Author: chi-chi-chimera PM
Pretty much an excuse for a kinky PWP, Hooded Justice/Captain Metropolis. Warnings: BDSM, bondage, erotic asphyxiation.Rated: Fiction M - English - Hurt/Comfort/Romance - H. Justice & C. Metropolis - Words: 2,902 - Favs: 7 - Published: 03-30-11 - Status: Complete - id: 6856865
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Nelson is pointedly ignoring H.J. when they get back to the Minutemen's headquarters. His - partner? Boyfriend? Lover? – keeps on going too far. Nelson does his best, but really, H.J. doesn't listen to him /that/ much, and especially not about violence. Not about crime. If the people he fights get put in the hospital, and sometimes they don't come out again, that can only be a good thing in his book. But it's /not/ a good thing, and it's /not/ why Nelson got into crime fighting.
"You didn't have to do that!" he says finally, when the rest of the Minutemen have gone off to their rooms, or to get something to eat. He doesn't want to argue in public. "He was already down, you didn't need to keep on at him like that!"
H.J. just looks at him. It's hard to tell what he's thinking under the hood, with only his eyes visible. "He was scum," he replies. "and he got what was coming to him." Nelson glares.
"That's not how we're meant to do things! That isn't what being a hero is about!"
H.J. takes a step towards him. He's a lot taller, and he has a tendency to loom. Not that Nelson really... minds. He wets suddenly dry lips. This is a very inappropriate time to be feeling any kind of attraction. "Of course that's what it's about," he tells him, voice low and rough with mild annoyance. "It's about punishing people who need punished." His hand snakes up to tighten around Nelson's throat. He gulps. He really shouldn't like this as much as he does. It isn't right... not moral by the standards of anyone else, except apparently H.J, but he just... can't resist it.
"Maybe... maybe you're right," he stammers, because with his fingers around his neck, H.J. is in charge here, and what he says goes, even if it's about beating up criminals.
"My room. Now," H.J. growls, and lets go of him. Nelson nods, uncomfortably hard inside the cup he wears for protection on the streets.
"Yes sir," he says, and loves it.
H.J. keeps a lock on the door to his room because, well, the Comedian likes to snoop around sometimes, and H.J. has a lot of rope and leather and other things that really would be a good idea to keep under wraps. He locks the door behind them as well. It doesn't hurt to be careful, and to Nelson anyway, it adds... something. An extra layer to what they do. (Though he doesn't like to think about it in exact terms, although he's not sure, but maybe he likes the idea of that shame too.)
H.J. doesn't give him any warning before he grabs him by the front of his costume and slams him against the wall. Nelson's head hits the plaster, and it /hurts/ but at the same time, it's exactly what he wants. H.J. presses up against him, a block of taut, rock-hard muscle. Nelson can feel the heat of him through their costumes.
"As I said, sometimes people have to be punished." He leans in even closer, breath warm even through the mask against his ear. "Do you want me to punish you?"
"Yes… oh, yes, please!" Nelson says breathlessly. He wants it /so much/ he can hardly move with tense anticipation, tight expectation that makes his skin tingle.
H.J. hits him; a back handed slap that makes his cheeks sting. He relishes the quick rush of pain. H.J. does it again, over and over until his face is reddened, and his lip splits from the impact of his knuckles. Nelson runs his tongue over the delicate skin, tasting blood, wet and dark and coppery. He wants more. He looks up at H.J., meets eyes as dark with lust as his own. He knows H.J. loves this, loves to watch the pain, knows it's the reason he is so brutal. He doesn't like it, but… they have this, and maybe it makes up for the knowing.
H.J. pulls him away from the wall, grabbing his arm and twisting it up behind his back, making him hiss, and arch away from the sharp strain of muscles and ligaments that aren't meant to stretch that far, and it's good, so good. He whines with need and pain as H.J. kicks his feet out from under him and he falls to his knees next to the bed. He hears the sound of a drawer opening and closing next to him, but he doesn't try to turn his head and see. Not knowing is better. The surprise of it. H.J's free hand comes round, opening up his collar, baring his throat. His skin is dappled with sweat despite the cool air. H.J's grip moves down off his wrist for a moment, and then he feels rope being tied there. H.J. moves quickly, pulling it into a secure knot, tugging on it to make sure it's tight, looping it up and round his neck, then roughly jerking his other arm into the same agonising position and tying it in place too. Nelson can't help but bare his teeth at the fierce ache. He doesn't cry out though. He can barely move, and the weight of his arms trying to pull themselves back to where they ought to be is cutting off his air. The rope chafes angrily over his throat. He knows there will be nasty marks there after this. He doesn't mind. He wears high collars for a reason. H.J. likes the marks too. It's a… possession thing, he said once.
