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It’s some variation on capture the flag, Dick thinks. Through the one-way glass, he has a clear view of the topography of the arena, the figures who flit from tile to tile, hoping to avoid the landmine-triggering plates. They’re indistinguishable from safe ground, from all the way up here. The only truly visible thing is the short burst carnage of the explosives when they remove a player — permanently — from the game.
There’s four teams, each adorned in red, blue, green or yellow vests, leaping from plate to plate in pursuit of the black flag Player 052 has clutched in his shaking fist. The game has only been going for three and a half minutes, but already a fifth of the players have been cleared, through misfortune or sabotage.
As he watches the window, tray balanced perfectly on his palm, a pursuing player gets close enough to scratch the back of 052’s jacket, fingers outstretched — before there’s a misstep, a flash, and suddenly all that remains is a splash of red over pristine white tiles.
The force of the explosion shoves 052 forward, sends them diving across several tiles when they lose their balance. Another flash, another spray, and the flag is back in play.
Dick hasn’t actually been paying enough attention to learn the rules of the games. The format changes each time, but the outcome remains consistent. More desperation, perhaps, and more determination to win that golden pot. Dick wonders whether they’ll even need to send in any foot soldiers with gift-wrapped coffins, with how efficient this game is proving to be at disposing of eliminated players.
His attention barely even lingers on the window anymore, and some small part of him wonders if he’s becoming desensitized to the sensationalised violence taking part below. He became a cop to help people, to right wrongs, to further justice. That’s why he’s here, inside the facility, collecting evidence to hopefully bring this entire operation to a screeching halt. But it's hard to muster empathy when the loss seems so insurmountable, every death inside these walls marked on his conscience.
Dick knows that half-assed isn’t going to cut it. He’s never given any investigation less than one hundred percent of his effort and focus, but this undercover sting is testing the limits of Dick’s resolve. Every death is a tally of failure, a life he couldn’t save. He watches with a bemused helplessness as each game sends more and more desperate people to their graves, knowing that if he had been smarter, better, more efficient, he could have ended this sooner. If he could just extract the watertight evidence he needs to topple these macabre games, those people would be more than a name on a missing person’s list. More than a family mourning the loss of their relative, vanished without a trace. Incinerated, in the depths of the facility, and lucky if that was all that happened to their corpses.
It turns Dick’s stomach, even now. Even when he’s up here, detached from the reality in a way he couldn’t be as a foot soldier. Distanced from the carnage now that he’s wearing a waiter’s suit and waiting on the esteemed VIPs the facility hosts. He can almost pretend he’s watching it all on a screen, that it isn’t real, that those aren’t lives blinking out every time the number above the window ticks down one tally.
He supposes that’s what it must be like for the VIPs. Never close enough to actually see the chaos, taste the desperation, smell the fear. See the whites of people’s eyes before they’re riddled with bullets. Eliminated is such a clean word for it; it doesn’t capture what it’s like on the ground, his boots wet with dead men’s blood.
Dick’s not sure he would have lasted as a foot soldier. He’d been arousing suspicion from his superiors already, asking too many questions, making too many simple mistakes. Feigning bumbling stupidity only got him so far, and the men had been closing in.
Replacing the waiter had been his hail mary. He’d been lucky enough to spot one at about his height, lucky that the man hadn’t been inclined to put up a fight when Dick had pulled a pistol on him and ordered him to strip.
He’d left the man bound and gagged in a storeroom, soothing himself with promises that he’d return to free him when this was all resolved. When the people who orchestrated this whole horrific menagerie were in cuffs.
Realistically, Dick knows it’s a death sentence for them both. If the bound waiter is discovered, he’ll be executed summarily, and a hunt will begin for their elusive intruder. The longer Dick waits to act — the longer it takes to get the proof he needs — the greater the chance of him being uncovered grows. He can feel the noose closing around him even as he stands here, in the serenity of the VIP room, amidst splendour and luxury.
Everything moves at a slower pace in here. Down there, everything had been efficient, structured; a machine well-oiled by blood. Up here, the VIPs sprawl across plush lounges, hands outstretched to await refills for their crystal-studded chalices. Their masks offering the promise of anonymity that even the players aren’t granted, their fear plain on their faces for all to see. A spectator's affair, dripping in bloody decadence.
