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There’s a hand on his ass.
Hot, claiming. Rough fingertips that Dick can feel through the mesh tights he’s wearing.
A step back and the man daring to touch him grunts.
“I will put this stiletto right through your foot, Hood,” Dick says out the corner of his mouth. He scans the high-roller room, plate of hor d'oeuvres balanced daintily on one hand. His other grabs Hood’s hip, as if he’s shyly encouraging the touch.
“God, honey. You always say the sweetest things.” Jason humps forward roughly against Dick, jostling his whole body, making his stiffy Dick’s problem. Dick’s bunny ears, attached via a cleverly hidden headband, wiggle back and forth.
One of the sleazebags playing poker looks up and sees Dick getting molested. He smiles. It’s a slow growth of a wound on his face, unsuited to the evil beneath.
“Who ya here for?” Jason asks as he works a hand up and down Dick’s thigh. He carelessly rips an opening in the mesh with a single tug. Slips his hand in, palm curling around Dick’s thigh, inches from Dick’s private skin.
“Hood,” Dick hisses, starting to turn.
Jason stops him, hand tightening on Dick’s soft inner flesh harshly.
“Be a good bunny, now. You want your mark? Do what I say and I’ll make sure you get who you need.”
At war in his own head, Dick looks around the room. A few yards away sits his person of interest. The man hasn’t flagged down a single bunny waiter or touched a drop of alcohol. Slim shoulders, a face from suburbia: he looks like an accountant who got lost on the way home. He’s also responsible for the formulation of three new extremely addicting (and occasionally deadly) chemicals being added to drug shipments before dispersal in Gotham.
Dick nods towards him.
“Should have come to me to begin with, bunny,” Jason says, mocking. “We could have worked out a…trade. Now you get to pay in the only thing you have.”
A second later Hood’s hand is fisted in his hair. He bends Dick over a half-empty poker table, cards and chips clattering when Dick’s body hits the felt-covered surface. The three men around the table spook backwards, chairs dragging.
Normally the bunnies have some sliver of protection, the house mother willing to tell off over-eager customers who get handsy. Dick happens to know that Hood has partial ownership of this joint, though; that he shot a man through the throat not two months ago a few tables down. The wall is painted a different color, there.
No one is coming to help Dick.
“Watch if you want,” is all Jason says to the staring men. He rips Dick’s serving platter away and tosses it into the middle of the table. Chocolate-dipped strawberries roll around, knocking against the small piles of poker chips.
A fat, ripe strawberry hovers in front of Dick’s half-hidden face. It’s bleeding juices, chocolate smeared over its tip.
“Put this in your mouth and hold it,” Jason says. “I don’t want to hear a single word out of you.”
It leaves Dick plugged up top with a strawberry and bent over a table, stilettos spread wide for Jason’s ridiculous bulk. Even in heels Dick is an inch or two shorter, which means bent over he’s at a perfect height to take a fucking.
“Oh, baby,” Jason says behind him, whistling obnoxiously. “Look at that ass.” Two hands run up the back of his thighs before whooshing down, a dual spank. He does it again, and again. The noise doesn’t travel well, velvet drapes and the thickly carpeted floor eating the echo.
Strawberry juice trickles down his throat and Dick swallows it along with his embarrassment.
“These tiny shorts they have you in,” Jason marvels, running a finger along their edge. "Fucking obscene." They’re the only thing covering Dick’s ass and cock; underwear aren’t part of the uniform. There’s only one other thing Dick is allowed – has to – wear.
The shorts get peeled off, a drag of fabric down tights. The tights rip more. Dick tries to keep his composure. It will be obvious, now.
A long silence fills the space between them. The men sitting around the table stare, stunned, at Dick’s exposed sex.
The room air is cool, so cool Dick wildly thinks he must be steaming, that must be what everyone is looking at – but of course not.
“Holy shit,” whispers one of the men. He swallows, hard, and puts down the poker cards he was pretending to look at.
