of his head as he searches for the right word. “Alluring,” he settles on eventually, stilling his hand and waving it down the side of his body, indicating – Edward isn’t sure. Himself? “No matter what my dear mother used to tell me,” Oswald adds, eyes growing soft, as always at any reference to the dearly departed Gertrude. “And even if I did, well, Fish put paid to that, didn’t she?” He hums out a couple of low, mirthless chuckles, slapping a hand to the top of his twisted leg and digging his fingers into the thigh. “So…” He shrugs, eyes flicking to the side, lips sucking in and curving down. “Considering that, I saw no reason to… to waste my time with such matters. After all, I had enough to do trying to prove myself to all of those who would have seen me dead, or worse!” His arm shakes a little, straining under the growing tension with which Oswald continues to grasp his leg and for a moment Edward considers fetching his cane. But Oswald presses on before the thought has fully realised. “Which is why I’ve never…” He stops. “I’ve never…” And stops again.

“Never what?” Edward prompts, and the wild heat and fury coursing through him begins to subside because this – this is no longer a hindrance or even the threat of deception. Whatever Oswald is trying, thus far without success, to impart to him is a mystery. And a mystery Edward can handle. Because if this is a mystery, then it must have a solution.

Oswald bares his teeth, as though being forced to stomach something particularly distasteful, and sets free a puff of air in a sigh that shudders through his whole body. 

“I’ve never…” He splays the fingers of his free hand and waves them down. Down his chest and stomach and lower, stopping between his legs. His eyes flick up to Edward’s then and he lifts his eyebrows, lips flat, and there’s something in the gaze that Edward knows. A knowing vulnerability – shameful awareness of one’s shortcomings, of lacking a key element necessary to being the full person the world around you insists you’re supposed to be.

“Oh,” Edward says as the truth of it settles in place. And again, louder – “OH!”

Because it explains everything.

No wonder Oswald was reluctant to have Edward touch him, why he hadn’t responded to Edward’s advances. He’d spent all his life giving others pleasure, or having them take it from him, without ever knowing any himself.

Of all the things Edward had imagined about the deliciously dark and dangerous life of Oswald Cobblepot, all the wild thoughts that had occupied his time back at the GCPD about what the infamous kingpin got up to in those secret moments free from the prying eyes of the law, Edward had never once considered this. Oswald had always been so far removed from him, so beyond him in every way, Edward had taken it for granted that Oswald’s superior experience extended to matters of amatory as much as crime. He’d never stopped to consider the details, but supposes he assumed lovers, if not wooed then bought and paid for, or even just demanded and provided by virtue of Oswald’s kingly status.

To think that in truth Oswald has been hardly better off than himself in this regard, that Edward’s experience is, in a manner of speaking, greater, is unprecedented. Why, this means that of the two of them essentially Oswald is the virginal one.

Astounding.

“But Ed, listen,” Oswald starts up again. Mistaking Edward’s fall into silence as disapproval perhaps. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter. You can still –”

But Edward doesn’t even hear the words. He is too giddy with all the change wrought by this discovery. And all the potential it offers. Potential to be Oswald’s first, which will surely make him Oswald’s only, for who else will Oswald turn to once Edward has proven himself a capable benefactor? Play this right and it could guarantee Oswald as his, completely. His alone.

The joy of it propels him forward, stunning Oswald quiet as he wraps his arms about Oswald’s shoulders and hugs him tight.

“Oh my dear, dear Penguin!”

Crossing his arms over Oswald’s back Edward grasps the other man’s shoulders, pressing him closer, and, tentative inch by inch, he feels Oswald’s fingers twist into the flaps of his jacket in return.

It takes a moment for the rush of excitement to die down, but when it does Edward shifts his chin up and along.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies,” he says before drawing away. Though he doesn’t extract himself from Oswald entirely, just enough to bring them face to face, Edward’s hands resting on the front curve of Oswald’s shoulders. “I had no idea.”

There’s no deceit in Oswald now – his expression is soft with nothing but relief, an open canvas ready to work on, and Edward makes a quick adjustment to the edge of his glasses to better take it all in while he determines how to proceed.

“I see now that my methods have been entirely counterproductive,” he starts, moving his hand from his glasses to hold still between them, palm forward in further apology. “Now I have all the facts…” Slowly, slowly, he tips his hand forward and down, threading his fingers into Oswald’s hair and cupping the side of his face. Oswald breathes in deeply at the touch, but doesn’t stop it. “I can do much better.”

For a moment Oswald does nothing but stare. Then the breath he’d been holding stutters out of him, ending in the flicker of smile.

“Thank you, but…”

He lifts a hand to the one at his cheek, closing his eyes a moment and leaning in to the embrace.

“But I don’t think your methods are the problem,” he continues, eyes sad as he opens them again and with a tug of leather on leather pulls Edward’s hand away. “I’m the problem,” he explains, gaze dropping once more to the ground. “I just – I just don’t think I’m capable of reacting in the way a person is supposed to in these situations.”

Edward curls a finger under Oswald’s chin and lifts his head, bringing Oswald’s gaze back to his own.

“Why?” he asks, pressing a thumb to Oswald’s chin to hold him in place so he can’t shy away from the question. “Because you have no desire? Or because you’ve convinced yourself not to, because you never thought to have occasion?”

Oswald swallows as he considers his answer, Adam’s apple rubbing against Edward’s knuckles.

“Does it make a difference?”

It’s not truly a question - the tired resignation with which Oswald makes it tells Edward his friend doesn’t consider any answer but the negative and the defeatism makes him pinch Oswald tighter. Even when they were strangers back at his old apartment he couldn’t stand to see the great and terrible Penguin giving up on himself and he most certainly can’t stand to see it now.

