Their current scenario could be attributed to many different factors. Small threads of circumstance, taking place throughout the day, eventually culminating into one large event – The Big Finish, if you will.
It had, of course, started last night. After finding Oswald Cobblepot in somewhat of state of disarray, Edward had taken it upon himself to nurse the crime lord back to health, for – Edward believed – the benefit of both of them.
To say Edward admired Oswald Cobblepot was somewhat of an understatement. Edward had been observing his actions for quite some time now – from events documented in the local paper, to whispers beside the water cooler at the GCPD. To a man like Edward Nygma, complete with his new-found bloodlust and insatiable thirst for knowledge, Oswald Cobblepot was fascinating, and his pure Machiavellian guile and exquisite expertise of the kill knew no equal. It was safe to say that Edward Nygma didn’t just admire Oswald Cobblepot. He was obsessed with him.
“Help me, please.”
The grand rescue of the Penguin had been a relatively simple affair, the man was as light as a feather, and, for the majority of the journey home – completely unconscious.
Edward knew the task at hand was going to be significantly challenging, but luckily for Oswald, Edward thrived upon challenge.
There is a part of Edward, that exists in most of us. That malevolent, and, in most cases – well hidden part of the psyche that wishes to mar beautiful things. The part of us that – for a flicker of thought, would slap somebody’s child, simply because it is crying. The part of us that views a piece of art, and perhaps – for a moment, wonders what said art would look like with a crudely doodled moustache. The part of us that – for a nanosecond, would stamp on a baby bird that has fallen from the nest.
“Rest up, my feathered friend. We have a big night ahead of us.”
This particular baby bird was very far from its nest, and as Edward undressed the semi-conscious man and began to tend to his wounds, he found himself wanting to tarnish alabaster skin, and mark it as his own.
Edward, of course, didn’t act upon these impulses; the chaste affair of wound management was soon followed by a not-so-chaste and seemingly very necessary cold shower.
When the Penguin finally regained consciousness, and was somewhat troubled by the sight of his newly acquired guardian angel, it took all of Edward’s resolve not to lean in and taste that pale neck, as he withdrew from it his midazolam-laden syringe.
“ ‘Oswald... don’t listen to the other children. You’re handsome and clever, and some day you will be a great man.’ ”
When Oswald Cobblepot was pouring his heart out, tears streaming down his face as he fondly recalled his late mother, Edward – although genuinely sympathetic, was internally wondering how else he might be able to make the gangster’s voice crack.
“My mother was a saint! The only person who truly cared about me, and now she’s gone!”
When Mr. Penguin was screaming in Edward’s face, as he shakingly held a knife to his throat, Edward was relieved, and also a little disappointed that he wasn’t standing just that little bit closer, for if he had been – Oswald would have been definitely been able to feel just how Edward really felt about that particular situation.
“My mother always said a party is not a party without entertainment.”
And then, of course, there was Mr. Leonard. An employee of Theo Galavan, the man who murdered Oswald’s dear mother – bound to a chair with rope and crudely gagged with a sack and large amount of electrical tape. A gift, for Oswald – presented to him by Edward the way a cat presents its owner with the twitching frame of a mangled mouse. Edward wanted to learn, wanted to observe just how such a seasoned killer worked, but most of all – he wanted to see the look on Oswald’s face as he did it.
“I think,” begins Edward, with a giggle, “I think... that we should cut him some eyeholes. After all, it would be a shame for him to miss this, no?”
“Oh, Ed. You’re good-hearted,” Oswald chuckles. “But consider. What if he were to escape? You wouldn’t want this man pointing the finger at your good self, now would you?” He turns to Edward and points the blade he’s holding directly at his heart. “Rule number one of murdering, friend. Never assume. Know. Your. Enemy.”
Oswald punctuates these last three words by rhythmically tapping the knife against Edward’s chest.
Edward frowns and strokes his chin in thought, his lips moving silently as his eyes dart around the room, searching for inspiration, searching for... something. Oswald watches on, mesmerised by the way Edward’s tongue caresses his lower lip as he deliberates, and he can almost see the ‘lightbulb moment’ occur as Edward reaches his conclusion – his eyes lighting in triumph as his frown creeps into a wide grin.
“Did you ever read the novel Misery?”
“I... uh, I saw the movie.”
Edward claps his hands together with glee. “Even better! I don’t have an axe, anyway.”
One baseball bat, one toaster oven and a lot of muffled screaming later, poor Mr. Leonard – with his freshly cut eyeholes – is assuredly not going anywhere.
“Now, of course,” begins Oswald, as he lazily traces the blade across their detainee’s stomach, “a killer is not always given the luxury of time. But I implore you, friend, that when the opportunity arises, you must savour every moment.”
As Oswald applies gentle pressure, and begins to slice into Mr. Leonard’s gut, his expression darkens. To Edward – watchful and eager, it looks less like he’s enjoying retribution and more like something is just not right.
“Mr. Penguin? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, it’s just... my hand isn’t very steady.”
“Here. Let me help you.”
