Work Text:
Carefully, Dick closed the door behind him. He couldn’t turn on the overhead lights, not in an empty office, but he crept to peel back the curtains on the massive window behind the desk, letting moonlight stream into the room.
It had taken him two weeks of scoping out the newly reopened Mariner to get himself an audition to be one of the clubs “exotic dancers,” and another four days of waiting and dancing and waiting to finally be accepted onto the hiring list. For a strip club, the place had a surprisingly robust hiring process, and his bosses at the Bludhaven Police Department were getting more than a little antsy.
Word from the local CIs was that a major deal was heading towards Blud. No one was exactly sure who the players were, but there was a rumbling among the mid-level lieutenants, an excitement that only had a few causes.
Dick was getting antsy too. BPD had narrowed things down to a handful of suspects, and Nightwing had narrowed the list further. He was almost certain that the deal was going through Mariner somehow. He’d never heard of the owner, but there were certain whispers that this Red Hood was from Gotham originally, which boded nothing good. Gotham trouble in Blud was always a bad combination.
He took a second to scope out his surroundings. The decor was like something out of a magazine, all dark wood and black accents. Everything about the space screamed money, masculinity, and power, from the crystal decanters on the bar cart, to the thousand dollar office chair, to the comfortable looking leather couch and armchairs on the side. Thanks to Bruce, Dick had been in more than his fair share of expensive offices, but most felt corporate, sterile, filled with expensive things bought to show off or because they were the “proper” things to have.
This office wasn’t like that. It was personal, like a home. Everything with its place, and a place for everything.
He had the feeling that whoever this Red Hood was, he hadn’t grown up with much.
Dick had left bugs in enemy territory often enough that he didn’t need to think too hard about it. Light fixtures, electronics, a careful balancing job on a side table to get one in the exit sign for a perfect wide angle of the room. He took special care to return everything to its place; he had a feeling Red Hood was one of those people who’d notice a book nudged out of place, or a chair turned to the wrong degree.
Once his cameras were in place, Dick hurried over to the desk. Time to find out who this meeting was with.
“Bingo,” Dick muttered, carefully jimmying open the desk drawer to reveal a folder of carefully stacked contracts. “Oh no—”
Not Black Mask. Dick felt strangely disappointed. He’d been almost impressed by Red Hood’s operation thus far; cleanest he’d ever seen, staying away from the worst players in town. But it was there in black and white, a deal with the dirtiest devil on the eastern sea border—a contract for Mariner to start moving product for Janus Cosmetics.
Dick forced his hands not to clench. Clearly the contract was sourcing something else, drugs or guns, because the deal was absurd to the point of ridiculous. Even a strip club the size of an air hanger didn’t need two million dollars worth of glitter and thong underwear.
Dick quickly snapped a couple of photos. Officer Grayson couldn’t submit any of this into evidence, but it would be good for Nightwing to take a more thorough look later.
He had just set the room back in order, locking the desk up and closing the blinds, when he heard the distinctive click of a key sliding home into a lock.
Damn it. Red Hood wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, but Dick had done enough research to know that he didn’t allow cleaning staff into his office when he wasn’t there.
He had nearly zero options. Even though the idea made his face want to burst into flame, Dick whipped off his t-shirt, trying desperately not to think about how much skin was on display in his see-through mesh shirt and his shiny gold hot pants.
He threw himself onto the leather sofa, arranging his limbs in what he hoped was a drunkenly provocative pose as the door swung open.
“Well.” The voice sounded dangerously quiet as the room flooded with light. “Not what I was expecting you to be hiding in your office.”
Dick’s stomach felt heavy with dread. Instead of Red Hood, Black Mask stood in the doorway, his permanent grin at odds with the dark way his eyes traced down Dick’s body, like he was deciding which parts he wanted to chop off first.
“What are you—”
Finally, the owner of the office stepped into the room. Red Hood had his signature helmet on, its face a blank slate, but his body language was tightly coiled, his hand clearly twitching for the weapon surely holstered under his black jacket.
“Hi, baby,” Dick said weakly. “I heard you were coming back early.”
It was a stupid plan. The kind of plan he couldn’t even confess considering to Bruce. His only hope was that Red Hood interacted with so many dancers he’d believe that one might have taken the initiative to try and “greet” him in his office.
And that Red Hood wasn’t the kind of man who’d shoot one of his dancers, no questions asked, for going where he wasn't supposed to.
The silence went on for an uncomfortably long time. Dick was eyeing the window—could he survive a 10 story drop in this get up?—when Black Mask let out a low little laugh.
“I didn’t know you arranged for company during business meetings,” he said, coming to stand right by the couch. Dick scrambled to stand, but he was halted by a heavy, bruising grip on his jaw. Black Mask stared down at him, his body huge from this angle, his eyes cold and expression mean. “Not really the type I usually go for, but pretty enough. And who am I to turn down a host’s hospitality.”
Dick felt a chill spread through him. Even if he wasn’t killed on the spot, this was not going to go well for him.