“Yes,” he says, providing the real answer. His touch must have grown painful because Oswald winces, so Edward removes his hand and grasps Oswald by the forearms instead. “If you have no desire and never have, then it would be pointless to try and kindle any,” he goes on. This is stating the obvious, but that’s nothing new – Edward has found most people incapable of grasping the facts in front of them, even when mindnumbingly evident, so he’s used to spelling things out. “But if there’s a chance you’ve been denying yourself unnecessarily, don’t you want to find out?”

“I – I don’t know…”

Oswald shakes his head, but it’s uncertainty not refusal.

The same uncertainty Edward must have displayed that night beside his father, insistent over his own lack of desire. Yet look at him now – practically wanton in his yearning for the other man.

“Oswald, you have done so much to help me realise who I am,” he says. “Please, let me do the same for you.” Persuasion is a delicate art that, if pressed, Edward would be forced to admit he has yet to master. But the way Oswald’s brow furrows, lips twisting in thought as opposed to voicing an outright rejection, tells him he’s on the money this time. The pleading was key, he suspects, ostensibly flipping control of the situation to Oswald himself. But he needs something more, an extra push. “I won’t fuck you,” he adds, repeating Oswald’s earlier expletive – with no little thrill – to differentiate this from all those past encounters Oswald is clearly tormented by, whether he knows it or not. The whisper in the back of his mind that urges him to follow the claim with – not this time – Edward steadfastly ignores. “Or hurt you.” This time. “Trust me.”

“Trust you?” Oswald repeats, and for the first time that night a full and honest smile breaks across his face. “I have a scar in my side warning me that is the last thing I should do, especially with my body.”

Anyone else might have given up then, written the night off as a failure. But Edward notes the way Oswald submits, regardless, to his touch and proximity and takes the words for a challenge.

He steps forward, putting them almost flush against each other, and still Oswald doesn’t pull away. Not even when Edward leans in to whisper, soft and deep and slow, in his ear.

“Oh, but you want to, don’t you?” He runs his hands down the length of Oswald’s arms. “Ever since I found you in those woods you have been desperate to put yourself in my hands.” His fingers slip into Oswald’s palms, curling gently as he speaks. “And that hasn’t changed, has it?” Edward smiles over Oswald’s shoulder at the way the other man’s hands grasp back, proving his assessment. “You resist it now and I understand. After what I’ve done it’s right to be cautious.” He rubs his nose, feather light, over Oswald’s temple and into his hair, breathing in the lavender sent of his shampoo and the tang of expensive gel. “But Oswald, aren’t you so tired of fighting your heart?” Hot and heavy breath against his neck suggests Oswald is close to acquiescence, so Edward pulls back to face him, lightly squeezing Oswald’s hands. “You can trust me now. I promise. Just… close your eyes.”

It’s a simple request – to test how willing Oswald really is to relinquish control.

And for a moment the way Oswald turns his head and bites his lip, refusing to meet Edward’s gaze, makes Edward think he’s miscalculated and Oswald won’t.

Then without warning, without even glancing at Edward first, Oswald screws his eyes shut. And waits.

Edward holds on for a beat, checking Oswald’s commitment, but when long seconds pass without him so much as peeking it’s clear he has no intention of changing his mind. While it’s precisely what Edward was hoping for, planning for, the reality of it catches him unawares and his lips curl in open-mouthed wonder and he has to snatch his hands away from Oswald before his glee makes his grip too painful. Then for the seconds that follow it’s all he can do to ball his hands into fists at his chest and reign himself in. Not that he thinks Oswald will resist his passions anymore, Edward simply has a bigger picture in mind now – one that requires a gentle touch, for the moment.

So, once he’s ready, he pops open the buttons at the base of each of his gloves and slips them off. Then he takes off his hat, folds the gloves inside and places everything out of the way on the near-by coffee table. This done he reaches now bare and steady hands to Oswald’s jacket and begins to unbutton it.

He takes his time, leisurely tugging the jacket off Oswald’s shoulders once he’s done and folding it neatly before placing it on the floor, only to start the whole process again with Oswald’s waistcoat.

At first Oswald’s breathing quickens – shallow and fearful in anticipation of the unknown. But once Edward has finished with his waistcoat and begun the same quiet, laborious undressing with Oswald’s shirt he starts to relax into the slow, predictable rhythm Edward is building, each breath turning deep and even.  

It’s only when undoing and slipping off Oswald’s tie in order to remove his shirt that Edward falters, struck by the way Oswald swallows as he strips the fabric from his neck, eyes caught on the fragile skin above Oswald’s collar. The black silk in his hands feels suddenly alive with new purpose, teasing Edward with thoughts of how it might look when applied to Oswald directly, without the starched white collar in the way. How tight might he tie it, he wonders, before Oswald began to protest?

Oswald’s eyelids begin to flicker at the change in pace, but in the end he holds them down.

Even so, it’s a near miss – a sign of how easily the delicate hold Edward has over him may be broken. So he dismisses new thoughts about the tie. If all goes well he’ll have another chance for those kinds of experiments soon enough.

Although – he pauses in holding the fabric over the pile of clothes already at Oswald’s feet. Perhaps there is a way it could still be of use.

Except, no. The black is much too dull and dreary for his tastes.

He opens his hand and the tie drops to the floor.

Then Edward quickly tugs his own free from his collar and steps around Oswald so he can tie the exceedingly more pleasing green cotton over Oswald’s eyes. Oswald gives a sharp intake of breath when the fabric touches his skin, but Edward soon fixes the blindfold in place with a tidy bow, secure but not too tight, and stops once he’s done to rest a calming hand on Oswald’s shoulder.   

“Shhhh. It’s just to take the pressure off. So you don’t have to worry about holding them shut all the time.”

He waits until Oswald’s breathing slows again before pulling off the shirt and exposing his pale, lightly freckled back, and Edward’s cock, mostly dormant since Oswald’s revelation, twitches with renewed interest at the way the skin shivers in the open air.