It makes Dick sick to his stomach. But he holds firm on the outskirts of the room, forcing himself to calm as he waits for the next VIP to signal him closer. The open pitcher on the silver tray in his palms reeks, wafting sharp notes of peat and smoke through the openings of his mask. Dick does his best to breathe quietly and hold still, careful not to arouse suspicion.
This is where he needs to be, to get the information he needs. This is where the Front Man operates, where the VIPs chatter amongst themselves, betting like this is genuinely a game, like there aren’t lives on the line. Dick just needs to hold his nerve long enough to get something concrete, one solid piece of evidence. This is where he’ll find it, he’s certain.
The pistol in his belt digs into his back when Dick shifts to attend on one of the guests, a man in a gaudy, sequin-studded penguin mask. His beak curves far past his overbite, dark eyes beady within the sockets of the gold facade when he extends his tumbler for more whiskey.
Dick abides, bowing at the waist to pour steadily, none of his nervousness present. The exchange is wordless; the penguin barely glances at him before withdrawing his glass, focused on the game. Dick straightens wordlessly, gaze slipping over the person playing footstool at his feet, before he heads back to his post on the outskirts of the room.
He doesn’t make it more than halfway across the space before he’s being beckoned over by another patron, and Dick’s heartbeat skips at the sight of the man.
This one wears a wolf’s mask, fangs extending down to obscure a white beard and strong jaw. One of the wolf’s sockets has been covered with a blacked-out lens, and Dick can only assume it’s to reflect the lack of an eye beneath. It’s an unnerving look, when he turns that solitary blue eye on Dick.
This VIP watches him when he stoops to fill the man’s glass, offered carelessly on an outstretched hand adorned with gold rings. His skin is thick where it presses to the glass, calloused, and it surprises Dick. Most of these VIPs take obsessive care of their appearance, adjusting suits and ties and smoothing back what hair peeks beneath the edges of their masks. Soft, untouched by misery or misfortune.
This one is particularly… unruffled. Not careless — his suit is as perfectly tailored and maintained, boasting a well-built frame and muscles he’s clearly quite proud of. But less pedantic. He talks less, is more frugal with his money and drink, content to leave the gambling to his counterparts.
There’s an intensity to him that Dick can’t shake, something bruising about the way his eye drags down Dick’s silhouette, and back up to pin him in place.
Dick tries to keep his focus on the man’s glass, on the steady pour of the pitcher in his hand. Reminds himself that the mask is more than enough to obscure his identity. That there’s no reason why this VIP would suspect him of anything, let alone the leap to him being law enforcement.
Still, that gaze cuts down to bone, Dick’s skin crawling in the confines of his suit as he pours. It feels like a lifetime before he’s tipping the pitcher back to cap it, inclining his head as he straightens to head back to his post.
“You should sit with me,” the wolf says, almost so quietly that Dick misses it. But he doesn’t, and the words make him stiffen.
He recovers as best he can, gaze flicking to the man’s face, to try to gauge his intentions through the impassive mask. “I have to serve the other guests,” Dick answers softly, pitching his voice low to placate the man.
The wolf doesn’t waver. The lounge to his right sits unoccupied, and he’s long since dismissed the attendants eager to play his table or footstool or whatever he so pleased. He’s sprawled slightly, dark suit hanging open to reveal a pristine black shirt, bronze buttons spotted down the front. His thighs are spread, his stance clearly possessive despite how readily he beckons Dick to sit with him.
“I’m sure they can wait five minutes,” the wolf says, a hint of warning to his tone. Dick gets the firm impression that this man is not accustomed to being told no, and his gut tightens at the inherent threat in those words.
Helplessly, Dick glances to the Front Man, for direction or intervention. The man is watching them, black mask as unreadable as the rest of them from across the room. Dick can’t tell if he disapproves of the interaction, or Dick’s handling of it.
He doesn’t get to think on it long before a broad palm is winding around his arm and tugging him down. All Dick’s focus goes to balancing his tray, to keeping the heavy crystal pitcher righted as he crashes down onto the plump cushions beside the VIP.
