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bakerstreet2017-03-18 11:15 pm
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"Crane..."
That much, he can recognize. Dick bites his lip, brow furrowing. "Wh-what..." What's going on? What did Crane do to him? Why is he here? But his tongue doesn't cooperate and his mind loses each question as quickly as he thinks them.
He strains against his bonds again, a weak attempt to free himself, but drops back to the bed with a loud moan as it, again, jostles the dildo. "Aah..."
The slow drag of the toy inside him makes him gasp and tremble in place, his muscles tensing and releasing in turn as he struggles to make sense of the words.
"They-- They'll come." He's so sure of it, even as he can't be sure of who the they he speaks of is. But he knows, somehow, that someone will be concerned, that someone will come for him.
For now, though, he whimpers wordlessly, lifting his hips as he tries to follow the toy that has left him feeling empty. It's still stretching him open but it's not--enough. Not like it was.
There's a heat beneath his skin, an itch that needs to be scratched, and he pants as he stares blearily through the lenses of his mask at the ceiling. There's a rough scratching at his cheek, a kiss, his drug-addled mind supplies, and it makes him moan, makes his head tip back.
"N-no, oh," he tries, making an attempt to turn away from the faint scratch of sharp points that drag down his cheek. There's uncertainty and fear both, and it wars with the desire that burns inside him.
But then his back bows sharply and he cries out, a sound of protest and gratitude both as he's filled once more. His legs aren't tied, and he spreads them, mindlessly displaying himself as he tilts his hips to meet the thrust of the toy.
He has enough sense of self to know to fear Crane's threat, and Nightwing weakly shakes his head, his lips parting in a breathy exhale. Still, despite his best attempts, his body is not his own, and he ends up planting his feet flatness against the bed as he spreads his knees wide, whining softly as he rocks his hips down in time with the toy.
For all that he'd been slowly fucking himself down onto the toy that thrusts rhythmically inside him, he'd somehow missed how hard he'd grown. The touch makes him jerk with a shout, disrupting the rhythm and making the next thrust in feel as though it's extra hard, reaching deep inside him.
Panting, he writhes against his bonds, the sheets of the bed twisting under him as he struggles to rock down onto the toy and up into the touch--and he wants more.
No, no he doesn't. This isn't right, is it? The drugged fog is slowly dissipating, but not nearly quickly enough. Nightwing gasps, pants, his flexibility on full display as he tries to spread himself open further in a bid for more.
The moment the motion stops, he's shaking in his bonds, struggling as he tries to regain some of the friction. His mask prevents Crane from seeing the way his gaze is bleary and how his pupils are blown wide, but his expression is clear from the bright flush on his cheeks and the way he pants, lips parted as he tries to squeeze down on the toy.
"P-please..." It's hard to say whether or not he's agreeing with the doctor, or if he just wants more. It's hard for him to know, but he thinks his skin will split if he doesn't get some sort of relief soon.
The way the toy drags out makes him claw at the ropes holding him still, the young hero sobbing in dismay as he left open and empty, hips humping desperately as he tries to find some form of satisfaction. But with the toy gone and Crane's hand no longer on his cock, he gets nothing.
"Please," he begs, and something inside him knows this is wrong, but he can't be bothered to care, not when there's a fire burning him up from inside. There's a slight pressure against him, and Nightwing knows he shouldn't be begging like this, but it's just a tease, making his aching emptiness all the more apparent. "Please, please, god-- I need it, I need it!"
One hand has the sharp prickling sensation of cold needles against his over-heated skin, and Nightwing moans for it. He folds up slightly, abdomen tensing as he wraps his legs around Crane's hips.
"A-ah, please! I want--you, oh," the words and sounds come out in time with the thrusting as he's rocked back and forth on the bed.
Nightwing whimpers, his head falling back.
He can't-- There's something-- What...
Between each half-formed thought, there's a sudden burst of pleasure as he gasps and begs, filth falling from between his lips as he tries to drag his partner closer.
The night. The ambush. The fire that burns within him. The overwhelming terror. The pricking of needles. The friction that keeps him hard and dripping.
"Crane--" he breathes, "Ah, Crane--a-ah... Oh!" It all comes back to him in a rush, just in time for a particularly harsh thrust that makes him shout.
He tenses, but all that does is make him clench down around the hard cock rocking inside him. His thighs are spread wide, keeping him open and vulnerable, and he's so hard he's leaking down onto his stomach.
"D-don't, ah, ah...!"
The thing is-- He knows that it isn't an empty threat. Crane's done it before; got some sort of perverse pleasure out of wringing wanton pleas and orgasms from Nightwing even as he wept and shook in terror.
He shuts his eyes. It's not that he finds Crane horrific, he's just-- This isn't the first, second, or even third time they've ended up fucking. It's just that each time, he can't justify it to himself, can't convince himself that it's okay.
The Scarecrow is a villain. Every time they meet, it's because Nightwing is there to stop some sort of scheme Scarecrow has hatched.
But then Crane takes his cock in hand, and Nightwing bites down hard on his lip to try and hold back the needy sound he makes.
He's not far from it, that's the problem. Despite his weak protests, he's rocking down onto Crane's cock even as he pushes up into Crane's hand.
The spill of warmth inside him is unmistakable, but it mostly did nothing but make him burn even hotter, and he tenses, struggling to stay quiet even as sounds of pleasure keep slipping out.
A few more thrusts, and he's coming with a loud cry, wrists rubbed raw by the ropes keeping his arms bound by his head.
He pants heavily for air, dragging in each precious breath with a faint sort of desperation. "Why do this at all?" He has to know.
Nightwing moans, shifting as he tries in vain to move away. It makes him aware of Crane slowly softening inside him, though, and he bites his lip, going still again. "You should hate me," he says weakly.
The answer should be fast and easy, but he can't say it, can't say the yes that he knows Crane expects. Nightwing looks away, beginning to shiver as the sweat slowly begins to evaporate from his skin. No, he doesn't hate him.
"Are you going to dose me?" he asks instead.
"Thank you." It's quiet and sincere, and in return, he doesn't move to free himself. Not just yet. "My uniform?"
Before the other man pulls away, Nightwing calls out to him again: "Crane. You don't have to do this." He has to try. Every time, he fails. But he still has to try.
"Come back with me."
He's not fighting, not right now. He's not even working to free himself just yet.
His shoulders slump as much as they can with his wrists still bound. "I can't live your life. You know that."
He brings his legs together, crossing them as demurely as he can and winces at the burn in his thighs. Tomorrow, he's going to be sore.
"Why me?"
He isn't stupid enough to expect that, but he did hope for some sort of answer. Nightwing sighs and turns his head, looking away.
For a moment after Crane leaves, Nightwing stares at the ceiling, shaken. And then he moves, undoing his bonds and dressing as quickly as he can. As expected, his legs are weak and the rope had left marks on his wrists, but he pushes that to the side.
There'll be a lecture, later, for going MIA for a few hours.
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