theansweris | PSL 03: tact from me is like blood from a stone

Riddler gets up easily and takes the offered arm, shifting their weight to help and keep the weight off Oswald's bad leg. "I have no idea whatsoever, both are wholly unknown to me."

Then you're in for a treat.

[The second floor is a long ways up for him, a daunting climb each and every time. Even leaning on Ed - hip-checking him on every other step - he's a little breathless when he arrives at the top. He refuses to pause and keep Ed waiting but he holds off on talking until after they've entered the master bedroom.

Sweat glistens at his hairline while he leans in the doorway a moment.]

...Let's start with your hands. Or the one. [He suggests, shutting the door behind him.] It'll ease you in and you'll see how you feel. However you want to sit or lie down doesn't really matter. Just make yourself comfortable, and I'll take care of the rest.

[He teases the dimmer switch, toning down the brightness in the room to a fuzzy glow.]

Atmosphere, my dear friend, is everything.

They show their usual patience with moving Oswald. Taking as long as necessary, helping as much as allowed and then pulling out a handkerchief and pressing it to Oswald's hand, to let him clean up.

He takes off his own shoes, eyeing the room for the first time with mind to whether or not they could live in here together. Ed doesn't need much from a space he rests in. He considers the library far more his domain than anywhere with a bed.

The vest comes off and is hung over a chair. He stretches out on the bed, in his shirt and pants and socks and then sets his glasses aside. They're not comfortable to wear face planted in a pillow.

[The bed dips lightly as he climbs into it, settling beside Ed. His pulse quickens watching the steady rise and fall of Ed's back; he's beyond delighted to be the one to spoil him in such a personal, intimate way.

Chafing his hands to warm them, he then takes Ed's and lays it over one of his crossed legs, pausing to look up at the back of Ed's head. His fingers hover at Ed's shirt cuff.]

May I?

[Rolling up a sleeve may not be on the level of opening someone's shirt, but asking feels appropriate still.]

Edited 2020-01-02 06:31 (UTC)

Another moment and Ed rolls onto his back, squirming to get comfortable. "He likes face planting more than I do," he comments softly. "And of course."

His wrists are thinner and bonier than they were, but still strong and only lightly scarred from his years of being active in science.

[Oswald lifts his hands away like a guilty man caught in the act, waiting for Ed to quit fussing and relax before guiding him back into place, turning his palm upwards.]

I was wondering when you were gonna come up for air. [Oswald remarks in the midst of gingerly sliding up Ed's sleeve to the elbow. He starts with a few long, easy strokes from palm to wrist to halfway up his forearm, one after another, alternating hands.]

...If I'm pressing too hard or not hard enough, let me know.

"He likes to sprawl. Face down. Face up. Even asleep he has to announce his presence." He closes his eyes, unable to see without the glasses anyway. He might as well just relax.

Ed's forearms are fairly unremarkable. Pale skin and a single drop scar from where some kind of acid must've splashed above gloves and below clothing when he was back in college.

"Harder is fine. There's a lot of pretty tense muscles and tendons."

[Oswald doesn't raise his head.]

I don't doubt it.

[He says, a vicarious tingly pleasure sweeping through him while pushing into Ed's palm and working slow, deepening circles outwards into the meatier parts under Ed's thumb and fingers. The rasp of skin on skin is sharp in his silence; it's hard resisting the urge to fill it when this all feels like something he's getting away with, a forbidden luxury. A whole other side of Ed he's experiencing for the very first time.]

Good?

Ed sighs out a soft breath and lets himself just feel Oswald's hands working on his own. He doesn't quite stifle the groan when his thumbs press harder and deeper, because it feels good. Unequivocally good. Which is not something that happens often.

"Uh-huh."

[Whether it's pain or pleasure that he's hearing, he can't tell. But that Ed isn't yanking his hand away is encouraging. Smiling to himself, he rolls his knuckles along his arm and back, a gentle stretching of tendons, eventually shifting his focus to knead Ed's wrist and the heel of his hand.]

You've been hard at work... [he clasps Ed's thumb in his fist, tugging in slow, twisting strokes] ...and definitely overdue for a little TLC, I'd say.

The noise Ed makes is accidentally pornographic when Oswald sets into the ball of his thumb, digging in and pulling to try and loosen the muscles. "That- good."

He's not going to get any sleep, but he can certainly enjoy it.

[Oswald lifts his head, blinking. It's unlike anything he's heard from Ed before - and the effect on him is as unexpected as is immediate, his insides knotting up with the same guilty-good, squirming satisfaction from earlier.]

Wow... [He giggles in a soft, self-conscious way, realizing his hands have gone still.] That's quite the vote of confidence.

[He can't pretend he isn't eager to wring another moan like that from Ed's throat; but for now, he resists the urge and dutifully works on Ed's thumb and fingers in the interest of being thorough, squeezing each from base to tip and shaking them out.] You must be pretty tense.

Ed blushes slightly when he realises how that sounded, biting on his lower lip. "Should I be apologising?" For the moan, at least, since Oswald stilled briefly.

As for his hands... "I'm usually fairly tightly strung. And we did a lot of lock picking and rewiring last night." Breaking and entering without anyone noticing takes effort, especially from the hands.