“That’s better,” the wolf murmurs, and sits back to enjoy the show.
Dick sits stiffly, trying to work out how he can extract himself from the situation without offending his guest. The man isn’t even paying him any attention, now that he’s got Dick next to him, his disinterest unnerving.
Dick’s mouth runs dry the longer he sits, trying not to fidget as he watches the rest of the room. No one has stepped in to correct the transgression; none of the other VIPs have even seemed to notice, too busy hollering as their horses race around on the screen.
“Do you know what I do?” the wolf asks after a moment, cutting through the tension and making Dick jump.
They’re not supposed to talk. That had been made clear to Dick when he was a foot soldier — that silence bred anonymity, and they were supposed to be a faceless, personless, indistinguishable army. They weren’t here to talk to guests; they were here to stand, and serve, and wait on their every need. Without comment or complaint.
That piercing blue eye turns to him after a moment of unresponsiveness, clearly waiting on an answer, and Dick doesn’t think he’ll be allowed to wait him out in silence. He wets his lips, glancing once more up at the Front Man before he inclines his head respectfully and replies, “No, sir.”
That seems to satisfy the wolf somewhat, because he leans back to survey Dick at arms’ length. “I’m an arms dealer,” he tells him, and Dick wonders why he should even care. “I specialize in selling weapons; semi-automatics, shotguns, pistols—” The gun sandwiched between Dick’s spine and the couch burns, “—to some very affluent people. I make it my business to recognise a quality item when I see one.”
Dick swallows, but offers no comment. He can feel sweat beading between his palm and the tray, and he grips the polished silver tightly as he waits out whatever power trip this VIP is enjoying.
When those long fingers reach up to grip Dick’s chin beneath the edge of his mask, he flinches. The pitcher clinks against the tray, drawing the eyes of his fellow waiters and not a soul more as Dick’s head is turned to face the man’s.
“You have very pretty eyes,” the wolf states, gaze burning where it drills into Dick. He sits stock-still, unwilling to disrupt the tension. “It’s such a shame they make you wear these hideous masks. I want to see your face.”
Dick’s lips feel like they’ve been glued together. It takes effort to pry them apart and hoarsely whisper, “We’re not allowed to—”
“I know,” the wolf interjects coldly, and Dick lapses into an immediate silence, sure he’s misstepped. That hand drops to Dick’s collar, tugging at the starched cotton, thumb tracing down the front of his throat as if mapping his body. It feels dangerously intimate, thumbnail catching on the ridges of his windpipe until the wolf settles it in the dip of his collarbones. “You really are too pretty to be covered up like this.”
It makes his skin crawl, how entitled the man feels to Dick’s body. How self-assured he feels in touching him, like Dick’s as much on offer here as the whiskey in his lap.
He doesn’t know what to say, words sticking in his throat as he watches, as he feels that hand slip down his shoulder, down his flank, to rest in the small of his back. Dick remembers the gun in a blind panic, freezing as those fingers inch lower, and pause at Dick’s fright. They don’t withdraw, but they do pause there, dipping no lower. He wonders if the wolf could even feel the gun through Dick’s suit jacket, whether he's inched close enough to feel the polymer grip tucked beneath the band of leather. Dick feels a bead of sweat trace down his cheekbone, hidden behind his mask, knuckles white on the tray.
“I think perhaps we should take this somewhere else,” the wolf murmurs after a moment, and there’s no room for argument in that tone. It’s low, laced with what Dick can only interpret as arousal, and his heart lurches at the threat there. “I want to see that pretty face of yours.”
Dick’s mouth opens, a refusal rising on his lips, before he remembers himself, remembers where he is. Remembers why he’s here, when the other VIPs erupt into a chorus of groans as through the window, a favourite player is eliminated. His hands shake once on the tray, before he closes his mouth and nods, climbing smoothly to his feet.
The wolf rises to follow, stalking Dick’s steps as he heads to the back of the room, towards the hallway that leads to the VIP’s private quarters. Another waiter steps into his path to take the tray from his palms, startling Dick for a moment, before the wolf’s hand presses between his shoulder blades to guide him forward, impatient.