He opened his mouth, casting around for anything he could say—
“Unfortunately, this one isn’t available,” Red Hood said, his mechanical voice firm. He strode over to the couch, grabbing Dick by the arm and yanking him up and away from the bruising grip. “We have something of a—long-standing agreement.”
The Red Hood, Dick noticed distantly as he was jerked against the other man’s back, was much taller and broader than he’d initially realized. He didn’t think they were that far apart in height, but pressed against a dark jacket and a pressed silk button down, Hood’s chest felt as wide and strong as a brick wall.
“An…agreement,” Mask said slowly, like he’d never heard the word before.
Hood’s arm—his large, muscular arm— curled tighter around Dick’s waist. “Yes, though he’s supposed to wait for me downstairs. You know I don’t appreciate initiative, d—ducky.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Dick whispered weakly, playing up his role as the eye candy who was just smart enough to know he was in over his head. It wasn’t that hard. Ducky sounded a little too close to Dick for his comfort.
But there was no way that Red Hood knew who he was. A flicker of doubt suddenly lit in his chest. If the man was from Gotham…but what were the chances that he knew Richard Grayson well enough to recognize him under the makeup and glitter?
Mask studied them for another long, breathless silence. Then the man started laughing. It was not a pleasant sound.
“Well, I didn’t know that moving the meeting would so negatively impact your free time, Hood,” he said, sitting down in one of the chairs by the desk. “Please, don’t let me get in the way.” He leered. “I trust that you know how to multitask?”
Dick could feel his eyes widening despite his best efforts. Not—not here, not in front of Black Mask?
The hold around his waist was tightening almost to the point of bruising.
“After all,” Black Mask said, his leering face somehow managing to grow more menacing, “I would hate to think of what else he could have been doing here. I hope there’s nothing…strange going on. Not a very auspicious start to our partnership, is it?”
“No, nothing strange at all,” Hood muttered, his body pressed so close that Dick could feel the vibrations of the man’s throat against the back of his head. A shiver raced down his spine. Before he could do anything, he was moving, Hood hauling him over to the desk so quickly that Dick swore his feet left the ground.
With one swift movement, Hood pulled back his chair and stuffed Dick down into the dark space beneath the desk.
Mask laughed. “Oh, that’s cruel. This meeting is going to be a long one, too.”
“Well, he did break the rules.” Hood’s voice sounded strong and indifferent again, getting further away as he walked into the rest of the room. “Whiskey?”
“Please.”
Dick was frozen where he’d dropped. Hood wanted—he was going to have to—how could he—
But thick, trouser clad legs were already walking back towards him. Dick had just enough time to situate himself on his knees, wincing at the hardwood floor as he pressed as far back against the front panel of the desk as he could, before Hood sat down, trapping him there.
Glass clinked onto the wood, right above his head. His face burned. This was humiliating.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Hood said, his voice slightly muffled but still perfectly legible. There was some fumbling as he opened a couple of drawers, and the next moment, a soft, folded blanket was being thrust beneath the desk.
Dick blinked for a split second while the blanket shook in his direction, before he took the hint and grabbed it.
Slowly, half convinced it was a trap that he just didn’t understand, Dick laid the folded blanket on the ground. It formed a cushion nearly two inches tall. He sank his knees onto it, the padding worlds away from the pain of the floor.
It was a kindness, but also a reminder of what he was here for.
With hands that only trembled a little, Dick steeled himself. He could do this. It was just another mission, just a little skin contact between strangers. Maybe this could become a real line of entry into the Red Hood’s operation, the kind of access that both Officer Grayson and Nightwing struggled to find. He just had to do well.
He pressed a hand lightly against Hood’s crotch, the other reaching for his zipper—
Instantly, there was a sharp pressure at his scalp, as a hand clamped down across his mouth, stopping him from going any farther. Dick froze. Had he done something wrong?
Slowly, so that he had plenty of time to move with it, the hand pushed Dick backwards, until he was sitting on his heels. One by one, the thick fingers uncurled from across his face, before the pointer laid itself directly across his lips in an unmistakable shhing. Then the hand reached up and patted him on the head, aim impeccable despite the fact that there was no way its owner could possibly see him.
Above his head, Hood and Mask’s conversation didn’t pause as they discussed territory and space allotments, information Dick absently filed away for later.
Bewildered, Dick watched the arm retreat back above the desktop. Was he being too loud?
Well, Batman had definitely never imagined this during their stealth training. But if he was going to keep his cover, he needed this to work. Dick was absolutely silent as he leaned forward again, his hands clasped behind his back. Maybe the brush of his hands against the fabric was too loud. He’d just have to use his teeth.
But he’d only gotten halfway between Hood’s thighs when the hand descended again, hitting his forehead with a smack that seemed to reverberate through the small space.
“Trouble?” Mask said, his voice just on the side of polite.