He’s seen Oswald like this before of course, and more – stripped him bare back at his apartment to tend to his wounds. But that was so long ago, and besides, it had been all practicality, with no room for erotic thoughts or lustful urges. Or well, perhaps one or two as he’d been towelling away the blood, but they’d been quickly filed away as abnormalities. Funny how the mind works – he’d been so quick, so eager, to embrace genuine depravities like torture and murder, but an innocent desire for another man had been too fearful to contemplate back then. Something to thank his father for. Or rather, one of many things he will never do with his father ever again he recalls with a smile as he folds up Oswald’s shirt and moves round to add it to the rest of the pile.

When he turns back the change to Oswald’s body since he last saw it is startlingly apparent. All the old scars are still there, healed nicely thanks to his own careful stitching, but on Oswald’s right side is a fresh one, still red and raw and nothing like Edward was expecting. He’d thought it would be small, circular, like the bullet wounds he’d seen on bodies at the morgue, but it’s much bigger. Bigger than a bullet wound should be and jagged round the edges, thin crimson tendrils creeping out from it and trailing up Oswald’s side and over his stomach. Apparently extraction of the bullet had not been easy. And likely far from painless.

His fingers ghost around the spot but he can’t bring himself to touch it, not yet, no matter how strong his curiosity. For the truth is, despite extensive research, he has yet to determine the means of Oswald’s survival and at this point it feels not only foolish but incredibly poor taste to ask. The most his network of informants on the street have been able to dig up is that a friend of Jim Gordon’s trashy little urchin compatriot may have been involved – someone who had undergone a recent altercation with one of Fish Mooney’s monster brethren and was, quote, ‘crazy good with plants.’ The tendrils about the wound do have a somewhat vine-like appearance and certainly seem unnatural. If this friend had gained some form of foliage related superhuman power she could have used it on Oswald perhaps. Stranger things have happened in Gotham. 

But he can think about that later.

For now he has more pressing matters to attend to – such as the way Oswald’s gloved hands have started to twitch and rise upward, seeking to cover his naked skin Edward assumes.

Edward stops this by taking them one at a time into his own hands and gently stripping off the leather, pressing the knuckles of each to his lips, like Oswald had done to him not long ago, before settling them back at Oswald’s side.

This works as a means to keep Oswald’s hands still, but doesn’t stop the tremors that start to shake him – ones that aren’t from cold, it’s too fair a night, as the dark, unused fireplace beside them attests.

So – how to stop this new anxiety?

His exposure must have caused it, but what about it? Not the scar, Edward thinks, Oswald’s hands hadn’t been moving to cover that. No, they’d been angled higher, trying to criss-cross his chest perhaps or… or perhaps there was nothing specific Oswald was trying to hide. What had he said before – he knew that he wasn’t ‘alluring?’ And he’d complained about Fish’s assault on his leg. Was it simply any and all of him he feared putting on display?

It would give deeper meaning to his ardour for fashion – the meticulous application of make up, the care in which he matched his clothes and accessories. An attempt to disguise his features, to conceal the ugly truth of him.

Oh my, his poor little Penguin. Being self-conscious of inner darkness Edward is deeply familiar with, but how exhausting it must be to consider oneself deformed on the outside as much as within.

“You know,” he starts, keeping his tone light and conversational, as though what’s happening is nothing at all out of the ordinary. “I always knew the people of Gotham were witless dullards for the most part. But the situation must be worse than I ever imagined if this –” He reaches down and rubs the back of a finger over Oswald’s nose from below the blindfold to the crooked tip. Oswald had once mentioned being mocked for it at school and Edward himself had overheard more than one disparaging comment about the shape shared between laughing detectives, so it seems the logical focal point of Oswald’s apprehension. “– and this –” he goes on, leaning down a fraction to grip Oswald hard at the top of his right thigh, highlighting the other part of himself Oswald had identified as reprehensible. This touch makes Oswald jolt and gasp and understandably so, Edward is aware how susceptible to pain in this leg Fish’s attack has left his friend. Even through Oswald’s pants Edward can feel how the muscle has twisted from poor setting of multiple fractures. But Edward has learnt too, from various ministrations during their time together, places to touch that ease the pain as opposed to enflame it, and he is careful to press only against these areas now. “– is enough to turn people against you. This city must be completely blind –” He continues to rub at different spots at the top of Oswald’s leg, making him hiss in discomfort at first, but soon enough seeing him relax again, tremors fading. “– if that’s all people can see when they look at you.”

Perfect. Now he just needs to –

“What do you see then, when you look at me?”

Edward stops. He hadn’t told Oswald not to speak, so he can’t call this an infraction, but he’d been quiet so long Edward supposes he expected the silence to last for the duration.

It’s a loaded question – at this point a more accurate one might be ‘what hasn’t Edward seen when looking at Oswald?’ He’s seen a stranger, a friend, an enemy and now, perhaps, a lover. Oswald has been in turn his salvation and damnation, someone to aspire to, someone to hate and in him Edward has seen beauty and beastliness, love and betrayal. Far too much for him to possibly condense into a quick and easy answer.

Unless.

Unless he picks just the constant – the one part of Oswald that is ever present. The part to which everything else owes its existence.

He leans forward.

“Power,” he whispers.

And it’s easy after all, because it’s true. At times he’s seen it squandered, rejected, corrupted and often abused. But there’s no denying the inner strength Oswald carries within every fibre of his being, a seemingly unending reservoir ready to be tapped whenever Oswald thinks to make the effort. One even Edward had been unable to deplete.

The smile his answer coaxes across Oswald’s face is wide enough that dimples grow to frame it on either side and Edward is almost disappointed he can’t see the emerald shine to match in Oswald’s eyes. He finds himself grinning back, regardless of the fact Oswald can’t see him, as he continues with undressing the man, a warm feeling growing in his chest at the thought of having restored even a small amount of Oswald’s self-esteem.