Edward’s touch is warm, and as he wraps his long fingers around Oswald’s hand and begins to guide him, Oswald finds himself wondering how they might feel elsewhere. There’s a profound silence between both men, and as they cut through the struggling man’s flesh, Oswald chances a glance or two at Edward, who is seemingly transfixed at the sight of their combined effort – his dark eyes gleaming from behind his glasses as blood pours from the laceration.
“So the stomach is one of the most painful places to be stabbed, or shot, for that matter,” says Oswald, suddenly very aware of how dry his throat is. “Which is valuable knowledge when you really need to make someone suffer.”
“I want to make you suffer,” murmurs Edward, before he can stop himself.
It’s as though the air is sucked out of the room, and for a moment even Mr. Leonard ceases his muffled cacophony. Oswald turns to face his companion, and as he does so, he’s struck with three possibilities, simultaneously.
Fight, flight, or secret option number three – concede?
A pause. And then-
“Mr. Penguin, I didn’t mean-”
Oswald chuckles, and the sound is hollow – almost meaningless. “Yes, you did. Embrace it, Ed. It’s these darker impulses that shape us into who we are.”
Another pause, broken only by a muted whine from their bleeding and bound hostage – whose presence seems to no longer factor for either Edward or Oswald.
It’s as though something flips a switch inside Edward’s head. One moment he’s staring at Oswald in a manner reminiscent of a puppy that knows it’s chewed up your favourite pair of slippers, and the next, he’s pushing Oswald with all his might onto the nearest surface – his piano, his hands clawing frenziedly at Oswald’s plaid pyjamas as their lips crush together with urgency.
Oswald throws his head back, open mouthed as Edward relieves him of his pants, and when Edward’s lips find their way around his stiffening cock, he almost loses himself then and there.
“Jesus, Ed,” pants Oswald, as Edward’s tongue swirls lightly around the head of his length. As Oswald glances down and their eyes meet, Edward smirks around the flesh in his mouth as he pulls off with a slurping pop, and sucks eagerly on his own two fingers. He removes the slick digits with a smile and works around to Oswald’s hole, giving his balls a gentle squeeze on the way.
Oswald clutches tightly to the piano as Edward takes him fully into his mouth again, his fingers teasing and exploring the pucker between his cheeks. As he dips in the tip of one long finger, Oswald groans hungrily, overwhelmed by the desire to be owned and wrecked by the wholly amiable – yet devilishly murderous – Edward fucking Nygma.
The noises emanating from the whole scenario are downright ludicrous: the muffled screams of poor onlooker Mr. Leonard, the dissonance of piano keys being struck all at once by Oswald’s squirming ass, the gentle slurp of Edward as he works Oswald’s dick, and, to top it all off – Oswald’s profanity-laden moans of wild ecstasy.
“F-fuck, Ed, fuck! Please! Fucking... please... fuck me...”
The words are a whimper, almost a sob, and it’s with some sense of relief when Edward ceases his relentless torment, rises to his feet, and kisses Oswald passionately. It’s all teeth and tongues and clawing hands and sweat and as they kiss, Oswald fumbles desperately with Edward’s belt, until he succeeds in freeing his significant length at last.
Edward takes a step back, hawks some saliva into his palm and proceeds to lubricate himself, his thick pink cock glistening with spittle and seminal fluid as he leisurely works the shaft.
“Ed, please...” begins Oswald.
“Ssh,” soothes Edward, and as he leans in once more to nip at Oswald’s lower lip, he takes hold of Oswald’s left leg – his good leg, and rests it upon his shoulder.
Oswald cries out – it’s uncomfortable as hell, being held in such a compromising position whilst perched up there on that piano, but God help him if he isn’t aching to feel Edward inside of him.
“This is going to hurt. But it’s up to you just how much,” breathes Edward, as he painstakingly presses inside.
Oswald feels himself being stretched – too fucking wide; it’s exquisite and terrifying and fuck, he wants more.
There’s a pause as they look one another in the eye; Edward’s eyes are full of lust and urgency. Oswald swallows hard between heavy breaths, and then-
That’s all Edward Nygma needs to hear. As if on cue he grinds his hips, working himself hurriedly into a punishing rhythm that makes Oswald want to scream over the awful din of the abused piano keys – and so he does.
This only seems to make Edward increase his speed, thrusting and slamming into the gangster relentlessly, his mouth agape as obscenities spill from his lips.
The pain and the pleasure and the fucking noise are all just too much for Oswald, so when Edward grasps his cock firmly, it only takes a couple of rapid strokes before he’s falling hard into blackness, as semen showers his abdomen.
But that’s not enough for Edward, it’s never, ever enough. With a roar he pulls out, pumping himself vigorously and crying out as he adds his own seed to Oswald’s ivory stomach; beautifully tarnished, sublimely ruined, and most importantly of all – his.
They remain there for a moment, gasping for air like fish out of water, foreheads pressed together, hot breath and hot skin.
“What do we do now?” pants Edward.
“Now?” breathes Oswald, eyeing their struggling quarry with a smirk. “Now, we finish what we started.”