This is erotic fanfic about DC characters Nightwing and Red Hood. All characters are over the age of 18.
The metallic chill of the cuffs seeped through the thin fabric of his suit, a stark contrast to the feverish heat building under his skin. Dick Grayson tugged against his bonds, the chains above his head rattling with a hollow, theatrical sound. The warehouse was exactly as he’d described it: cavernous, dimly lit, and rigged with cameras whose tiny red lights blinked like malevolent eyes.
A voice, electronically distorted into a low, buzzing baritone, echoed from hidden speakers. “Well, well, well. Look what the bat dragged in. The illustrious Nightwing. Trussed up and delivered.”
Dick threw his head back, putting on a show of defiance. “This is a mistake. Let me go, and we can forget this ever happened.”
A dark chuckle reverberated through the space. “I don’t think so, little bird. The audience is already tuning in. They’ve been waiting for a show.” A large monitor flickered to life beside him, a live chat scroll moving at an impossible speed. Comments blurred past, a torrent of emojis and fragmented, hungry words.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. He was clad in black leather, a stark, crimson red domino mask obscuring his eyes. The persona was a brutal parody, a villain called ‘The Cock’—a name Dick had suggested with a self-deprecating laugh that now felt a million miles away. Jason moved with a predatory grace that was all his own, but amplified, charged with a dark theatricality.
“The famous suit,” Jason’s modulated voice purred, his gloved hand tracing the deep blue ‘V’ on Dick’s chest. “So bright. So hopeful. It practically begs to be ruined.”
Dick’s breath hitched. It was just a touch, just leather on fabric, but the intent behind it, the fiction they were building together, sent a jolt straight through him. He struggled again, a genuine shiver working its way up his spine. “Don’t.”
“‘Don’t’?” Jason leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper only Dick could hear, the modulator off for just a moment. “That’s not the safe word, pretty bird.” The electronic buzz returned, louder for the audience. “‘Don’t’ is just an invitation.”
His fingers found the first seal at Dick’s collar. With a sharp, precise tear, the suit’s sophisticated material gave way. The sound was obscenely loud. Cool air washed over the newly exposed skin of his throat and upper chest. Dick gasped, his muscles tensing.
“There we go,” Jason crooned, his hands moving lower, gripping the fabric over Dick’s ribs. “Let’s give them something to really talk about.”
Another rip, and more of the suit peeled away, revealing the tight, black undershirt beneath. The crowd on the monitor went wild, a cascade of heart-eyed and fire emojis. Jason’s hands were everywhere, methodical and devastating. Each tear was a release of tension, a surrender of another piece of his heroic identity. The blue fabric pooled around his waist, held up only by his belt and the remains of the torso section.
Jason stepped back, admiring his work. Dick’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his skin flushed. The humiliation was a live wire, but it was intertwined with something else, something deeper and far more dangerous: a thrilling, agonizing arousal.
“You’re enjoying this,” the villain taunted, placing a hand flat on Dick’s stomach, feeling the muscles jump under his touch. “Aren’t you? The great Nightwing, getting off on being exposed. Pathetic.”
“No,” Dick breathed, the denial weak even to his own ears.
“Liar.” Jason’s hand slid down, his thumb hooking on the utility belt. The buckle clicked open with a definitive snap. The weight of it dropped away, and the remains of his top sagged, held up only by his arms. “I think you need a little… encouragement. To be honest with your audience.”
From a compartment on his own belt, Jason produced a small, wicked-looking injector. Dick’s eyes went wide. This was new. They’d discussed a stimulant, but seeing it, a tangible threat in Jason’s hand, made the fantasy terrifyingly real.
“A little neural stimulant,” Jason explained to the camera, holding the device up. “To heighten sensation. To bypass those pesky little inhibitions.”
“Wait—” Dick’s protest was cut short as Jason pressed the device against the side of his neck. There was a sharp hiss, a brief pinch, and then…
Nothing.
For a heartbeat, nothing at all. Then it hit him. It was like every nerve ending he possessed had been dialed to eleven. The cool air on his skin became a caress. The rough texture of Jason’s gloves, now tracing his jawline, felt like crushed velvet. The faint hum of the cameras was a symphony. A low moan escaped his lips before he could stop it.
“That’s better,” Jason murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He curled his fingers into the collar of Dick’s undershirt. “Now, for the main event.”
With a final, brutal tear, he ripped the shirt open down the middle, exposing Dick’s torso completely to the humid air and the unblinking gaze of countless cameras. The chat exploded.
Dick’s head lolled back against the cold pillar. The stimulant was a fire in his veins, mixing with the heady cocktail of shame and desire. He was laid bare, completely and utterly, and the part of him that had dreamed of this was screaming in triumph.
Jason leaned in again, his masked face inches from Dick’s. His voice was a whisper, once again just for the two of them, raw and utterly Jason. “You’re doing so good, Dickie. Just look at you.”
The praise, real and tender amidst the orchestrated humiliation, undid him completely. His hips gave an involuntary, tiny thrust against the cool air, a silent, desperate plea.
Jason pulled back, the villainous persona snapping back into place for the audience. He ran a single, leather-clad finger down the center of Dick’s chest, over his abdomen, and stopped just at the waistband of his pants.
“The world is watching, Nightwing,” he buzzed, his touch hovering, a promise and a threat. “Show them how much you want this. Show them what their hero really is.”
Much, much more to cum . . .