Nelson is expecting the next step. The blindfold is red silk; the same colour as his costume. H.J. ties it tightly, his movements rough. The smooth darkness envelops him, oddly comforting. H.J. doesn't want him to know what he looks like; won't even tell him his real name. Nelson guesses he understands the need for privacy, but that doesn't mean he doesn't wish H.J. would trust him.
He hears the sound of H.J. pulling his hood off behind him, then warm lips at his ear, tongue tracing along the edge before teeth bite down, sharp enough to feel just right. The rough hairs of H.J's beard – and that's the only thing he knows about the man – scratch a little at the soft skin of his jaw. H.J. kneels down behind him, chest pressing along his back as he reaches around to undo his belt, and Nelson shivers with lust. "Oh /yes/ H.J, /please/!" he says, though it comes out more as a breathy moan. He doesn't mind that it sounds like begging. Right here, right now, he has thrown whatever pride he had away. H.J. can do whatever he wants with him, and he will beg for all of it.
H.J. trails his bites down Nelson's neck, pausing to lap at the already red marks being left by the chafing rope. So far it isn't choking him too much, just making him breathe shallower and faster than normal, but his arms are growing ever more strained. He can't let them hang naturally for fear of being strangled, but the muscles are threatening to start spasming; already overtaxed. He can't help but love the feeling though; the slow, sullen ache and the chill frission of fear. He can trust H.J. not to let things go /too/ far though. He always knows when to stop.
H.J. pulls his pants and boxers down, letting them pool around his knees, and cards his fingers through the light blonde hair in Nelson's groin, digging his teeth into the skin at the nape of his neck.
"You need to be punished, don't you," H.J. hisses into his ear, and then abruptly his hands are gone as he stands up. Nelson twists blindly at the sudden loss of contact, needing that touch. The movement makes the pain in his shoulders jump, and he lets out a choked whimper. He wants more though; wants more pain because even this isn't enough.
H.J.'s fingers are suddenly twisting in his hair, tangling strands that are slightly stiff with a small amount of Brylcreem. "Get up," he snarls, and tugs hard, making Nelson moan with the pain and pleasure of it. It isn't easy to follow the order with his arms tied like that, with his balance off, but he manages it. H.J. gives him a violent push, unexpected, sending him sprawling on the bed. He hears H.J. make a satisfied noise, and his footsteps move across the carpet. He turns his head to follow the noise, even though he can't see a thing. The silky darkness of the blindfold remains impenetrable.
There is another noise, which he thinks is the opening and closing of the closet door, and then H.J. is coming back, humming with pleasure, a swishing noise slicing through the air as he walks. Nelson feels his muscles tighten in anticipation. He knows what's coming next, and he can't wait for it.
The first stroke of the riding crop cracks down hard on his buttocks, the initial sharp sting of impact spreading out in a slow, warm burn that feels /just right/. Nelson moans, long and drawn out. It's just so /good/, that hot ache, full of sensation like fire. H.J. keeps his strokes unpredictable, two, three at once, or letting the time between each stretch out, letting the warm buzz fade down before hitting again. Nelson looses track of time, just letting himself exist in this space of pain and pleasure and what, to him, must surely be perfection. But while he doesn't want this to end, he is still painfully hard, rubbing himself against the sheets in a shallow motion. H.J. continues to work his buttocks and the backs of his thighs over until he is satisfied. From the feeling of them Nelson can tell that they must be bright red by now. There will probably be bruising; there may even be welts and broken skin, but he doesn't care. It will hurt to sit down tomorrow, but it will be a reminder, and he will enjoy it.
"Do you want me to fuck you now?" H.J. asks, leaning down, running the tip of the crop down the side of Nelson's face. The sound that escapes from his lips can only be described as a mewl, a little, desperate noise of need.
"Please, H.J., please, /please/ yes!" he begs; tries to lift himself up to rub against the other man's body, so close to his own, knows he must seem, must look, utterly wanton, but H.J. undoes him every time, moulds him, /owns/ him.
H.J's fingers come round, bare without his gloves, slipping two into his mouth. Nelson suckles on them, as much as worshipping them with his tongue. He wants this so badly, wants to be fucked, wants it to be hard and rough and painful, just like everything else. He is hard enough that it hurts, and yes, that just makes everything better, the denial of any touch except the sheets beneath him.