The doors that line this hallway are plain, embossed with singular gold numbers at eye height. The sounds of the VIPs fades behind them, replaced by the soft sound of Dick’s shoes on the dark tiles. The wolf is silent, an unnerving presence just a step behind them as he guides Dick towards the second door.
His keycard flashes in his palm, the door swinging open a moment later, and Dick’s hands feel abysmally empty as he crosses the threshold.
The room within is painted in bright splashes of orange and black, clearly intended to be some homage to modern art that’s lost on Dick’s flitting focus. The dais they stand on steps down into a larger recess, a low bed set against the far wall, an ensuite and wardrobe beyond sight.
The door clicks shut, horrifically loud in the quiet of the room, and the last hint of life dies behind it. Dick feels incredibly alone, incredibly outmatched, as the wolf gestures him down the steps.
He goes on stiff legs, mildly surprised when the man doesn’t immediately follow. He lingers by the side table, setting down his empty tumbler as Dick pauses before the neatly made covers.
“Sit,” the wolf instructs, and Dick swallows, setting his jaw as he drops down onto the mattress, lifting his gaze to hold the VIP’s. He’s not afraid of this man, he refuses to let himself be intimidated.
He folds his hands into his lap, keeping his head high as the wolf removes his wristwatch, unhurried.
Dick tries to think what the man could ask of him, and how much he’s willing to give. How much the man could take, if Dick refuses. Whether it’s his place to refuse a VIP, or whether denial could compromise his cover. Dick’s not sure he can go through with… that, if it comes down to it.
He’s not sure he can abandon these people either. Whether he can take the proud and mighty road, when it’s paved with blood. If he really has the privilege to say no, when he saw first-hand what the players have sacrificed to come this far.
“Take that mask off,” the wolf says, “I want to see your face.”
Dick clenches his fist tighter on the top of his thigh. Then he reaches for the edge of the mask, sliding it up over his face. He keeps his eyes on the rug beneath his shiny black shoes, working to keep his expression impassive.
It doesn’t stop the palpable force of the wolf’s gaze, digging like needles into his skin. Dick feels bare, after a week of anonymity. When he looks up at the VIP, that gold mask glints back at him with malice — a reminder of the difference between them, when Dick can’t even discern the man’s expression.
“Beautiful,” the wolf murmurs after a moment, and if heat blooms on his cheeks at the admiration in that tone, Dick has no hope of stifling it now.
The man’s distance is unnerving. Dick had expected hands on him, stray seeking touches. To be manhandled and unravelled in the palm of this VIP’s hand, helpless to refuse. But being watched like this, appraised from afar like he’s some particularly intriguing artwork. An object to admire, an asset, more than he is a person.
He’s not sure which he finds more repulsive. Dick can’t bring himself to meet that gaze much longer, gaze flicking down in a show of submission expected of the waiters here.
“That’s not the kind of face that should be kept behind a mask.”
Dick’s hands clench on the plain mask in his grip, before he sets it on the bed beside him. It won’t do him any good now. He’ll do what needs to be done to satisfy this VIP, to buy himself more time before the Front Man and his subordinates suspect him of meddling.
That begins with laying down his pride, and offering his throat to the wolf’s teeth.
The man is still watching him when Dick lowers his gaze back to the rug. Dick tries to let his own expression bleed neutral, placid and inviting, as he’s expected to be. Submissive, in a way he hopes is enticing.
“You’re certainly not standard fare, with looks like that.”
Dick flinches, just the barest amount, before correcting. He’s sure the man means it as a compliment, but right now, nerves frayed and wound up as he is, Dick can’t help but hate how much scrutiny the VIP is putting him under.
He knows he can’t ask though, for the wolf to hurry things along. Can’t offer up something he doesn’t even want to give. Men like the wolf enjoy taking; they want the power trip as much as the satisfaction. The thrill of knowing they can stand on someone’s neck and still be complimented on their shoes.
Bile sears at the back of Dick’s throat, clamped behind tightly pressed lips. It will only be once, and by the time the wolf even thinks to ask this of him again, he will already have what he needs. Dick will be long gone, evidence in hand, and he’ll never have to think of this insignificant man ever again.