They fall into silence again after that as Edward divests Oswald one by one of his shoes and socks and finally pulls away his pants and underwear together.

He’s as soft as when they started, but that’s to be expected. More striking is how very small he is without his clothes. Edward had forgotten. To think that all his power comes in such a tiny, fragile casing. One fast twist and snap and it would be gone forever. Although Edward doesn’t fool himself into thinking it could ever be so simple, not after everything Oswald has already survived. The days of thinking he can exploit Oswald’s weaknesses to that end are past. If he were to try even now, with Oswald seemingly wholly at his mercy, he suspects Oswald would still find some way to turn the tide, emerging perhaps not unscathed but very much alive.

But Edward has no interest in ending Oswald’s life, not anymore. Indeed the very thought turns him cold and he hurries to place his hands either side of Oswald’s waist to reassure himself with the warmth, eager to move them somewhere less exposed, somewhere Edward can shield Oswald’s delicate skin from further harm.

Excepting any he himself might decide to inflict, a dark part of him mutters, making his own cock strain against his underwear. But he swallows and pushes the thought away because he’d promised Oswald he wouldn’t. Not this time.

“Step back,” Edward instructs, adding a little pressure when Oswald hesitates until he shuffles back a step and then another, Edward guiding him slow and steady across the short distance to the sofa. Then it’s just a case of getting Oswald in position – something Edward had anticipated as a practical matter, but one that grows intensely more arousing with each submission. A press to Oswald’s shoulder is all it takes to make him sit. A murmured ‘lie down’ and Oswald does, succumbing to all Edward’s small adjustments to his placing without question, shuffling further up when Edward tells him to, lifting his back so Edward can stack up cushions beneath it, allowing Edward to bend his left knee so the leg rests upright against the sofa’s back. He’s so meekly obedient it’s like moulding clay and that’s when it hits Edward how much control he really has.

He could do almost anything, he thinks, and Oswald would take it. Even fuck him, despite his promise, because Oswald is so pliant right now Edward is confident he could spin anything short of fatality and Oswald wouldn’t resist.

The truth and the possibilities of it are dizzying and Edward has to stop a moment least he become too light-headed.

He could do anything he wants.

Now.

But later there’ll be consequences.

Oswald would forgive him any indiscretions made in passion, he’s sure of that. If he can forgive a shooting he’ll forgive a few sexual deviances. But every action has a reaction. Every choice leaves its mark. Shooting Oswald left a scar, both literal and psychological, the depths of which Edward has yet to uncover. So he needs to be careful, needs to weigh up instant gratification against long-term desire. 

Breaking Oswald now might be thrilling. But it would not be conductive to a satisfying future.

So Edward undoes a couple of buttons at his collar and pulls it back to cool himself down, toes off his shoes and climbs slow and careful onto the couch. Keeping his clothes should stop him getting too carried away.

He dips one shimmering green knee in-between Oswald’s legs, the other bent just shy of the sofa’s edge so Oswald’s bad leg is beneath him and leans down, resting his right arm along the back of the couch to steady himself.

He means to give a chaste kiss on the lips as something easy to start with, but remembering Oswald’s smile after shaming those critical of his appearance Edward changes the angle last minute and presses a soft, sweet kiss to Oswald’s nose.

Oswald gives a short, surprised laugh and another happy, easy smile that Edward moves down to kiss as well. Once. And again. And again.

It’s meant to keep Oswald relaxed but Edward gets a bit lost in it. In the way Oswald melts, lips parting so Edward can take the kiss as deep as he wants.

Kissing, it is safe to say, is not an intimacy Oswald has any problems with.

When Edward breaks away they both whine a little at the loss but Edward works quickly to fill it with new sensation, trailing hot kisses down Oswald’s chest, shifting his hands to Oswald’s hips as he plants more over Oswald’s stomach. One more a little lower.

Then he sits back on his haunches, tucking Oswald’s twisted leg between his thighs and gently rubbing his palms up and down it.

Each time he lets his touch grow a little firmer until he’s massaging in earnest, pressing his thumbs into each knotted muscle and soothing the tension, over and over. It takes a while, but Edward is patient. As is Oswald, suffering the initial, inevitable pain with only the occasional whimper and twitch until eventually his body accepts the pressure and whimpers turn to drawn out sighs and moans of relief.

A taste, perhaps, of future sounds of pleasure Edward may elicit from him.

Although the still and silent shape of Oswald’s cock reminds Edward they are not there yet. But then, this is only the prelude. The overture, if you will, to set the scene.

Time to begin the true performance.

Which means pulling back the final curtain between them, the last barrier holding them apart.

Edward doesn’t reach for it right away, instead he runs his hand one last time down Oswald’s leg and back up. Then he just keeps going, over Oswald’s hip until his fingertips reach the first tendril of scar tissue and follow the silky smooth abrasion to the bullet hole.   

Oswald makes a high pitched noise – not distress, but not happiness either – and Edward hesitates.

“Does it hurt?”

“It – no. Not anymore.”

Not anymore.

Which means it had.

How badly? Edward wonders. And when did it stop?

He circles a finger round the inside.

And all at once Oswald is writhing beneath him, screaming in agony, crying, and when Edward lifts his shaking hand away he finds it coated red, hot drips of blood creeping down his wrist.

Edward blinks hard and takes a breath and Oswald is quiet and whole once more.

Just the usual phantasmagoria.

Though with this one the fantasy may be accurate – perhaps Oswald had screamed while someone held him down, dragging him back to life bit by violent, painful, bloody bit.

But no matter how it happened, one thing is certain –

He, Edward Nygma, is the one responsible.

The shock, the pain, the fear, the scar – he did that. Everything Oswald suffered on those docks and beyond, and several things before besides, is because of him.

And down, down from the deepest, darkest part of his heart a voice rises up to whisper –

Good.

Edward swallows. And nods.