H.J's free hand slides down teasingly over the bare skin of his back where his jacket has runkled up, parting his cheeks. His fingers are abruptly pulled away from Nelson's mouth, returning, spit-slick, to press against him, seeking entrance. Nelson's pushes back against them, wanting to feel them inside him, wanting that pressure, that ache. H.J. obliges, sinking in agonisingly slowly, just one finger at first, but quickly joined by the second. He wants more, rougher, faster, bucking back hard. H.J. growls, and holds him down with his other hand.
"Stop wriggling," he says, "we do this my way or not at all."
"Y-yes." Nelson understands. This; it's part of the torture, not giving him exactly what he wants, making him beg for it even more. He wants more pain, more sensation, but H.J. will only give it to him if /he/ wants to. Nelson doesn't get to run this show.
H.J. scissors his fingers inside him, stretching, making Nelson writhe. Then his hand is gone, all too suddenly for Nelson's liking, and he moans with need. His senses are on a knife edge, needing touch, needing force. He hears H.J. breathing harshly, hears the sound of his hand on his cock. He must be slicking himself up with spit and pre-cum, he thinks, and feels his own desire spike at the mental image.
"Please, please, I want you... I need you to take me," he begs. H.J. doesn't make him wait any longer. His strong hands are on his hips, his wet hardness nudging heavily at his entrance. With one swift movement he buries himself, making Nelson cry out with pleasure at the rough invasion, the delicious friction of it; not slick enough to be comfortable. But he doesn't want it to be comfortable, he wants this, he wants the pain, /needs/ it. He whimpers as H.J. settles deep inside him, fully in, before starting to pull out slowly, far too slowly. Nelson's breath is loud in his ears, in the dark of the blindfold, panting as his muscles clench involuntarily around H.J.
"Please H.J," he gasps, "more! Use me, do whatever you want to me, I'm yours."
"I love it when you beg Nelson," H.J. says, leaning in, tugging lightly, almost lovingly, at Nelson's already tangled hair. Then his hands are back on Nelson's hips, thumbs pressing into the rounded muscle of his buttocks, moaning soft and muffled as he starts to pound into him. It isn't gentle, it isn't soft, but it's exactly what Nelson wants, and he keens breathlessly in the back of his throat at the impact of it, the rough pleasure, the sheer /power/ behind H.J's strokes. The man is made of muscle, tall and blocky and heavy, and he holds nothing back. It feels almost strong enough to tear him apart, to dominate him completely, and it's /perfect/. H.J's rhythm is fierce and unforgiving, not allowing his muscles any time to relax around his violent strokes that drive in to the hilt every time, hitting that spot inside him that makes pleasure shoot up his spine, nearly driving him insane with desire.
"H.J, oh /God/ H.J!" he gasps again and again, arching his back in ecstasy. He's getting close to the edge, mindless of the pain in his arms and tight around his throat, made only worse by the way he rocks into H.J's movements, the rope rough and chafing. He is still aware of it, but it only makes things better; his sheer helplessness, the extra edge it creates. He's not going to last much longer.
H.J. comes first, spilling himself with a groan, hot inside him. He reaches out to grab Nelson by the hair again, gripping it hard, strokes turning to shallow rocking as he expends himself. Nelson whimpers, needing completion himself, the pain, the pleasure, the feelings just shy of enough. H.J. pulls out, and Nelson can only hear the heavy sound of his breathing for long moments in which he finds himself begging needily for his touch before he is roughly flipped over onto his back. His arms protest, and the rope tangles enough to choke him. He struggles briefly for breath before managing to get it looser, and then one of H.J's hands is on his throat, and the other is on his aching length. H.J. digs his nails into the red, broken skin, and his grip on him is just harsh enough, and Nelson whines with the glorious feeling of it all, bucking up into his hand, into fingers that bring him off roughly. He is sure that if he were not blindfolded his vision would be going dark at the edges anyway from lack of air, cut off just enough, and when finally he comes, spurting into H.J's grip, feeling it drip onto his belly, it is simple and pure ecstasy.
He comes down from the feeling of bliss gasping, feeling H.J. lift him up and release the rope, having to work hard at the knots. His arms are numb and useless; he couldn't move them even if he had the energy to. H.J. lets him slump back to the bed, fingering the marks on his neck. When the blindfold is removed, his hood is back on, and all Nelson can see are his eyes, dark with fulfilled lust.
H.J. runs a finger over Nelson's lips. "Let's hear no more nonsense about criminals, shall we."