[It's not a misfire. It's a fragment of a video taken by the city and installed without request on the hard drive of every device Dick owns, being sent out mysteriously now. Kind of a wedding video, of sorts.
At least, it shows Dick Grayson bound by a red rope stolen from the wedding chapel, in an intricate, almost ornate style of shibari which pins his arms behind his back and keeps his knees bent and locked together. He's been pushed down onto a half-stripped heart shaped bed, face only partly visible where his face is pressed into the pillows. His skin's flushed everywhere but where the rope digs deep.
Pressing into him, four thick fingers, exposed thumb smoothing almost tenderly across the stretched skin of his hole as his partner lets him adjust before carefully working on loosening him more. Each slight movement draws obscene sounds from Dick, who looks all but gone to sensation. His partner - out of shot but for an arm and shoulder thicker than most people's thighs, and the occasional glimpse of some quite distinctive hair lets go a stream of praise and reassurance and filth and - as if he's been conditioned that he has to ask for what he wants, eventually Dick gasps out one word:] More.
[At first, Oswald is not entirely sure he knows what he's looking at, his sense of recognition trailing behind the viewing process itself. Maybe it's the surreality of the scene itself, the gaudy red decor surrounding the person at the center of it all. Someone who Oswald does, in fact, know.
That's what makes this strange initially in a way, the fact that he recognises that it' Dick immediately, but he seems so out of place both in the setting and the position he's in that it's almost like putting a jigsaw puzzle together in his mind.
It all slots together quite suddenly though when he hears Dick speak, as if that's the binding force that slams everything together all at once and the realisation of what Oswald is actually looking at becomes so clear that it's a wonder how it could have been at all confusing in the first place.
His first response then is to shove the device away from him very quickly, eyes wide and face flushed as his other hand covers his mouth. Oh no. Oh dear.
Eventually he does turn the device over again, trying to ignore the lingering heat that viewing the content has left under his skin before attempting a very simple means of contact.]
[There's a fair delay between this message being read and Oswald even beginning to reply, partly in his mind he's scared of hitting play on the file he's been sent again and he's not sure he'll be able to bring himself to turn it off if he does.]
Not that I am refusing, however I would be lying if I said that was what was precisely on my mind at this precise moment.
[It takes him a minute to make himself scroll up. By now it's become a matter of routine to find his phone sending out mixed messages.
But that
That's something. And now he's got to think what he wants to do about it. There's a dumber, brasher version of Dick Grayson he still plays round Penguin and Riddler more than most people and it's tempting to let that be a deflection from giving any true response.]
Can't confirm or deny. But, since my ass happens to be on your mind.
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text: un: birdwatcher
At least, it shows Dick Grayson bound by a red rope stolen from the wedding chapel, in an intricate, almost ornate style of shibari which pins his arms behind his back and keeps his knees bent and locked together. He's been pushed down onto a half-stripped heart shaped bed, face only partly visible where his face is pressed into the pillows. His skin's flushed everywhere but where the rope digs deep.
Pressing into him, four thick fingers, exposed thumb smoothing almost tenderly across the stretched skin of his hole as his partner lets him adjust before carefully working on loosening him more. Each slight movement draws obscene sounds from Dick, who looks all but gone to sensation. His partner - out of shot but for an arm and shoulder thicker than most people's thighs, and the occasional glimpse of some quite distinctive hair lets go a stream of praise and reassurance and filth and - as if he's been conditioned that he has to ask for what he wants, eventually Dick gasps out one word:] More.
no subject
That's what makes this strange initially in a way, the fact that he recognises that it' Dick immediately, but he seems so out of place both in the setting and the position he's in that it's almost like putting a jigsaw puzzle together in his mind.
It all slots together quite suddenly though when he hears Dick speak, as if that's the binding force that slams everything together all at once and the realisation of what Oswald is actually looking at becomes so clear that it's a wonder how it could have been at all confusing in the first place.
His first response then is to shove the device away from him very quickly, eyes wide and face flushed as his other hand covers his mouth. Oh no. Oh dear.
Eventually he does turn the device over again, trying to ignore the lingering heat that viewing the content has left under his skin before attempting a very simple means of contact.]
Dick?
text: un: birdwatcher
[Listen, so far as he's aware, Oswald's just texted him.]
no subject
Not that I am refusing, however I would be lying if I said that was what was precisely on my mind at this precise moment.
no subject
no subject
no subject
But that
That's something. And now he's got to think what he wants to do about it. There's a dumber, brasher version of Dick Grayson he still plays round Penguin and Riddler more than most people and it's tempting to let that be a deflection from giving any true response.]
Can't confirm or deny. But, since my ass happens to be on your mind.
Are you still thinking about lunch?