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

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.

[Oswald rears back with with how quickly Ed swings up and flops back into the mattress, not entirely sure what just happened or if he is to blame. He looks to their hands, letting up his grip.]

...what was that? [He cants his head quizzically.] Should... I be concerned?

Edited 2020-01-03 08:27 (UTC)

"He's being difficult," Ed murmurs. "Luckily, he doesn't like, likes the hand massage too much? Both? Don't stop?"

...Uhh, okay? [He's not sure he's following, but he decides it's easier not to ask and gives up with a blink and a puzzled, dismissive toss of his head.]

So, I take it you'd still like me to do your scalp, right? [A tired ache is creeping into his wrists already, though it's nothing a good shaking out can't help, at least a little.] You might actually want to sit up for that. Or turn over, the way you were before. It's up to you.

"Mm... no. I'm comfortable right now. Maybe tomorrow night?" It would be something to look forward to and, in his own strange way, Ed was rationing out Oswald's affection. Careful not to glut himself on what could easily be taken away, to just take a little when offered.

He half opens an eye. "I might try and sleep, if you're staying?"

[He stops briefly to roll the kinks out of his wrists, joints crackling.] Besides a trip to the bathroom? Not sure where else I'd go. [Once Ed drifts off, he'd have little reason not to call it a night.]

Ed is completely out of the habit of getting ready for bed. It's been years, realistically, since he had the luxury.

"Not saying I will. But might try." He might get a couple of hours before he's up and about again.

[He pulls at Ed's fingers from base to tip, rubbing his way up, as though he's trying to work a stubborn ring off.]

Just close your eyes, and whatever happens, happens. If you, Edward Nygma, are able to relax and drift off for a whole minute, then I'll consider it a job well done.

Edited 2020-01-04 01:33 (UTC)

Ed gives a small huff of amusement, giving another, softer groan at the tugging and rubbing. "Mm. 'Kay."

[The alarm clock's display glows red his vision, blurry shapes merging into blurry numbers as he rubs his eye, blinking.

Oswald doesn't know how long he has lain awake, staring hazily into space as the mansion breathes and settles around him. Or how long it was until he knew, really knew, that he's somewhere far from Blackgate; somewhere warm and soft and quiet where he can stretch himself out in all directions and not bump a wrist or foot into a wall. Figuring out why he's still awake is easy enough, though: the tingling fullness in his bladder is impossible to miss.

He sits himself up, slouched, swaying woozily. He looks to the space beside him, a vague memory of Ed and of lying in bed together washing over him. It feels like it was days ago, faraway. He can't even say for sure he hadn't dreamt it the way he dreamt of mother, sometimes, her crooning voice and the touch of her hand so real he'd sob himself awake, his pillow damp under his cheek.

There's a crack of light under the door to the master bathroom; puzzling, maybe even slightly worrying, if he were more alert. But having forgotten it on is possible, he decides, when he clearly hadn't been bothered to change out of his rumpled trousers and dress shirt from the day before. Yawning, he limps to the door and turns the knob without a second thought.]

Edited 2020-01-04 08:17 (UTC)

Ed had slept a few hours.

He had got up, shuffled about for a bit, read for a while in the library and come back to get another nap. He didn't actually manage a nap, though he was content to just lie quietly, watching Oswald's sleeping face, until he decided to give up and just get up for the day.

It was far, far too early for Oswald to get up. Ed tucked him back into the blankets and decided to use the master bathroom, because he'd been living here for a while and had been using the nicer master suite for washing up.

His shower isn't long. Enough to pink and relax his skin, so he shaved in the shower, lingering a little longer and then getting out. He's careful to be quiet, to not disturb Oswald's sleep (pain is exhausting and Oswald's learning to sleep again without anxiety) and so he decides to dry off in here and then just make his way to his own wardrobe. They can discuss Oswald's suggestion of him staying in the master suite full time over breakfast.

It's these thoughts keeping him occupied while he starts drying. Starts with his hair, towelling it off, stop it dripping down when he gets to his skin and the door opens and the cooler air is what actually pulls him from his own head to look in the bathroom cabinet mirror, back at the door.

Towel half over his head, dressed only in his skin and water droplets.

Ed squeaks.

Riddler lowers his hands from his head and watches to see what the blur in the mirror does.

[Oswald stops cold in the doorway, his hand clamped around the knob. He doesn't just look at Ed -- he gawks at him, as if he has grown another head, sleep-fogged and floundering over what to make of that long stretch of skin, seamed and freckled with scars.

His brow furrows, mouth falling open.] Ed...?

[Not just Ed, but more of Ed than he's ever seen or expected to see. Lean and long-limbed, Oswald's gaze helplessly tracing the strong curve of his shoulders, the tapering of his waist into narrow hips--

He quickly glances away, stomach flipping as he backs out and jerks the door shut.

Just outside the bathroom, he's hit by a surge of adrenaline, his pulse racing in his throat. One of many unspoken cardinal rules from Blackgate comes rushing back: don't stare at anyone, especially not in the shower, unless you're asking to be beaten into the floor.

Reeling to the guest bathroom two rooms down the hall, he stops to piss and then wash his hands and face, his bleary-eyed, dripping reflection looking downright mortified. Soap and makeup hisses down the drain. He touches his tongue to his pinkish lip scar, running though dozens of possible scenarios and dialogue options and wishing he could just go back to bed and pretend the glimpse he had of Ed hasn't already burned itself into his brain.

But if Ed is still holed up in the master bathroom on his return, he'll fish out one of his father's bathrobes and knock meekly with it in hand, meaning to offer it in a quasi-apology in case Ed has somehow forgotten to take a change of clothes in with him.]

Edited 2020-01-04 23:10 (UTC)

"Well," Riddler comments to the mirror. "That was different."

Ed is bright with embarrassment. "He couldn't stop staring at how awful it is."

"Edward, darling, don't be dumber than nature intended. That was not horror, or disgust, or anything other than pure, unadulterated desire. Until he panicked, that was less ideal." Riddler continues drying off and then wraps the towel around his waist.

"Are- are you sure?"

"How is it I'm the virgin and you're the one who can't spot genuine interest when it's staring at your ass? No, never mind, I remember your choices, you're banned from deciding when people want you, you'll just get us in trouble with Oswald. I think he's going to be very jealous and possessive... Come in, Oswald. Ed and I were just talking about you."

Riddlers turns around, leaning back against the sink and watching the door. "I'm wearing a towel, Ed's modesty will be preserved."

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