Yes. Good.

Because Oswald deserved it.

He may no longer mourn the loss of what was and might have been with Isabella, but just because he’s moved on doesn’t mean his past actions were wrong, does it? Does it?

No. He did what he had to. 

And maybe, in the end, that’s what all of it was, Edward thinks as he follows the outline of the scar with his finger – necessary evil. Oswald had to betray him, Edward had to kill him, because it was the only way to get them here, to make them who they are, who they were always meant to be.

He’d thought to take this opportunity to finally apologise, hoping it would help Oswald move on.

But he sees now there can no apology. No repentance. No regret.

They can’t move on from this any more than one can move on from the sun.

It is what it is. That’s all.

So Edward bends down and covers the spot with his lips, first kissing the heart of it, then running his tongue around the jagged edge, up each tendril and down again. A ritual of sorts. A mark of due respect for the suffering both of them have endured at each other’s hand and gratitude for how it has brought them here, together.

It’s hard to gauge Oswald’s reaction. Edward can hear his breathing quicken and the scrape of fingernails across the fabric of the couch close to his ear, but these could be signs of pain as much as pleasure. Fascinating how similar those are when you think about it. In any case, Edward doesn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop, even if Oswald asked him to. Because they need this, the both of them, and if Oswald doesn’t understand that well then it’s up to Edward to make him.

Only Oswald doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t even try. And when Edward has mapped out the whole of the scar he kisses lower, over prickly curls of hair, to see if he can finally begin to spark a reaction of a different kind.

How delightful, then, to find Oswald’s cock already pink and swollen and rising up against his belly with just one kiss.

But of course, why shouldn’t it? This is what he’s been building to with every slow and calming touch, every kiss, every whisper. All of it to put Oswald at ease enough to actually give him the chance at pleasure for once. Even without an accompanying desire, the body is just a puzzle of moving parts, simple enough to coax it into almost any reaction if you know how. The right pressure in the right place and you can stop the heart, or direct the flow of blood down into a man’s lower organs. It’s all a matter of biology. Though Edward had thought he’d need to seek out more erogenous zones to get Oswald this far. Perhaps the extra sensitivity of the scar led it to have a similar effect. Or perhaps the emotional impact of Edward touching it had been as personal for Oswald as it had for him, enough to cross boundaries into the physical.

Either way, this is an opportunity not to be squandered. A gift not to be looked in the mouth, but taken in it, Edward concludes with a smile.

It’s a first for him, but that doesn’t deter. He’s read up on near everything relating to sex so he knows how this works and putting academic fact into practice had been successful enough with Kristen, he sees no reason this should be any different.

One long, wet lick to lubricate. Check. Accompanied by a delicious moan of shocked delight from Oswald. Then Edward takes Oswald in hand, wraps his lips about the tip of him and swallows down.

It’s not as smooth as he’d hoped, forcing Edward to generate more saliva as he goes to reduce friction, but he soon has the feel of it. Though admittedly, it’s not as simple a task as his research, or experience from the other side, has led him to believe. Maintaining a steady rhythm is a complete occupation in itself, requiring a level of concentration that prevents Edward from attempting any of the additional tricks of the tongue he recalls Oswald, and Isabella, applying to him and, try as he might, his throat constricts too tight to take Oswald in very deep.

Any fears of Oswald criticising his performance are assuaged, however, by the sounds dropping from Oswald’s lips. High pitched ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s that grow deeper and longer all the time, from shock to tentative enjoyment to submission. Edward can only assume that Oswald’s inexperience is acting as a fortunate cover for his own.

It’s when Oswald starts to rock his hips, seeking a faster pace, that Edward knows he has him fully committed, wholly submerged in the feel of it all.

Unfortunately, Oswald’s eager demands are too much for Edward. He’ll need more practice. So he is forced to draw back from Oswald’s cock before he chokes, extracting a desperate cry as of pain from poor Oswald as he does.

“Easy,” he murmurs, cleaning his lips with a hurried swipe of his sleeve before circling his hand tight about Oswald’s now full and straining cock and starting to pump.

This is easier – he has practice at this. It’s just a case of transferring techniques already perfected on himself.

Only, by god Oswald is wrecked.

He has both hands splayed at his sides, scrabbling for unfound purchase in the sofa’s velvet, mouth open wide, hips bucking, reduced to nothing but physical exertion and the occasional wheeze.

Dear lord, it is beautiful.

A much more enticing picture than his own first time must have looked – his gangly, spotted, youthful counterpart red-faced as he worked himself, occasionally glancing at the two open magazines he’d smuggled into his bedroom for the purpose. One depicting a scantily clan woman, red hair curling just shy of her ample breasts. The other an oiled up man, hands thrust down his bright white underwear, a wicked smile on his face. An experiment, to test which direction, if any, his desires lay. And one that had almost cost him when his father found both pieces of literature. How he’d raged against the pages of men, ripping them to pieces and threatening to do the same to Ed, until Edward had convinced him the proprietor was to blame, selling him faulty goods. His father had been… almost proud of him then, letting him keep the other magazine with a wink and smile. Needless to say Edward had narrowed his focus to women from then on.

Until now.  

As he watches Oswald writhe – in warm and wonderful contrast to Edward’s earlier vision – Edward’s own cock strains in tandem and he marvels at all the denials they have both overcome to find this pleasure in each other.

And all at once the visual and even the lingering taste of sweat and skin isn’t enough – he needs to do more to capture this moment, to know as much of it as possible.

Still working Oswald’s cock he leans closer, breathing in the scent of Oswald’s arousal and the musky heat of his trembling flesh. Then his free hand is roaming up, thumb brushing over one of Oswald’s nipples, making him groan and Edward along with him. But he doesn’t stop there, his fingers climb higher, feeling over the outside of Oswald’s parted lips and daring to dip inside, pressing along Oswald’s teeth, touching the wetness of his tongue. Every part of Oswald laid bare. For him.

