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Oswald asked for Edward to be delivered to him.
And here he was.
Here he was indeed.
Pushed to his knees on the shiny floor, hands and arms tied to his back and a way that ought to make his shoulders twinge. No glasses to be seen, mouth duct-taped shut.
Paying Barbara and her surprisingly competent stray kitten was a quick affair.
Then, well, Ed was still on his knees, on the floor of Oswald's club. Tied up like a neat little present, helpless at his feet.
And, well, that was a beautiful picture.
Edward grunted, face flush with anger. (Or maybe something else, part of him whispered).
He looked so pretty, red-faced, gagged, and tied up at Oswald’s feet.
Edward grunted, chest heaving great big breaths.
Oh, Oswald should have gagged him a long while ago. (He may once have loved Edward's voice and input, but it sounded so lovely through a gag). (It was one way to stop the riddles and horrible rap-rhymes).
"I know we didn't part on good terms, Edward," he started, circling the man on the floor, taking in the ridiculous costume that was supposed to be a mockery of him, "And I know you're not at your best, but this, Edward?" He revels in the further reddening of his friend turned enemy's face. The glare, complete and total attention focussed on him, the fact that Edward had to tilt his chin up at a steep and awkward angle to look at him, it was quite nice.
Set a fire in his blood that certainly made him feel every bit the King of Gotham that he was. A king towering over his disobedient subject.
"This? It's pathetic," he finished, grabbing Edward's jaw and pulling his chin up further as he bent down to stare the man in the eye.
Ed let out a noise that, if Oswald didn't know any better, he would say sounded like a whimper. And he was straining against the floor, pressing his knees together to try and hide-
Interesting.
His love for Ed, that he knew he wouldn't let blind him again. But sex and things of that nature hardly had to mean a thing.
So, time for a change in direction.
"Are you really so desperate for my attention that you're dressing up as me?" He asks with a quiet, biting tone.
The effect is immediate, Ed grunts, trying to jerk his head back, trying to pull his jaw out of Oswald’s grip. Oswald lets go and watches as Edward nearly topples himself over backward.
He's shouting angrily from behind the tape, muffled and completely unintelligible.
Oswald grins.
"I should have seen this coming, after the rap riddles," he shudders at the memory, "I may have been the one stupid enough to love you once, but you're obsessed with me, Ed,"
Edward protests to that, with more muffled grunts and incoherent sounds that were intended to be words. His face flushed a bright, indignant red.
Oswald enjoys his captive's struggle for a moment more. Edward's pants are straining at the fly almost as much as the man himself is straining against his bonds and the tape.
With a dramatic sigh, he bends over (grateful for the brace on his knee), taking Edward's jaw back in hand and tearing the duct tape away with a little more force than strictly necessary. The sound that it rips from Edward's throat is something that heats his skin in ways he'd rather not think about too deeply.
Edward, surprisingly, doesn't take this newfound freedom to immediately shout his ear off in incoherent and vague attempts at riddles. He just gulps large, shaking breaths, lips swollen and the skin around his mouth a different type of red from the rest of his flushed face.
The image is one Oswald appreciates purely from a lust standpoint. Not anything to do with ridiculous yearning desires of kissing Edward absolutely silly to try and reproduce the swollen lips, flush, and breathlessness.
In a decision he is sure he will regret immediately, he doesn't give Edward the chance to speak. Though he does hear and feel the muffled words pressing to his own lips.
Stupidly, he can't find it in himself to regret the action. Especially not now, that Edward is kissing him back... ow!
Oswald jerks back, pressing his nails hard into where he's still holding Edward by the jaw. There's the slightest bit of blood, dribbling down his chin with a bit of spit.
The brat fucking bit him.
"You bit me?!"
"That's what you get for kissing me!"
"Oh?!" How on earth he'd ever been in love with someone so infuriating was beyond him, "Really, Ed? I didn't make you reciprocate,"
"That-it's- I don't love you!" as much as he wishes the word did not hurt... at least the pain is one he knows and is more numbed to than he had been the first few times Edward had spat the same words. Though he had sounded much more convincing then, when his voice was not cracking in a squawk.
"Who said anything about love, Ed?" he bites back, barely an inch from Edward's glasses-less face. "Are you wearing contacts?"
"What? Yes!"
Oswald shook the question off. Now wasn't the time to think about how Edward had had the time to get contacts. (While Oswald has never gotten them himself, he imagines the process must require at least as much time and hassle as getting glasses, which Edward had happily complained to him about before the whole Isabelle nonsense).
