You're finishing up your shift at work. Unfortunately, you're closing tonight so you'll have to walk home because the busses don't run this late and your bike has a flat tire. You don't own a car. You usually just take the bus everywhere so you've never really needed one, and when you do, Dave or Dirk are just a phone call away. A sigh huffs itself out of your lungs as you slip off your apron and fold it into your messenger bag. You turn off the lights, lock the door behind you and begin your trek down the street. There's no one out(of course not, it's almost 1:30am on a Tuesday night) so it's really quiet. Silence has always kind of made you uneasy so you fish your iPod out of your pocket and slip the ear buds in your ears, pressing play not caring what comes on.
You make it half way down the block before you feel fabric slip over your eyes and a hand pressing something in your mouth. You shout and try land a punch on the person behind you, but they grab your wrists and fasten them together behind your back with what you can only assume is a zip tie. After your assailant picks you up(fucking bridal style at that) you can safely guess that it's a guy. You wish you could actually hear him, try to get some clue on who he might be or what he wants, but all you can hear is goddamn Radiohead.
You continue to kick with your legs and just try to generally be a pain in the ass. Maybe if you keep struggling, he'll just say "fuck that noise" and let you go.
But he doesn't and a few moments later, you find yourself being crammed into a trunk. Your first thought is that it must be Dave just fucking with you. It's not really something he'd go out of his way to do though, and the chest you were pressed against felt more broad that you remember Dave's looking. Your breathing starts to get thin and quick and if you could talk you'd probably be chanting the word 'shit' over and over. You try to think of anyone you've pissed off over the last week or so, any customers that had you a rough time with. There's no one. There's no one who could be mad enough to fucking kidnap you and…
Exactly what did this guy want with you? He couldn't possibly want to kill you, right? Holy shit, you're going to die. He's going to take you some where in the middle of nowhere and shoot you or slit your throat or…
You wake up in an upright position, your vision blacked out by fabric and a smell that you can't quite put your finger on rushing your senses. It takes a minute to remember what happened and when you do, you actually whimper around the fabric in your mouth, trying instinctively to move your arms to take the gag off but naturally finding your arms bound behind your back. You start to squirm, seeing if you can't get your hands out of what you think is rope. There's something odd about it though, the rope holding your wrists together is silky and somehow familiar. You hear foot steps behind you and the thought is pushed from your mind as you twists your arms. Strong hands land on your shoulders and you jump and yelp. There's a small chuckle and the hands start to massage your shoulders.
"Calm down." He whispers. Without using his actual voice, it's hard to tell if you know him or not, but from the way he caresses the sensitive spot on the back of your neck, he sure as hell knows you. You can't help but shudder from the touch, your cock twitching in your jeans. Suddenly there's warm lips on your earlobe and it shocks you into moaning. You can feel your kidnapper's chest rumble against your back as he laughs softly.
"There you go." His hands drape over to your chest, playing with your nipples and earning a few sounds before reaching for the hem of your shirt and hiking it up. His nails scratch against your sides and his teeth scrape against your neck, latching down and sucking a bruise to the surface. An embarrassing whine tries to get out but is muffled by the gag. A hand brushes against the tent in your pants and snap out of it, flailing the best you can while your ankles and arms are completely bound. He fucking growls in your ear and flicks you on the side of the head.
"None of that." His whisper is sharp, almost angry. You're a bit stunned from the action, but it didn't actually hurt that bad. He's giving you mixed signals on if he's going to hurt you or not. The possibility of him doing so actually kind of turns you on? The hand reappears on your lap and you flinch but try to keep as still as possible as he unbuttons your jeans and pulls down your zipper. His hands are calloused against the smooth skin of your shaft and again, it's so familiar. You groan when he thumbs your slit and let your head fall back on his shoulder.
"Good boy." He laughs, using his full voice and you know you've been told that in that exact manner and holy shit you know who it is.
You are going to kill Dirk Strider.
But later. Right now he's playing with the ridge of your corona in just the right way and your toes are curling in your shoes.
"Are you going to scream if I take the gag out?" He's back to whispering, back in his role. You frantically shake your head and he pulls the fabric out of your mouth and replaces it with his tongue, tangling it with yours. Of course you kiss him back, needy and eager. He bites your lip and kisses down your jaw back to your neck. You moan out loud and beg him to untie your arms. You tell him how much you want to touch him.
"No can do, kid. But…" He gives a sultry laugh and straddles your lap; you feel his erection line up with yours and his fist curls around the both of you. As he pumps you together, you bite your bottom lip to contain your noises and thrust against him. You start squirming again and he holds your chest to the back of the chair, leaning in to steal your lip from between your teeth. You let him and moan into his mouth, letting him drink all of your noises. Soon enough your moans are climbing in volume and you're seeing stars behind your blindfold as you paint his hand with your spunk. You hear him groan and tilt your head down; seconds later your face is a hot sticky mess.
He leans in to kiss you again, though this time it's more sweet than anything.
"You good?" He asks. You laugh.
"You fucking read my journal."
"Of course I did, lotta good shit in there." You laugh again and lean your head back to lean against of the chair.
"Alright. Can you untie me please? Or at least clean off my face."
"I can do both."
"Thanks." He pauses, then snorts.
"I can't believe you fainted."
"Shut the fuck up, Dirk."