Every part. Every sensation. Everything Oswald is experiencing now, for the first time and every memory of it hereafter – it all belongs to him and no one else. A claim rightfully earned and given and which no one can ever take away.

The thought becomes a mantra.

Mine.Mine.MineMineMine.

Blinking through the haze of heat and pleasure and possession and desire, Edward finds his hand has moved again, stretching about Oswald’s throat, thumb rubbing down the underside of his chin and pressing into his neck.

Oh god. Not this again. Not now.

His idle thoughts about using Oswald’s tie this way seem ludicrous now he’s faced with the reality of the concept. What was he thinking? Isabella might have been capable of indulging, and taming, this perversion, but what are the odds of Oswald doing the same? His mind is too fogged to calculate, but Edward is sure it must be low. There are too many variables. Too much risk. What if Oswald rejects him for it? What if he doesn’t? What if he asks Edward to keep going and he can’t stop? Oh god, what if he can’t stop?

Blood rushes in his ears and sounds grow muffled. Edward thinks he hears something but can’t make it out over the roar.

Until he feels a palm pressing flat across the back of the hand he is holding tense, shaking from the effort of keeping it still, and all at once the world rushes back in a flood of sound.

“Ed? Ed?”

From the tone it sounds like Oswald has been calling several times already.

He blinks at the hand Oswald has placed against his own. He can’t tell if it’s granting permission, urging removal or something else entirely.

“Ed?” Oswald calls again, voice thin.

“I’m here,” Edward pants, unclear if the reassurance is for Oswald’s sake or his own. “I’m here.”

“Ed, please… please don’t stop…”

The request leaves Edward sick with either horror or yearning, he can’t tell. Does Oswald really mean – ?

Then a touch to his other arm draws his focus lower where Oswald is bucking urgently into the circle of fingers Edward, in his distraction, has allowed to grow slack.

“Please,” Oswald begs again, fingers pressing Edward’s wrist, urging him into action. “I – I think I’m close…”

Edward shudders with relief. Or remorse. It doesn’t matter. The point is, Oswald doesn’t care about Edward’s hand on his neck, perhaps he hasn’t even noticed, because his needs are more prosaic, and with something new to focus on Edward doesn’t need to care about it either. At least for right now.

“Yes,” Edward says, gulping out the word as he wrenches his hand from Oswald’s throat to his shoulder so he can better focus on Oswald’s cock again. “Yes…”

Oswald yelps when he squeezes, hips lifting in jerks too frantic to allow restoration of a proper rhythm.

“Oh – oh – god – I,” he stutters. “Ed I –”

His hand scratches up Edward’s arm, seeking some kind of purchase, something to ground him and Edward sympathises. He would welcome something grounding in this moment as well.

On instinct Edward lifts his gaze to offer reassurance, only to find shining green fabric barring his way and of course that’s it. With a rough swipe of his hand – no time to be gentle now – he pushes the makeshift blindfold up over Oswald’s forehead, through his damp and matted hair and stuffs it into the cushions beyond. Obedient to the last Oswald still has his eyes clamped shut and squeezes them tighter as the fabric pulls away.

“Open your eyes,” Edward gasps, clasping the side of Oswald’s face when he hesitates. “Oswald, please. Please. Look at me.”

Bring me back. Bring me back to you.

When Oswald’s eyes do open and find his it’s like reaching the eye of a storm. Everything happening between them is as wild and frantic as ever but somehow there’s a peacefulness to it as well, the manic push and pull growing effortless, no longer something Edward is forcing but something the two of them are being drawn into together.

Any second now and the calm will break and send them crashing down. From the way Oswald’s mouth grows wider in a silent scream, body tensing like a coiled spring about to snap, he doesn’t even need a push, he’s there.

But Edward has been keeping a trump card, just in case Oswald needed a little something extra to get him over that final hurdle. He was only going to use it if absolutely necessary, knowing what a powerful weapon it could be for him if he saved it, but despite the logic he finds it tumbling out of him here and now regardless.

“Oh god. Oswald. Oswald, I love you.”

And that’s it of course. Oswald eyes grow wide as saucers and he’s coming with shout after shout as each wave breaks through him, hot and thick splatters all over the sleek green of Edward’s jacket, his neatly buttoned waistcoat and the crotch of his pants.

Oswald all but collapses when it’s done, head lolling back, eyes dropping shut, spent body sinking into the cushions beneath him, while Edward is so fit to burst he’s shocked he didn’t come as well, even without a touch. But since – oh fuck – he needs one, he drops Oswald’s cock with as much care as he can muster, cleans the sticky remains coating his fingers on his thigh – the suit’s soiled plenty already, a little more won’t make a difference – and gropes at his fly.

It takes an age to tug himself free and the sound he makes when he finally grasps his throbbing cock is not far from a sob.

Which brings Oswald back to his senses – first blinking up at him in concern, then making sluggish attempts to prop himself up on his elbows.

“Can I – what should I –?” he starts but Edward, tight lipped with concentration, shakes his head.

“Just – just don’t move –”

Oswald nods and holds still but two pulls are all it takes for Edward to grow dissatisfied with this arrangement.

“No. No – wait –” he stammers. “I need – I need –”

“Anything,” Oswald offers. “Tell me.”

“I need –” Edward tries again. “I need you –” Closer? Touching? Speaking? His desires elude him, each tug of his cock painful now as he fails to take himself over the edge. “I need you –”

In the absence of further clarification, Oswald, sensibly enough, takes the words as a full sentence.

“You have me,” he says, nodding vigorously. “Ed…” He shuffles, pushing up with his right arm so his left is free to wrap about Edward’s shoulder, bending him closer to breathe into the crook of his neck. “Ed, I’m yours.”

Dear god.