"Sex doesn't need to have anything to do with love, Edward, though I can see why you'd think so," he starts, "With what? Two lovers to take you to bed?"
Edward's face grows hotter still in his hold, intense with a heat that Oswald feels should be burning his fingers. Edward clenches his jaw shut, fuming.
"Who says I want to have sex with you?" Edward asks, petulantly and quite pathetically.
"I can see your erection, Ed," he answers, unimpressed with the feeble attempt.
That shuts Ed up. He looks away, equal parts frustrated and flustered. Oswald is in a similar place.
Ed's thinking then, quickly working his much less frozen brain over possibilities and then-
"Okay,"
"What?"
"Okay," Edward repeats, "Fuck me,"
It takes him a moment to process the two words.
In Oswald's defense, he hadn't expected Ed, infuriatingly repressed Ed, to ask- no, demand- that quite so bluntly.
"Okay," he says, repeating Ed's words, "You're sure?"
"Does it matter?" Ed bites, raising Oswald's blood pressure in the way that only he could. Infuriating brat.
"It does if you want it," he answers in a careful, controlled tone, trying not to show Edward just how much he was getting under his skin, "I won't fuck you unless you ask nicely."
And oh, those were the right words. Edward may have a special gift for being absolutely infuriating, but Oswald knew exactly how to push the other man's buttons. (Perhaps, a part of him whispers, it is proof that they should be together... how they know each other so well to drive each other up the wall better than anyone else).
(He shuts it down quickly).
Edward looks nearly furious at the ultimatum. How dare Oswald make him speak in clear words, how dare Oswald make him say what he wants out loud. It's quite satisfying to watch.
"Please?" Ed asked in a small, irate voice.
"Please what?" he asked, taking the opportunity to frustrate his companion even further. Really, Ed was making this too easy for him.
"Please fuck me, please touch me, Oswald," somehow he still managed to sound petulant. Brat.
"Kiss you?" Oswald asked, this time bothering to try to get permission.
"That too," Edward confirmed, not meeting his eyes, the furious flush still not dissipating from his cheeks and ears.
"I think I can do that, Edward," he savors the feeling, the slick warm feeling in his chest, triumph of sorts. "Now if I untie you-"
"You don't have to," Ed cut him off quickly. Oswald isn't imagining the heat that the words bring to him. He shouldn't feel so hot in an arctic-themed nightclub. The centerpieces were all ice for fuck's sake.
But, he does, the lust is heady and it's making him feverish, heat building beneath his skin, just beneath and deep, deep down as well. Because Edward wants to have sex with him. And not only that, he wants to be tied up and at Oswald’s mercy.
(That much is clear as day, Ed may have this ridiculous allergy to stating his desires but sometimes he gives them away all the same, and Oswald knows how to read him.)
His lips curl and he flashes Ed teeth in the wicked grin he knows is growing like the heat deep in him,
"You want to stay all wrapped up for me?" He may have been tainting, teasing just a bit. It was only fair that he got to rile up Ed as much as he could while he had the chance. He was going to make sure this was a night Edward would never forget.
"I'm not a present,"
"I disagree,"
He huffed.
Oswald grinned, retreating to take a seat at the bar, "What is it you'd like me to do with you, Ed? Since you're tied up all pretty and begging for me?"
"I'm not begging," Edward, ever the contrary bastard, muttered.
"Not yet,"
He did not miss the way Ed's pupils dilated at the promise, the threat. It makes a bit of pride swell up on the heat under his skin.
"Well?" He prompted, taking a sip of whiskey and setting his expectant gaze on Edward, still tied up and on his knees (where he should be, his dick screamed).
"I. . . I want you to use me," Oswald will save this confession for late nights alone or early mornings frustrated and not ready to leave bed. He's sure his mind will be able to like now, come up with many images of just how he could use Edward. (On his knees, red-faced and breathtaking, bent over some table or desk, vibrating with need beneath him).
"Now, Edward, I know you've got quite the imagination, why don't you tell me how you think I'd use you?"
"Every way," it's a wistful shuddering sob, "Anything you wanted to do to me,"
It's like a strange, distorted echo of that night. That night, on the couch in front of the fire. Of the things, Edward had said then.
The last time anything had been involved, it sounded like a promise. Now it was a plea.