He’s so lost in his thoughts, that it startles him when the man swivels on the raised dais, pausing at the top of the short steps to watch him. Taller, and more imposing, than he had been on the lounge. Dick squares his shoulders, holds out his chest as he draws down a steadying breath, trying to project an aura of proffering. The mask sits to his left, too far out of reach.
“Take off your jacket,” the wolf instructs. “I want to see what else you’re hiding beneath all those layers.”
Dick’s eyes flutter shut, the breath rushing from him in a rough exhale as he rolls his suit jacket off his shoulders. It’s halfway down to his elbows before Dick remembers the gun, stashed between belt and lower back, protruding and obvious against the black silk of his shirt.
He pauses, mouth dry, and wonders if he can extract it without the wolf noticing, wrap it in his jacket and retrieve it before he suspects a thing. He's certain the VIP hasn't seen it yet, blocked from view by the angle of Dick's body.
“The gun,” the wolf says, and whatever meagre hope Dick was building dies in the pit of his stomach, “is that standard issue for all the waiters here?”
Dick stiffens sharply, dread lacing down his spine. The wolf is still watching him, dissecting his expression without the mask to spare him, and Dick’s never felt more naked. His fingers twitch, calculating whether a gunshot will draw attention, this close to company. Whether he can threaten the wolf into silence long enough to escape.
“These hallways echo,” the wolf says, like he can read Dick’s mind. He doesn’t look the slightest bit perturbed by the threat, hands resting easily in his pockets. “And the only way out is past a roomful of witnesses. Will you kill all of them to guarantee your freedom?”
Dick swallows painfully, trembling on the spot. The gun has never felt hotter, Dick’s palm itching with the urge to grab it, to level it at the wolf’s head.
The wolf hums, head tilting down as he steps off the dais and towards the bed where Dick sits. There’s nothing threatening in the way he stalks Dick down, but it still makes him feel like prey. He stops a foot short, close enough that Dick has to tilt his head up to keep the man in view, as low as the bed is.
“I want you to take the gun out slowly, and eject the clip,” he instructs in a level, patient tone. Dick twitches, uncertain. The wolf doesn’t flinch, unwavering where he holds Dick’s gaze, seeing into his soul for how invasive it feels. “Then I want you to place the pistol on the bed to your left, and the clip to your right.”
Dick’s tongue tingles in his mouth, adrenaline flooding his veins, making his pulse thrum between his ears. He’s not getting out of this situation without a fight, and he can’t hold his own against a man this size.
“I don’t want to hurt you, little bird,” the wolf tells him plainly, and Dick startles at the intimacy of such a nickname. “Nor do I want to clip your wings. But if you pull that gun on me, I’m afraid I’ll have to break something. And I think we both want to avoid a commotion, don’t we?”
His throat feels like it’s sealed shut. “Yes,” he croaks eventually, and the wolf nods an acknowledgement.
“Take the gun out, and do as I’ve instructed. Then we’ll talk.”
He doesn’t have any options. The longer they spend in here, the more suspicious the Front Man grows, the more likely they are to be interrupted. It will only take one uttered word for them to swarm the room, and Dick doesn’t have enough bullets for them all, even if he did want any more death to fill these halls.
He reaches behind himself, into his belt. The wolf tenses for a moment, but doesn’t move to stop him. Just coils, in a way that ratchet’s Dick’s pulse up another few notches.
He withdraws the gun slowly, bringing it into his lap, careful to keep his finger away from the trigger. It strikes him how easy it would be. Just a shift of the digit, and he’d have the man at his mercy.
Just one small movement, and he’ll be discovered, and this entire investigation will have been for naught. All those deaths will have meant nothing.
Dick ejects the clip, the mechanism loud in the silent room. The pistol is tossed to one side, the clip to the other, both just outside of Dick’s reach when he pulls his hands back into his lap and glares up at the wolf.
His tone is deep and bordering on patronizing. “That’s a bit more civil.”
The wolf pushes the gun aside, clearing a space for him to drop onto the covers beside Dick. The mattress bows with the sheer weight of him, Dick leaning back instinctively to maintain a distance between them. The pistol clatters to the tile, out of sight, and Dick swallows through a tight throat.