Leather straps hoop flush around Dick’s hips before meeting in the middle and running down his crack in the back and thighs in the front. They hold in place a little cage, a cruel thing Dick wears as part of the uniform.
It wouldn’t do for a bunny to get an erection.
A moan, guttural and possessive, rips through the air. Jason jostles forward, clothed cock spearing unkindly at Dick’s exposed ass. Like he can’t hold it back, like he’s a rabid dog unleashed.
“Fuck, little bunny, kept all soft for me?” Jason slaps Dick’s ass again, then again, clearly watching it bounce. Dick whines, high and strung tight – it’s a service cage, it’s easy to take off, maybe Jason will take it off? There’s a latch in the front, easy – he whines again when Jason really lays into him. The table rattles with each hit.
“His ass is so fat,” one of the other men say, the one at the head of the table. He’s fully standing, head craned forward to watch, no pretense of playing a game left. “It jiggles.”
The third man, Dick can’t see at all from his position laid out on the table.
But he does hear a sharp intake of breath and a cry, feels Jason’s quicksilver moves.
“Sorry sorry sorry,” the third man is saying, warbling, begging.
“This is my whore.” Jason sounds calm. Then the man screams again, a bone on bone grind.
There’s the sound of a body collapsing to the table, harder than Dick did. The strawberries bounce around, rolling again.
The two other men that Dick can partially see raise their hands, showing they didn’t try to touch.
“Watch if you want,” Jason repeats. Then he’s back, big fingers bullying Dick’s cheeks apart.
He spits on Dick’s hole, molten hot in the cool air. He spits again. It runs down Dick’s taint, never hitting his balls because they’re locked away, held safely out of reach.
The leather strap between his thighs chafes the skin where Jason has it tugged away. Burned softly into flesh, a reminder for later.
A thick finger presses against Dick’s screwtight hole, the spit barely enough to see it half-way in. Dick screams into the strawberry, sobbing even on one finger.
“Too fucking tight,” mutters Jason, then, “Would think a whore like you would be loose.”
Dick takes the next spanks mutely, tears running down his cheeks. The felt fabric beneath him turns a speckled dark. One of the men, the one most in Dick’s view, reaches down to adjust himself.
Undaunted, another finger prods at Dick’s tender flesh, wet with something better than spit.
There’s sharp relief at that slide, the slickness, Jason’s one finger fully claiming his neglected center.
“Need more fingers, little bunny? Don’t want to rip open a cute thing like you,” Jason says.
Suddenly what feels like three fingers, wetted and stuffed, follow. Dick is carved up, too-tight. He screams. The strawberry drops from his mouth. It rolls, spit-covered, over the poker table.
The man it lands by jumps back, as if Red Hood’s invocation to only watch extends to anything the bunny has touched, too.
The fingers in Dick’s ass stop moving. The air goes icy.
“’m sorry,” Dick tries, voice wet. But Jason is already planting a hand next to his head.
“I told you, I don’t want to hear. you.” The strawberry is shoved back in his mouth, a burst of juice down his throat. “You owe me extra for that, bunny.”
Dick moans. His thighs shake, a tremor that has the table rocking.
Left open and clutching on air, Dick’s hole grasps, wanting. He hears a jostle behind him, a belt being undone, the rustle of fabric.
The man across from Dick laughs, then says, shaky, “Real bitch-breaker you got there, shit, man.”
“If he wanted more fingers, he shouldn’t have fuckin’ spoken.”
Heat at Dick’s hole, the wide bulb pressed against it – a poke, Jason’s fingers holding his own thick piece steady, precome smeared into Dick’s skin –
“Bunnies don’t speak.”
Dick wails around the strawberry, then bites half through it.
He throws his hands back, scrabbling, finds Jason’s stomach.
A push, fruitless, against that bulk.
Fingers grip the fabric of Jason’s pants, twisted tight.