Oswald's mouth feels suddenly dry, "Well, then," he takes a breath, time to enact some fantasies. (Though not any of the soft ones, those would have to stay buried).
He finishes his glass of whiskey first. Liquid courage and all that nonsense.
He'd still want to sit, of course, his knee has been giving him trouble, and if he was sitting, Ed still on his knees, well, Edward would be at the perfect height to finally put that mouth of his to good use.
He stalks over to one of the shiny faux leather seats, sitting with his legs spread, enough possibly for Ed to squeeze between them. The bulge in his own pants on display, proudly as he leaned back into the seat, watching, looking down at where Ed still kneeled.
This may not have been his throne, but he was still the King of Gotham, and he damn well knew it.
"Are you just going to sit there?" He prompted.
Then Ed was scampering over to him, unable to get to his feet without the use of his arms, and not very coordinated on his knees on the clean tile floors.
There were going to be some bruises on his knees and ankles by the end of this. And Oswald told himself he didn't care. (Why should he, when he's got Ed here, wanting him).
"Good boy,"
The sound he managed to shock out of Ed with the simple praise is absolutely delectable. He had guessed right, then: that every eager-to-please moment he'd born witness to had been hints of this, a deep-set desire for praise and recognition.
That was probably also why he'd been so stupidly adamant about the 'riddler' thing. Though Oswald still thought it was a rather stupid title.
Though he supposed Penguin had never been an intimidating name, in his defense he had not chosen it for himself, just twisted the words meant to mock him into some sort of shield.
"Has anyone told you what a pretty picture you make on your knees?"
"No," was the huffy scoff of a reply. A poor attempt to mask how he'd reacted to being called pretty. (Ever the vain man, not that Oswald could say anything about that).
"Shame," he remarked, light and offhand. Like they were talking about the weather and not the very real effect that the visual of Ed tied up pretty and on his knees at Oswald’s feet had on him. He would keep this for masturbation material later. Try to commit the image to memory.
The next bit of conversation is a bit of a blur. Not because of the drink he'd had or because he was particularly out of it, but because the words exchanged to negotiate exactly what it was they'd be doing was much less interesting than the situation itself. He did remember what it was they'd decided on doing, just not how he and Edward had come to the consensus. Though he was sure given Edward's propensity to be a nuisance it had been at least somewhat frustrating. Or maybe that was just his dick, frustrated at having to wait while terms and boundaries were made known.
It certainly didn't help that Edward's mouth was at just the perfect height to make use of. And even more distracting, Edward had offered it up for use (and his dick seemed to be doing quite a bit of his thinking).
Oswald undid the button on his slacks, it was about time for his poor dick to have some freedom.
He did not miss the sudden hunger in Edward's eyes, or his spit slick, bloody lips falling open. (So he really did want Oswald to use his mouth...)
"You want a taste?"
Edward nods, "Yes," scrambling even closer, his shoulders settling between Oswald’s knees.
Quite possibly the best place for Edward to be while kneeling at his feet.
Edward moans when he grabs ahold of his hair, pulling the man's face closer to his cock.
"It's not going to suck itself, is it? Make yourself useful,"
If he thought he had been a little too rough, or a little too rude, well... Edward didn't seem to mind, wetting his lips and licking a large stripe up his cock.
The sensation made him jump just bit in his seat, pressing his hips forward, more towards the edge, and thus pushing his dick right into Edward's face.
His mouth is so wonderful. Hot and wet and it's only against him now. How good would it be when he was actually inside of that mouth? How good would it be to take ahold of Edward's hair and hold him in place as he fucked into that perfect, wet, warm mouth?
Ed was pressing open mouthed, sloppy wet kisses along the length, making his cock throb all the more.
One of his feet had been caught between Edward's obscenely spread, kneeling legs. He knew he brushed against something as the mouth on his dick made him shudder.
He was not prepared for the feeling of Edward moaning onto his cock. Fuck.
It was Edward's cock. His shoe had brushed against Ed's still confined erection.
Then Edward's mouth was around him, not just on him. Warm and wet and sucking gently on the head. Oh, oh, why hadn't he done this before? Why had it taken him this long to get Edward on his knees? To get his mouth around his cock?
He pressed his foot down again on the tent in Ed's pants as the man took more of him into his mouth.
Oh, the rumble of him moaning around Oswald's cock was so unimaginably better than before. He felt like he might just cum in Ed's mouth right then and there.
(He would like to, have Ed taste him like that. Maybe Edward would even swallow...)