That eye pins him in place, and Dick can’t find it in himself to lift his gaze from the tile to meet it. “I think you should finish undressing, little bird.”
Dick blinks at the man, dumbfounded. He doesn't seem in any particular hurry, content to continue with their intended soiree, despite the question of why Dick's stashing a gun hanging between them. It floors him a little, the wolf's single-minded focus, but he's forced to rally when the VIP lifts a warning brow.
Dick closes his eyes with a shudder, but does as instructed, dropping the suit jacket to the floor. His belt goes next, tugged loose of its loops. It clatters on the tile too, nudged aside when Dick stoops to untie his shoes.
There’s no bargaining with this man. Dick’s had that impression since the wolf first laid eyes on him. He knows there’s nothing to be gained from being difficult, from fighting his influence. Not when the VIP is holding all the cards.
He toes his shoes off, stilling when he straightens to find the wolf’s hand in the small of his back. It’s huge, heat bleeding through the silk as Dick exhales a shuddering breath.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the wolf prompts quietly.
Dick flinches when his hands go to the buttons at his collar, shoulders rolling inwards at the thought of his nakedness, his vulnerability before the wolf. But he unbuttons them with strict efficiency, not letting his fear catch up to the motions as he drops it to the floor with the rest of his clothes, and hesitates with his thumbs hooked into his waistband.
There’s nothing to be done for it. Dick lifts his hips to push the material down, scowling when the hand at his back steadies him, supportive. He bites his tongue to stifle the words that want to leave his lips, tossing the slacks onto the crumpled pile.
“That’s enough,” the wolf says, when Dick reaches hesitantly for his black boxer briefs.
He doesn’t expect the relief that comes with that concession. It quickly turns sour when Dick realises the wolf is using him, granting him allowances he’s already owed. Making him grateful for the smallest show of leniency.
Still, he says nothing, letting the wolf survey him with a tilted head, calloused fingertips trailing over the ridge of his hip, down to squeeze experimentally at his ass as Dick sits rigidly. His hands stay folded in his lap, spine straight. It’s all he can do not to reach back and grab that straying hand, twist the man’s wrist until he yelps.
After a moment, the wolf’s hand strays back up Dick’s spine, to rest between his shoulder blades. And the higher, to cup his jaw and force Dick to face him.
He doesn’t try to mask the hatred he’s sure is written on his face. If the wolf wants to see him as he is, then he will. Dick loses nothing with his honesty. His gaze burns when Dick levels both blazing blues on that disgusting gold mask.
“Knew you would be worth the trouble,” the wolf mutters, one thumb reaching up to roll across Dick’s lower lip. He bears the treatment with carefully bridled fury, locking eyes as the wolf presses a finger inside.
It tastes faintly of soap, exploring the ridge of Dick’s tongue and the inside of his mouth. He breathes slowly through his nose, indulging the man’s curiosity for lack of any leverage to stop him. He considers, briefly, biting down on those long digits, and stows the thought immediately.
“It’s amazing how placid you all can be, when the moment calls for it,” the wolf muses, fingers withdrawing. He wipes them on Dick’s cheek, saliva drying quickly as he glares. “Just a moment ago, you were ready to kill me. And now, you’re perfectly behaved.”
Fury licks at Dick’s chest, hands clenching to cage the emotion further. “You don’t know anything about me,” he mutters darkly, and the wolf smiles behind those glinting, gold fangs.
“I know your type. And I know I’m right about you.”
Those fingers stray down to Dick’s collarbones, tickling across the sensitive flesh. “How so?”
“You’re not willing to make the hard choices, when the moment calls for it.”
Dick bares his teeth, nails biting into his own palms. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” the wolf contradicts, thumb pressing lightly into the hollow of his throat. Dick can’t shift out from under that hand, skin prickling at his touch. “I’ve seen it a thousand times before. You’re doing it right now, in fact.”
Dick’s eyes narrow, lips pressing thin. He doesn’t shift as the wolf’s gaze drags appreciatively down his naked body, lifting back up to study his face.
“Inaction is easy,” the wolf states. “Your kind use it all the time. Convince yourselves it’s hopeless, that you have no power, no stake in these games. It’s much harder to act, when the situation calls for it. To put yourself aside and do what you believe needs to be done, to secure an outcome. No matter what needs to be sacrificed.”