Jason spears Dick open. Half-way in he stops, grabs Dick’s frantic hands in one of his own, and pins them to Dick’s sweaty back.
“Bunny whore,” he says, then pulls out. Pushes back in, deeper than before. “My fuckin’ whore.”
A vice-like hand clamps around the back of Dick’s neck, ass-wet fingers pressed into the soft under of Dick’s jaw.
Held like this, helpless, hands and head controlled, Dick starts to float.
The table creaks under the rutting, butting up against the man at the other end of the table. Obligingly, he bends forward and puts his shoulders into holding it. His unknown eyes burn on Dick’s skin. It’s dirty, dirtier than anything else done to Dick the whole night.
Dick hides his face, wanting the float and not the burn.
A body covers Dick’s from view and Jason places a savage bite, right above where the Nightwing suit covers.
“Sweet bunny,” he says softly into Dick’s ear. “Do you want to come?”
Tears and snot are running down Dick’s face, he knows and feels. He shakes his head no. He doesn’t deserve it.
“That’s what I thought.” Jason pulls Dick back onto his bitch-breaker.
Dick breaks.
He knows his hole is stretched winter-white around Jason’s cock; knows the unknown man at the head of the table is beating his own piece hard, fist moving up and down in time with Jason’s ownership.
Jason stills. He grunts, animalistic.
Dick’s innards hold on tight to the gift of Jason’s come. Then spunk squirts out onto Dick’s back, a lava-hot claim.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Jason mutters into Dick’s neck, his body a sinuous wave, rude humps of his yet half-hard cock into Dick’s butter-soft hole.
Panting fills the air, a hand on Dick’s hip now. Jason pulls out. He spits again, into Dick’s gaping center.
Dick cries and sucks at the strawberry still in his mouth. Jason’s spittle goes deep, a second claim. For stupid bunnies, too dumb to know who owns them.
A twirl and Dick is being pulled upright, tiny shorts on the floor forgotten, strawberry yanked away.
A trenchcoat stolen from a random henchman is wrapped around him and he’s handed off (anyone touches him and I’ll put my hand down their gullet, Jason says). Dick limps out the club exit, bunny ears drooping on his head.
The car he’s ushered to is black, nondescript. A different henchman holds the car door, gaze averted, terrified. In the back there’s a water bottle waiting for him.
Five minutes later he’s joined by Jason.
“What the actual fuck, Dick,” he says before Dick collapses into him, arms looped around his neck in the private backseat.
Whatever else Jason was going to say dies in his mouth. He bundles Dick up, hands clutching firm on Dick’s back, hushing him through the breakdown.
It’s quiet now, only their breath for company.
“I’m gone a month and you end up in a bunny outfit, in the one place I said you couldn’t go without me?”
Dick looks askance. “Batman needed me.”
A finger at Dick’s chin forces eye contact.
“Fuck. Batman.”
“Did you plant the tracker?” Dick asks, eyes narrowed. He can’t let this be in vain.
“Yeah.” Jason sucks at his teeth. “And if you want to know anything more, you’ll have to tell Bruce how you got it. I’m not doing this anymore. You belong to me. Not him.”
Folding forward, Dick hides his face in Jason’s neck. Secrets are their currency, in this world, and Dick doesn’t know if he wants to spend that one just yet. In the background of their lives Bruce looms, Dick torn between his black hole presence and Jason’s everlasting fire.
Under the trenchcoat his cock pulses in the cage, blood-hot and denied. Dick gives up thinking of anything else.
“Dick,” Jason whispers. The car starts to move, some unseen invective from Jason urging it forward. “I got you something.”
A chocolate-covered strawberry appears in front of Dick’s face, perfectly formed.
“You remembered,” Dick says idly. He hadn’t gotten to eat the one Jason had stuffed him with. “They’re my favorite.”
Its taste bursts on his sleek tongue, chocolate drizzle melted on his lip.
“Yeah,” Jason says, rough. He slides a juice-stained hand into Dick’s hair. “I know they are.”