Groaning, Edward slaps an arm round Oswald’s back to steady himself as his orgasm spills out of him at last, spraying over both their chests, Edward clinging tighter with each shock until the end when he grows limp, held in place by some miracle of positioning that is somehow keeping them balanced.

Heavy breath follows heavy breath. Then –

“Ed… I’m sorry…”

Edward jerks back, untangling himself from Oswald and sinking down on his haunches.

“What?” he asks, a little panicked, as he tucks himself away. Did he mess up somehow? It had all looked and sounded like a pleasurable first time, but was it less adequate than it seemed? Or was it too much? Has he failed? Does Oswald hate him now? What?

“I –” Oswald starts, looking so awfully forlorn as he draws his left arm to his chest, eyes dropping from Edward’s face to travel down. “I’ve ruined your suit.”

His suit?

There’s no moment when Edward submits to the laughter, by the time he realises it’s happening he’s already in the middle of it, bent over with a hand pressed to his waist. This smears the palm with more fluid from the splashes staining the fabric Oswald is so worried about, which somehow increases the hilarity.

“What?” Oswald asks, sombre at first but soon chuckling as well, catching Edward’s amusement like an infection. “What?” he tries again, shifting back along the couch so he can extract his legs from beneath Edward and tug them under himself.

Despite shaking with mirth, Edward doesn’t fail to notice the cushion Oswald grabs along the way to wipe himself clean with before stuffing between his legs, covering his spent and shriveled cock – a touch of shame. But what about? The act they’d shared? Or just more paranoia about his body?

“Ed, what?” Oswald asks again, smiling, and punctuates the question with a weak slap to Edward’s shoulder.

“Oh, Ozzie,” Edward grins, shaking off the last of his laughter. “My dear, sweet Oswald.” He rubs his hands clean again on a couple of untouched parts of his thigh and leans forward to grasp Oswald’s shoulders, running his hands around and up and down the skin there for no reason other than he wants to. “Only you would be concerned about fashion at a time like this.”

Oswald ducks his head, but he’s still smiling.

“Well, it’s important,” he answers, looking up to nod with faux regality, eyes glinting and – is this becoming a joke now? are they playing? “And besides, I know how much you care about the suit.”   

“Oh now don’t pretend,” Edward responds, lifting a hand to wag a finger in matching playful sobriety. “I know you hate the suit.”

In a comic display, Oswald drops his jaw and places a hand to his chest, theatrically affronted.

“I do not!” he gasps. “I merely find the colour…” His eyes trail up and down the jacket. “Overly bright, garish and an affront –” He lifts his gaze back to Edward, lips drawn down now, but his eyes are still dancing. “– to all good taste,” he concludes. “But…” he adds after a moment, lips curving softer, voice growing quiet and more genuine. “It looks perfect on you.”

Two spots of fresh heat burn across the cooling skin of Edward’s cheeks, because while the joking made light of it Oswald’s opinion of his new style mattered. He’d been in turn infuriated and demoralised at the thought that Oswald might truly disapprove. But this does more than ease his fears, because Oswald isn’t saying he likes the green, he’s saying it fits Edward and Edward alone, regardless of whether it’s something Oswald himself would enjoy, and that’s better – not approval, but validation.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Edward nods, glancing down at where the green continues to shine despite being so thoroughly soiled and as he looks his lips spread wide with new thoughts. “Though I don’t know… I think this –” He drags a finger through a glob of liquid at the edge of his jacket, scooping some onto the tip. “– might be an improvement.” He glances up to smirk. “Maybe I’ll wear it like this from now on. A little piece of you, wherever I go.”

The look on Oswald’s face when he slips the wet finger into his mouth and sucks is priceless.

“You…” Oswald starts. Swallows. “You really would, wouldn’t you?”

Edward shrugs, letting Oswald supply his own answer. Letting him imagine Edward flitting about the city, conducting his business with all the evidence of their affair on public display.

With a blink and shake of his head, Oswald pulls himself free of whatever mental image he’d been entertaining.

“Or perhaps I’ll just buy you a new one,” he says. “And next time, you can take it off first.” 

“Next time?” Edward quirks an eyebrow.

“I – well… yes,” Oswald answers, less smooth now the joke is over, one hand dropping to the cushion in his lap and fiddling with a corner. “I would not be… averse… to trying this again. It was…” His gaze shifts, unfocused, over Edward’s shoulder and eventually he shrugs and shakes his head, batting his eyelashes, lips quirking up, seemingly incapable of finding a suitable descriptor. “Besides, all good experiments need to be conducted multiple times in order to draw a conclusion, yes?”

The thought of extensive ‘experimentation’ on Oswald in regards to physical pleasure makes Edward’s sated cock twitch briefly back to life.

“Correct,” he grins, though there’s something about Oswald’s smile in return that doesn’t quite fit and the way he drops his head, perhaps to avoid Edward’s glee, seems to confirm the suspicion.  

“Next time then…” Oswald mutters, reaching out to finger the one miraculously dry edge of Edward’s jacket. “I will buy you a new one though, I promise,” he adds. “That’s only fair.”

Uncertainty grows in Edward, threatening to turn to paranoia, and he bites back the urge to tut or sigh. With his earlier panic over, he is confident now that the sex had been objectively good. From his reactions it’s clear the quality of physical pleasure Oswald had experienced was without question, and regardless of any sexual desire he may or may not have uncovered Oswald had expressed willing to experiment further. All round this had been a substantial success.

So why does it seem as though Oswald is obfuscating?

He wants to shake the thought away, dismiss Oswald’s behaviour as of no consequence, an accident of idiosyncrasy, but experience tells him that could be a mistake. After careful examination of the facts post-Isabella Edward had been forced to concede that there may – possibly, potentially – have been signs of Oswald’s affections that he’d overlooked. And has this evening itself not exposed more evidence of an emotional struggle Oswald has been enduring these past weeks that Edward hadn’t put together the pieces of until now?

