Kinktober Day Two: Kidnapping
Jason has an admirer -- one who isn't inclined to be subtle.
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Consciousness returns to Jason slowly, like approaching a landmark shrouded in fog. His head is pounding, his thoughts sluggish, and his tongue feels heavy and fuzzy in his mouth.
It takes him longer than he'd like to drag together his scattered wits and assess his situation, whatever he was dosed with making what's normally a reflex into a herculean task.
Last he remembered, he had been on a rooftop, taking a breather after a fight with Black Mask's goons. There had been- something. A sound, maybe. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
And then it all went black.
He tries to stretch, to feel out his limbs since the room around him is dark, but he's met with the clink of chains and the sensation of swaying.
Alarm shoots through him, not quite managing to burn through the artificial haziness. His limbs jolt and flail, making him twist and swing in the restraints suspending him in the air.
The thrashing makes him realize something else, something that sends a confusing thrill down his spine.
He's naked. Completely and utterly bare, except for his helmet.
Fear and confusion and something hot coil low in his stomach, his mind racing as much as it can through the fog. None of his enemies would pull something like this — which means he's dealing with an unknown. One that's…interested in him in ways that make his mouth go dry.
It's sick. Perverse. But he can feel his skin heating and his breathing going heavy, dark arousal simmering in his veins. What the hell was he dosed with?!
The sound of a door creaking open and a wash of dim light makes him go still. He strains his eyes to try and see the figure that steps into the room, but he can't even make out their gender from their build, much less any details of their features. It's not just whatever drugs are in his system — there's something wrong with the lenses of his helmet, like a blurry film over his vision.
"Who are you?" Jason tries to make himself sound firm, tries to be intimidating, but the voice modulator in his helmet must be on the fritz — there's no other explanation for the way his voice wavers. Right? "What do you want?"
The figure doesn't answer, but Jason can almost feel their amusement. And their gaze…it's like a physical thing, a caress against his skin. He twitches away when they approach, twisting against his bonds when a gloved hand skims up his thigh.
"What-" Jason gasps, his voice failing and his legs twitching, uncertain if he's trying to get away or get closer. It feels like the sensitivity of every nerve is dialed past eleven, exposed and raw and almost needy.
Leather-clad hands move over his skin with a proprietary air, like they have every right to be there. To be touching him like this.
He can feel the warmth of their body near his, and some distant part of him insists he should be resisting. That he should be fighting. But as those hands move further up his body, guiding and arranging his limbs just so, he finds that he can't.
Maybe it's the drugs. Maybe it's some fucked up, morbid curiosity.
Or maybe it's the dark, quiet part of himself that he tries not to think about, the part that craves this. That longs to be owned. To be taken. To be obsessed over.
Whatever it is, it means he doesn't thrash or resist when those hands roam, only squirming as they map every dip and curve and line of his body. It means that the pleasure that pools in his gut is only tinted by shame, rather than drowned in it.
"What do you want from me?" He whispers as his head is tilted carefully back. A bitten off gasp slips from his lips in the wake of his fruitless question, drawn from him by the press of lips against his throat.
If they were rougher, he might be able to resist, to convince himself this doesn't feel good. But they're not — the kisses that trail down his neck and over his collarbone are hot and wet and reverent. Like he's something sacred, something prized. Something to be worshiped.
"Sh- shit-" He pants when that mouth moves down over his chest, lips and tongue working against one stiff, pebbled nipple as a gloved hand pinches the other. It feels like there's a line straight from his nipples to his cock, every brush of tongue and teeth making him harder. His hips twitch, moving in little, unconscious circles to try and chase stimulation that isn't there. He's so hard it hurts, and they've barely touched him.
The figure pulls off his nipple with a wet sound, their teeth tugging lightly one last time before they switch focus to the other one. He whines, despite his best efforts to suppress it, and jerks his hips in a silent plea for something more.
For a beat, he thinks they'll ignore that wordless request. But, despite their focus on his chest, they do notice —and he can feel them smile.
They drag briefly back and seem to do something with their hands, taking off one of their gloves. While they lean back in to recapture his abused nipple between their lips, their hand moves down. The skin-to-skin contact is even more intense, even with so light of a touch, and he nearly sobs when they bypass his aching length altogether.
"Please," He hears himself beg, earning a soft chuckle from his captor. He opens his mouth to beg again, only for a wanton moan to escape instead — that was the moment they decided to slide two spit-slicked fingers inside of him.
There's a bit of a burn, as he's breached. A stretch as his body learns to accommodate the warm fingers inside. But it feels good, surprisingly good, and it feels even better when their fingers move. They're careful, and relaxed, like they have all the time in the world to unravel him. He can't stop the noises that escape him — the whimpers, the moans, the desperate little whines. He's never felt like this, never been touched like this, never been taken apart, piece by piece.
It's torture.
And it's bliss.
And when their fingers find that spot inside him, the one he knew vaguely about but never really bothered with, he can't think of anything at all. Nothing but the white-hot, all-consuming pleasure of their fingers inside him and their mouth on his skin. He barely even registers the physical sensations of his own orgasm, barely notices the way his cock twitches and his cum paints both their bodies. All he can do is shudder and moan and beg incoherently for more, his mind blank but for one thought: he wants to stay like this forever.