“What’s your point?” Dick bites out, and grunts when the wolf’s hand snaps up to seize a handful of his hair. He tilts his head back to the point of pain, keeping his gaze on the man.
“You can save these people. Some of them,” the man amends, with a huff of bitter laughter. “I’ll help you get the evidence you want, even.”
Dick’s features slacken with surprise, a confused frown itching into his brow.
“All it will cost you is a blowjob,” the wolf tells him, and Dick winces.
“Why?”
He can’t see the wolf’s face, but Dick gets the distinct impression that he’s smiling. “I’ve been a spectator of these games for five years. They start to lose their lustre after a while. Things become boring.”
Dick’s gut clenches at the derision in his tone, the apathy there. How can he watch people die and feel nothing? How can he sit here and demand something like this from Dick, when people are killing one another just outside these doors?
And yet, the act itself seems insignificant. One carnal act to secure these people's — and many more years of future players', if Dick is successful — lives.
Just a blowjob. Bile licks at his taste buds.
“But you,” he adds, palm cupping Dick’s cheek, the edge of his thumbnail tracing down the younger man’s cheekbones. “You’re something interesting. Someone new. And besides, I like being proven right.”
Dick’s eyes flick up, brow furrowing. “About what?”
“Your price,” the wolf answers, and gives a low chuckle at Dick’s revulsion. “Everyone has one, little bird. I wouldn’t act so surprised. I’m in the business of knowing people’s value. You’re an easy one—”
Those fingers sure, grip strong when it pulls Dick’s head around, leads him off the bed, bowed forward to relieve the strain on his jaw. The wolf guides him to front and centre, watching Dick fold to his knees before he releases him to stroke long fingers through his dark hair.
“You’re a hero. I knew as soon as I saw your gun; standard issue for cops, right?” Dick flushes, jaw tightening as the wolf’s fingers trace the shell of his ear. He doesn’t dare pull away, wary of offending the man. “I’m guessing you fancied yourself a hero, decided you alone were going to be the one to right these wrongs. Your price is whatever it takes to obtain justice. And right now, the price of justice is the best blowjob you’ve ever given. Do you understand?”
On his knees between the man’s bronze-capped shoes, Dick doesn’t think he understands anything. He doesn’t understand the point of these games, or the VIPs’ sick fascination with sending people to their deaths. He doesn’t understand the wolf’s obsession with him, or what he has to gain from forcing Dick into an act he otherwise would never consider doing.
Maybe that’s what he gains, Dick considers bitterly, something unique, a piece of Dick he’d never surrender to anybody.
He sits back on his heels, exhaling through his nose as he glares at the man’s belt buckle.
The wolf doesn’t seem in any rush to hurry him, and why would he? He has time to spare. It’s only Dick’s inaction that’s costing people their lives, hindering his investigation while he’s in here, playing mind games with a rich psychopath.
“Fine,” he agrees, biting the word out through clenched teeth. “But that’s it.”
“Of course,” the wolf answers, a smugness to his tone that wasn’t there before. His knees part wider as he sits back, pleased with his deduction. Dick’s gaze flickering to the front of his slacks with trepidation. “I always believe in a fair price, little bird.”
It’s hard, to bring himself to do it. Convincing himself to lean forward and reach for the wolf’s zipper is the hardest thing Dick’s had to convince himself to do thus far. There’s a finality to it, when he slides his fingers and palm into the man’s slacks, the realisation that he’s actually going to do this. That this is the cost of his compliance.
His temper flares to life, licking at the edges of his resolve when Dick takes the man’s cock more firmly in his hand, strokes him once as the wolf watches him with intense focus.
“When this is all done,” he promises, refusing to meet that ridiculous mask. Not when he’s been stripped bare in so many ways tonight. “I’m going to enjoy seeing you behind bars.”
“We all have our fantasies, little bird,” the wolf replies with a leer, one palm falling to the crown of Dick’s head to guide him forward. Dick licks his lips, drawing down one last reassuring breath before he commits himself to the task of pleasing the man. Silence bought with slick lips and pleading tongue. “Some of us are just better at getting what we want.”