“Of course not,” Hood answered, his voice smooth and even, even as he threaded his fingers through Dick’s hair and pressed his head down, so his cheek was laying against Hood’s pants covered thigh. “But even the best pet needs a little bit of attention when he does something good.”
Dick could barely suppress a shiver as the words seemed to drop right into his belly, warm and heavy.
Pet. Good pet.
He was no one’s pet, but something about Hood’s voice, deep even through the helmet, that sent something hot alight in his stomach. It didn’t help that Hood was huge. This close, it felt like his legs were as thick as Dick’s head, like they could press together and crush him without any effort.
It was warm in the room, and warmer still under the desk. Under his knees, the blanket was soft and comfortable, the tight weave of Hood’s slacks an unusual but not bad pillow. The larger man seemed to radiate heat, his hand leaving a trail of warmth across Dick’s head, the v of his thighs almost a cradle, like Dick could pitch forward and be caught, safe and secure, against what had to be a massive cock…
Mentally, he shook himself. He should be planning how to get out of here, the right words to say and the right tones to take. There was the door, the only exit, but there was the window too, and things might get hairy fast once appearances no longer needed to be maintained.
But it was so hard to concentrate, the press of the fabric and the hard thigh beneath it against his face…a cologne or aftershave filled his nose, something spicy and warm, expensive…the hand, that, after patting him in a clear do not move instruction, had taken to carding through his hair, digging careful nails into his scalp…
Dick had not gotten where he was by being bad at multitasking. He could hear the discussion above him, could note the names and locations and numbers in the back of his head, and still be aware that most of his attention was growing muddled. His hands fell limply from his lap to lay against the floor, and his posture relaxed until more and more of his weight was leaning forward. The fingers were pressing harder against his head, the pads of thick fingers, pressing into his scalp.
He needed to—the exits—
The soft scrape of chair legs against floor jerked Dick back to attention.. The hand left his head as his eyes snapped open, the light growing brighter without a body in the way. He didn’t remember closing them.
The meeting was over. Dick quickly reviewed the information in his head. The exchange was to be handled at the docks, in two days time. A boat in berth three. Six guards, and 4 movers. Payment to come after safe delivery.
Hood was at the door, exchanging final pleasantries with Mask. Dick gave himself two long, calming breaths, trying to control his suddenly pounding heart. Though, maybe a little fear was in character? Working boys were no fools.
“Well,” drawled Red Hood once the door was closed. “What are we going to do with you?”
Dick peeked out from behind the desk, trying to look appropriately scared and cowed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hood, sir. I didn’t know you’d have company.” His voice sounded rough and scratchy, and the blush bloomed hot across his cheeks again.
“You didn’t?” The man stayed by the door, leaning casually against it like he wasn’t blocking the only exit. It was hard to ignore how huge he was. It was like he was filling every inch of the doorway.
Dick swallowed.
“I just—I just wanted to—to meet you, sir,” he said, stumbling over his words as he stumbled to his feet. His mesh shirt had grown damp. He hadn’t realized he’d started sweating. “I thought—I thought maybe we really could have—we could come to an agreement.”
It was a stupid idea, but it would give Dick almost unprecedented access to the Red Hood gang. And somehow, the idea of those hands on his skin…those arms around his waist…his head, pressed between those thighs…his heart was pounding, but the fear had transformed, laced with something else.
The idea of doing this no longer sounded as bad as it had before.
Hood was silent for a long, long moment.
“You know, beautiful, I would love to,” he said slowly. “But I’m afraid I don’t have much use for employees who take this much initiative. There’s only room for one decision maker here. It’s gonna be your last night at Mariner.”
It was stupid. Dick had all the information he needed, both for the BPD and for his work as Nightwing. He’d accomplished everything he needed to do; soon, they’d have millions of dollars of product off the streets. He couldn’t have orchestrated a better exit with weeks of planning.
There was no reason for Dick’s heart to drop like he was being fired from his actual job, like he’d just lost something precious. “I’ll never do it again,” he tried, the dismay in his voice only half fabricated. But Hood just shook his head, swinging the door open.
Slowly, Dick gathered his discarded t-shirt, walking past Red Hood with exaggerated movements, like if the other man just got another look at his body, he’d change his mind.
But Hood didn’t stop him, didn’t do anything until Dick had passed him.
“Don’t worry, ducky,” he said, leaning against the door jam. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” Dick asked before he could catch himself, coming to a halt halfway down the hallway. He couldn’t help it. His nerves were shot, and every time Hood said ducky, it was like his heart skipped a beat. There was something like disappointment curling in his stomach. Purely from a professional standpoint, of course.
Hood snorted, the sound strange through the mechanical helmet.
“No, I guess you’re not a duck, are you, pretty bird?” he said, shaking his head. “No, you’re something smaller, aren’t you. More graceful, more colorful.”
A foreboding sensation was washing over Dick, something terrifying replacing everything else. He knew what was coming before it came.
“No, you’re more like a little Robin, aren’t you, sweetheart.”
And then the office door closed, leaving Dick alone in the hall, his heart racing for a whole new reason.