Actions

Work Header

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell.

Work Text:

Ed takes in a shuddering breath as he walks into the study of the Van Dahl mansion, hesitating before fully entering; Oswald Cobblepot is perched on the armrest of the large loveseat, holding up a glass of scotch and staring into it inquisitively.

“You think you’d at least re-stock the liquor cabinet after shooting me,” he ponders, “instead of forcing me to drink this swill.

Without looking in Oswald’s direction, Ed unbuttons his jacket and sits behind the large mahogany desk before uncapping a pen and beginning his work.

“You’ve already tried this,” Oswald says, suddenly appearing beside him.

Ed jumps, dragging an ugly line across the sheet he was filling in. He frowns down at it.

“Ignoring me won’t work.”

“Leave me alone, Oswald. Don’t you have anything better to do?” Ed says, gritting his teeth, while re-writing out the ruined form.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Not really, no.”

“Well could you at least stop talking?

Finally looking up to glare at his hallucination, Oswald mimes zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key, before sitting on the corner of the desk with a grin. Ed dutifully ignores the way murky water splashes his glasses and the papers in front of him.

When the room is blissfully silent, the only sound Ed can hear is the popping of the fireplace and the slow ticking of an elegant grandfather clock in the corner of the room. But of course, the silence was never meant to last, because Oswald starts to whistle, of all things.

It’s easy to ignore at first; being able to focus on the task at hand is something Ed’s always been adept at, but it’s more the choice of song that causes Ed to sit up straight in annoyance, slamming the pen down harshly.

Oswald is whistling Staying Alive. The Beegees? That’s what this has come to? He’s nodding his head, his smile betraying a look of innocence.

“I thought I asked you to shut. Up.” Ed grits out.

He shakes his head, “You said to ‘stop talking.’ I am therefore whistling.”

Pulling off his glasses, Ed puts his head in his hands, elbows on the desk. He pulls at his hair and groans, lamenting the peace and quiet he used to enjoy.

“Since you don’t appreciate my ‘not talking’, I have a question.” He’s clearly enjoying Ed’s suffering. “What’s with…” he stops a moment before gesturing to all of Ed, “this.”

“Is there anything I can say to make you leave?”

Ignoring his protest, Oswald continues, “I mean, why not go one step further and get a question mark cane,” he says gesturing to Ed once more, before stopping in pretend horror. “…oh god, you would too. I shouldn’t be giving you any ideas.”

“What are you talking about…you have a penguin cane”, Ed bites back.

“But at least it’s stylish…which is clearly not a thing in your vocabulary judging by that awful hat and simply garish green suit.”

Snarling, Ed stands. “Go. Away!”

Somehow that seems to be the reaction Oswald wants, as he pushes Ed back into his chair and straddles him, suddenly strong and resistant against any protests.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?” Oswald whispers against his lips, grinding down on Ed’s crotch, his mood instantly different.

No,” Ed grits out, desperately wishing he could simply push the man off, but his arms feel like lead from the sudden onslaught.

“I know you do. I know you fantasize about this, Ed. I’m in your head, remember?” Oswald grins wickedly, before biting at his neck.

Ed can’t help but let out a throaty groan at the burst of heat that shoots between his legs. He squeezes his eyes shut willing the apparition to go away, but the pressure on his lap never fades.

“Why are you doing this?” Ed whispers, feeling helplessly aroused.

Oswald pulls away from his neck to reach down and palm at Ed’s hardening cock. “Because you could’ve had this and so much more.”

With that, Oswald connects their lips, filthily licking into Ed’s mouth, making him moan and quiver. Ed gives in and finally brings up his hands to Oswald’s back, pushing them both together, letting himself feel what he’s tried to ignore for weeks.

“Os-Oswald,” Ed grunts, nibbling at his neck and thrusting up, brushing their clothed cocks together.

They both continue to grunt and moan, refusing to speak as they thrust and rub together, chasing pleasure, and savouring the moment. Ed knows this is what he’s wanted for so long, but he’s glad Oswald was the first to take it, though he’ll never admit it.

Ed continues to grip onto Oswald’s shoulders, biting at his lips and neck until he comes, groaning into Oswald’s pale inviting neck. The pressure around him finally disappears.

When he looks up, panting and nearly delirious, Oswald is gone and the room is empty. He drags a hand down his face, trying to ignore the dampness in his trousers, wondering how he managed to end up here.