In fact, it’s been coming to Edward’s attention of late that his grasp of emotional nuance may be, just a tad, what one might call lacking.

Only sometimes. Naturally. On the whole his mind is too sharp to miss anything of relevance to his interactions with others. Actually, perhaps it would be more accurate to say his struggle is specific to Oswald in particular. Yes. That would make sense, since Oswald is such a unique case with emotions far more complex than a typical man, making them notably more difficult to perceive and untangle in comparison to others who, in contrast, Edward is able to unravel much easier. Of course that must be it. Oswald is the exception that proves the rule. And the constant challenge that presents is precisely what makes their relationship so engaging.

Now to apply himself to that challenge.

If the physicality of the thing is no longer an issue – which it simply can’t be after such ample evidence of how pleasing sexual sensations can be – then it can only be the emotional side of things that is troubling Oswald. But if that is the case, why had he said he wanted to experiment?

Ah ha! The answer was in the wording.

Talk of experiments is far too clinical for Oswald. But Edward, with his background in science, is often prone to littering his speech with such terminology. Which means the offer to try again – to ‘experiment’ – could well have been made for Edward’s benefit as opposed to out of any true desire on Oswald’s part.

Satisfied with this conclusion, Edward can relax again, safe in the knowledge that Oswald is not attempting anything nefarious with the deception. His only concern now is how to make use of the information.

He could choose to ignore it – go on to engage Oswald in a variety of sexual exploits in the name of ‘experimentation’ anyway. Desirous or not, Oswald had agreed to more, and tonight had been so delicious that the idea of it, of reaching that dark and dangerous next time part of Edward still longs for, is tempting. And he’d make it good for Oswald, of course. Make sure he enjoyed it in the end.

But there’s something to this capitulation on Oswald’s part that vexes Edward.

Something in the strained attempt to not simply prioritise Edward’s desires but match them that recalls another, younger man attempting the same – trying and trying to fix a genuine smile on his face when reciting painstakingly memorised facts about football, or repeating crass jokes about women he’d overheard in the playground, or anything, anything at all that might make his father think they shared a common ground so he had no reason to hurt him, might even, just maybe, have reason not to hate him.

Sickened by the memory, Edward reaches down and clasps Oswald’s wrist.

“Oswald,” he starts and the sharpness of his touch and tone contrasts badly with the ease of before, making Oswald flinch, eyes guarded when he looks up. “You… you’ll do what you have to, to keep this… partnership… between us, won’t you?” Oswald opens his mouth to respond but Edward talks over him because this isn’t a discussion. “It’s alright, I understand. I – I’ll do the same, with you. Because that’s the game, I see that now. But listen, whatever you do, however you trick me, or trap me or – or fight to keep me, you don’t have to do this.”

He waves his other hand back and forth between them and at first Oswald frowns, confused, but once the meaning of the gesture dawns on him he jerks free of Edward’s hold and leans away.

“What are you saying?” Oswald says, nose crinkling. “You… you don’t want me now…?”

An obvious misunderstanding given the anxiety over his appearance Edward has uncovered tonight.

“I’m saying I do want you,” Edward insists. “I want –” He lifts the back of a finger to Oswald’s nose, ignoring the way Oswald flinches and persisting with a mimicry of the gesture he’d made earlier – smoothing down from the now wrinkled top to the crooked tip. “– all of you.” The lines between Oswald’s eyes relax a little. “So if any of this –” Edward repeats the waving back and forth. “– is not you. Then it doesn’t interest me.” He holds Oswald’s gaze as he finishes, needing to be sure Oswald is taking this in because it’s so very, very important. “Do you understand?”  

It takes a minute, but slowly Oswald’s frown drops away and Edward doesn’t have to puzzle out the reaction because he knows that relief. The freedom of not having to pretend, of discovering that there is one part of yourself, at least, that does not require modification or second guessing, that it’s safe to let it be, just as it is. Granted it’s not a feeling Edward has much experience of, but that’s exactly why the few occasions he has known it have stuck with him.

Oswald takes a breath to speak, then seems to think better of it and simply nods. Too overwhelmed to find the words, maybe. And Edward can understand that as well. So he reaches out to cup either side of Oswald’s sweet, adoring, beautiful face and presses a gentle, reassuring kiss to his forehead – a motherly gesture he knows will resonate with Oswald, dispelling any lingering doubts of acceptance.

He means to take them both upstairs after, planning a warm bath they can share to clean up, but the level of Oswald’s emotion, as always, catches Edward off-guard. As soon as his lips touch Oswald’s skin Oswald makes a small, reedy noise in the back of his throat and when Edward lets go of him he shuffles closer, knocking his cushion to the floor as he moves to tuck his head under Edward’s chin and curl into him, regardless of the cold and clammy remains of both his and Edward’s pleasure this must smear across his skin.

As Edward wraps his arms about Oswald’s naked, trembling body, it strikes him again how frail his partner in crime is, how powerful being together this way makes Edward feel in comparison, and part of him is furious for surrendering the opportunity for more and regular acts of physical dominance. He suspects he’ll be hashing this out with the man in the mirror for quite a while.

But when Oswald snuggles closer, burying himself in the sweaty, sopping wet mess of Edward’s embrace, Edward knows this was the right decision.

Because surely this is more than afterglow. The frantic, desperate need to be held, to be claimed, speaks to something much greater. To no less than wholehearted devotion.

If he’d thought Oswald’s love for him until now had been extraordinary, after tonight it seems set to become frankly transcendent. A boon gained not from physical prowess, but from the right words spoken at the right time.

And really, what are base, sexual victories in comparison to such an intellectual triumph?

When you consider the bigger picture, the possible loss – and it is merely possible, for who knows how Oswald’s desires might alter in the future, and besides, there’s still every chance he may continue to offer one-sided pleasures –is more than worth the gain in the long term.

Love is about sacrifice, after all.