For what? [He can only chuckle at the question.] It's about as gratifying as feedback gets.

[While rubbing at the web of Ed's thumb:] I meant to ask whether you wanted me to use some lotion for this or not. I'm not a fan of the greasiness, myself, but you might find that it enhances the experience.

[There is just the thing on his nightstand, conveniently enough, lavender-scented and a favourite for his knuckles and roughened elbows.]

"Uh-uh." He doesn't open his eyes and use proper words, just a sound of disagreement and a shake of the head. He's fine with this exactly as is. He has a preference for gloves for many reasons, but not liking the sensation of greasy things on his hands in among them.

As Oswald pinches and works the flesh, Ed feels the semi permanent headache flare a tiny bit and then ease as Oswald manages to hit the accupressure spot in question and Ed sinks with a contented sigh and soft moan.

[Ed's quieting, calming, and Oswald can't help regarding him fondly. It's a world of touch Ed deserves, not just as his partner but as someone who has apparently gone without for this long, and he's happy to have a part in it. Happy to displace dark, bleak memories with something better, at least for a while.]

You really do have pretty hands... [Graceful and deadly, wrapped around someone's neck. In a strange way, half their beauty lies in their capacity for violence, and as he lifts Ed's to place a tender kiss over one knuckle, an equally strange twinge of lust snaps through him, defiant; one that no man harmed by those very same hands should ever feel.]

One eye cracks open at the comment about his hands being pretty, because Ed doesn't think of anything of his as pretty. He knows he's very expressive with his hands (and Riddler more so) and Oswald commented once, long ago, that he had perfect pianist hands.

"Pianist hands," he murmurs, eyes slitted to watch the blur of Oswald's face as his hand is lifted and softly kissed. "You're not as pretty with the eyepatch, but you're more... rakish."

[Stopping, he glances at Ed from over his hand, that lost, unguarded expression on his face again - the look of a little boy who is only just realizing the world isn't half as kind as his own mother. The moment passes and he purses his lips, his gaze turning inward, shuttered. It's a while before an answer comes to him. He tries for a smile, belatedly. A wry twitch of amusement is the most he can do.]

I assume I'm meant to take that as a compliment.

[Ed's hand is lowered, laid over the bed. He stares at it dully and sighs, not wanting to let half a comment sink his mood any further; he had made Ed an offer and he'd damn well finish the job and enjoy himself doing it. Taking a breath, he begins crawling - awkwardly, thanks to the knee - around Ed to get on the other side of him. No need for climbing when there's room.]

"It makes you more real. Like you're someone I could actually touch and hold." Otherwise, Oswald was delicate looking, fragile, ethereal. "And we'll make you something to replace it and you'll look pretty again, like you don't belong in my world."

His voice is soft and slightly awestruck. Pretty or rakish, it's an adoring tone that both looks work just fine for him. He shifts his legs to help Oswald, rolling onto his side to face him. "I think you're always beautiful."

[Oswald snorts quietly. He nods at his lap, sucking in his cheek.] That's a pretty good save.

[A laugh lumps, aching, in his throat, never making it out. Blinking and blinking, he fights off a sudden wave of tears by sheer force of will and tries to shake his head clear, the massage serving as the distraction he needs, an excuse to avoid Ed's gaze. It's back to work and he takes his time with it, focusing hard on Ed's hand as if the answers to everything can be found in the lines etched into it. He never believed in palmistry, but would indulge his mom's favourable predictions for his future. Whether she was honest in her readings or only telling him what they both of them wanted to hear, he doesn't know, or care; all that matters was the time they shared together while they could, all these moments he'd never have again.]

You seemed to like this the most [he points out, burrowing lightly into the ball of Ed's thumb after limbering up his fingers] ...so I'm going to give it some extra attention.

Ed's eyes are closing again and his gaze is completely unfocused regardless, his glasses tucked safely away.

He moans again when Oswald starts on his right hand, because if the left was tense, the right is even worse from constant use, especially scribbling hand notes over the last week. He hums agreement that he does like this, a lot, and groans deeper, rumbling from the chest.

[As little as it took to drag him down, the pure satisfaction of doing something right, of manipulating tendons and muscle in just the way he needs to, pulls him right back into the experience. He's a simple man in some respects, and there's something about the low, guttural pitches Ed is hitting that is hard to resist, colour staining his cheeks with a feeling somewhere between excitement and second-hand embarrassment.]

You could perform some variation of this on yourself, easily enough.

[He eases off that tender spot, tracing feather-light, ticklish spirals over his palm for a brief change of pace.]

Although I suspect it wouldn't be nearly as satisfying for either of us.

"Pff." Why would he do it himself? He'd cramp one hand trying to massage the other, it all sounded rather counter productive.

And then Ed makes an entirely undignified noise at the tickle, fingers twitching and arm jerking. "Tickles..."

Can't have you getting too used to deeper pressure, now can I? [He teases. But even as he says it, his thumbs seek the fleshy part of Ed's hand again and push into it, rocking, determined to soften him up.]

Riddler surges up before Ed can stop him, grinning wide. "I can think of some deeper pressu- oh." He sinks back into the pillows with a moan and exhale.

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truly a handjob

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