Work Text:
youre fucking disgusting
Jason’s heart skips a beat when he reads the text he receives.
It’s from an unknown number but Jason knows exactly who is on the other end of the message when the encrypted photo he sent just above the responding text is of himself with his face bared. No domino mask, no Red Hood helmet, just him positioned on his hands and knees, hair mussed to tangle at the ends that hang over his half-lidded eyes, dark pupils dilated and blown wide.
He looks dazed, fucked out of his mind, and he is the picture of debauchery drawn from head to toes when it is the wet drip of semen down over his brows to his cheek and chin.
His mouth is parted on a near breathless moan, his back a sweeping curve. There is a litter of sex toys on the bed next to him, a dildo or two by a few obnoxiously coloured bullet vibrators left on their highest setting. All of them still looking slick with lube. But it’s the numerous count of used condoms, some tied off and some left to smear across the sheets, that makes the humiliation in the simple text message to really set in the way it does.
Gets the flush of heat to rise from beneath Jason’s skin when he rereads the message again.
It’s blunt. It’s crass. And, it scratches that itch in him just perfect when it makes him want to rut into the sheets still reeking of sex.
The photo itself is not entirely focused, not with the way the bed was still shaking when it was taken. But the point is made. More or less when Jason is clearly not the one taking the picture. Especially so when there is the blatant outline of another person even if their face isn't shown in the photograph, standing by the edge of the bed, just behind Jason, still fucking into him with both hands holding on to him by the hips.
Jason sits up in the same bed, grimacing only slightly at the wide array of teeth bites imprinted across his skin, rubbing the pleasant aches of handmade bruises over his hips and the inside of his thighs. Jason clicks out of the text conversation, and dials the number from memory. He has to bite back a smirk when the line picks up after barely a second ring, his ass clenching down on empty and craving for another fill.
“So,” and Jason’s voice is low, is raspy, is indicative of exactly what he’s been using his mouth and tongue and throat for when he asks, “I take it you liked that?”