His face had no right looking so pretty like this. The warmth in his gut and chest had no right being as fond as it was. This was supposed to just be sex.
This was getting dangerous.
He pulled Edward off his cock by his hair, trying to get a little bit of that distance back. (His dick was not happy about this).
"I don't think you've earned that privilege completely," he says. If there is a next time, he may have better control of his stupid feelings then. Then he might be able to let Edward suck his cock without getting all soft and vulnerable.
Now, he cards through Edward's hair and wraps his fist around his cock, pressing his foot down and letting Edward grind into the pressure and watch him stroke himself with hungry eyes and a panting, almost drooling mouth.
(Ed had a brief taste and seemed to want it more, now).
The physical distance did not seem to help. His heart was foolish and stubborn like that.
Though getting to hear each and every desperate, wanton sound from his mouth is quite nice. (His dick does at least agree with him there, though it wants to feel the vibrations of Edward's voice).
This plan is... starting to feel a bit stupid.
Why on earth did he think he could fuck the man he still loves (foolishly, even after everything) without it meaning something?
"Please," Ed begs, it's practically the only word still in his vocabulary. Oswald is immensely proud of it, reducing the man obsessed with wordplay to a mindless litany of please and more and Oswald. He especially likes the way Edward pleads with his name, and how wonderful the sounds sound off his lips.
"Please what, Edward?" He asked, narrowing his eyes and taking a long, leisurely stroke of his own cock as he lifted his foot, taking away the stimulation from Edward. He shouldn't love him, not when he looked like this, so disheveled and pathetic and desperate. (Both his dick and his heart disagreed with him on that). (Both were overly fond of this, for similar and different reasons).
"More please,"
How could Oswald refuse, when he was asked so nicely? When he was asked so desperately?
Ed came with a cry that almost sounded like a sob. Loud and a sound that Oswald would certainly be replaying in his head later.
He certainly would remember the image of it, Edward, naked-faced and subject to simple sexual sensation. Vulnerable in a way Oswald thought he would never get to see, much less cause.
It is the perfect image to find his own completion with.
Some of it gets on Edward's face. (And oh, that was a thought for later).
Perhaps the worst thing about coming down from orgasm is the sticky and sweaty feelings it leaves you with. Oswald scowled, carefully standing to get a damp napkin or cloth before his slacks were ruined. He did not envy the sticky mess that Edward would have to walk back to the Narrows in.
Whatever state their relationship may be in now, Oswald was not going to acquire Edward new underwear. That was a problem that Ed would have to deal with on his own.
He does however leave a glass of water and a napkin for Edward to clean up his face with. (Walking across town with cum in your pants was one thing, walking across town with cum on your face was a surefire way to get arrested or accosted).
The ropes took a bit of work to cut through, no matter how sharp the knife in his cane was. (Movies were absolutely ridiculous to show ropes being cut with one swipe). Edward did not attack him as soon as he was free. That was good.
Ed stood, stretching out his legs, righting his clothing. (Scowling a bit as he adjusted his own slacks).
He rubbed at his wrists as Oswald found himself a glass, "Drink?" he asked.
"No thank you," his eyes were quite distracting, and his kiss swollen lips. (Oswald looked away quickly, now was no longer the time for traitorous thoughts like that). Their arrangement was over.
"You can leave now, Edward, And don't start that Penguin act up again unless you want a repeat of today," he waved off, pouring himself a finger of whiskey.
"What if I want a repeat, at least of... after Barbara and her stray kitten left?" That was certainly a question. He hadn't dared to hope this would be more than a one-time thing...
Oswald sipped his whiskey, he needed it. "I think you know how to get here Edward," he said over the rim of his glass.
"I do," Ed nodded, stalling once again instead of turning to leave, "Thank you for not freezing me again, I-" he sighed, "I know it was to torture me but still, thank you,"
Oswald's throat felt dry. His poor, stupid heart was aching. He wanted to apologize he wanted to-
"Goodbye Oswald," at least Edward looked as conflicted as his stupid heart was. He was glad the words didn't have that melancholic note of finality. It was a temporary goodbye, it wasn't a threat. He supposed that was progress. Though he desperately didn't want Ed to leave.
Oh well, he sipped more of his drink, watching the glint of the ice in the club's lights.
He would have to collect the security tapes and erase the past hour (after he made personal copies of course). He wondered if Edward would like a copy; if his narcissism went that far. Or if he'd be upset that there was a record of what happened between them today.