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“Are you done yet?” came the slightly annoyed voice from outside the bathroom door, and Dick swallowed, staring at his reflection.
“Almost,” he called back, his voice magnitudes steadier than he felt as he twisted the leather between his fingers.
Most of his outfit hadn’t given him any trouble. The ‘fuck me’ skintight dark jeans took some wriggling to get into, yes, but Dick was flexible enough that they didn’t severely restrict his range of motion, and the dark blue halter top was comfortable even if it bared his entire back and half his stomach. He was an old hand at applying makeup, and the kohl made his blue eyes look more striking and less panicked. It was the collar that had frozen him in his tracks.
“Kid, the objective is to get to the club sometime tonight,” came the growl, and Dick let out a soundless breath.
“Coming,” he unstuck his mouth to say, and raised the collar to his neck. It was plain—a band of black leather about two inches wide, with a steel buckle and a simple steel ring dangling from the front. Just another part of the costume.
Dick slid the leather through the straps, and swallowed. The movement pressed the band tighter around his throat. The man in the mirror didn’t look like a vigilante, didn’t look like one of the most accomplished heroes in the world.
He looked like a caged bird.
“Grayson.”
Dick unlocked the door and flung it open and wow, Slade was standing really close to the door. The mercenary’s expression tightened when he scanned over Dick, and silence crept forward one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heart—
“You certainly clean up nice,” Deathstroke said evenly, as though his expression wasn’t so hungry Dick was fighting the urge to flee. “You just—” and then Dick stopped breathing altogether as the mercenary reached out and pinched the collar. He tugged at it, leather pressing against Dick’s neck in an inescapable hold, until the ring was right between Dick’s collarbones. “There,” the ice blue eye was smoldering, “Perfect.”
A frisson slipped down his spine.
Slade moved back, and Dick finally remembered to breathe. The mercenary was dressed in dark clothes as well, though his button-up and slacks covered a lot more skin than Dick did. It only served to remind Dick that the world’s deadliest mercenary was also unfairly attractive.
Just a job, Dick reminded himself, not for the first time.
“The cloning phone,” Dick said steadily, handing Slade the device because there was absolutely nowhere to stick it in his clothes, “You have to press—”
“I know how it works, kid,” Slade said dismissively, “Stop worrying.”
“We’re here to work together,” Dick reminded him, “Which means accomplishing both our objectives—”
“I know, I know, you scratch my back,” Slade opened the door and settled a broad palm at the base of Dick’s spine to nudge him out, “I scratch yours.” Their cab was waiting at the street. “Loosen up, kid,” Slade said, “And maybe you can even have some fun.”
Dick was not here to have fun. Dick was here because, despite his better judgement, he’d decided to work together with Deathstroke. Dick wanted information off of Angela Carelli’s phone, Slade had a contract to steal a flash drive discreetly, and both their targets were known to spend Saturday nights at the Stilts, the upscale BDSM club in Bludhaven’s financial district.
The Stilts was renowned for its security—neither Nightwing nor Deathstroke would be able to break in without setting off an alarm, and so walking through the front door was the best cover. Tour the club for a little bit while Slade found his drive and Dick cloned Carelli’s phone, and that was it.
Simple, easy job.
Dick felt like he’d swallowed a box of butterflies.
Of course, his companion noticed. “Relax,” came the murmur at his ear, a hot breath of air that did very little to help Dick relax, “I know you’re a better actor than this, kid.”
It was easier to act when he wasn’t practically sitting in Slade’s lap, pressed up against one of the world’s most prolific killers, with a hand casually wrapped around his waist like it couldn’t paralyze him with one jerk. But Dick took a deep breath and ran through the techniques that Bruce had taught him to lower and steady his heart rate. To slip into the character and wear it like a second skin, settling until it felt comfortable and seamless.
The collar helped ground him in the role, and Slade’s thumb rubbing quiet circles into his skin moved from overwhelming to background noise. Suppressing his body’s instinctive response to a threat pressed that close was a dangerous thing to do, but it was just one night. One night, two targets, and then they would be done.
The cab stopped in front of the unassuming sign, and soon they were heading through the darkened hallway and down into the club. There was a receiving room where Slade and Dick handed over their coats, and Slade drew out their remaining props.
The leash clicking into place on his collar made him shiver, but it was when Slade raised the black cloth that Dick’s heart skipped a beat.
Slade paused, raising an eyebrow. “Something wrong?” he asked.
Yes, something was wrong. Dick had barely managed to get himself to calm down, and Nightwing drew the line at wearing a blindfold in front of the world’s deadliest mercenary. There was no way Dick would be able to do that without fully letting go of the hypervigilance. Without putting his trust in a mercenary.
Dick did not trust Slade. Dick trusted that Slade would put his contract first, and was willing to accept Slade’s word that they’d work together, but that seemed like way too little faith for someone to tie a blindfold around his eyes.
“Kid?” Slade repeated, not-so-patiently.
But he had already agreed to this. Both to help conceal his identity further, and because Slade refused to believe that Dick could play the head down, eyes lowered, demure sub he was supposed to be—and that was not really an argument Dick wanted to win.
Dick took a slow breath, and stepped forward.
The black silk was pleasantly cool against his face, and Slade’s hands were quick and sure. The blindfold was complete—no light made it through, not even a hazy outline, and everything became louder.
His heart, beating too steadily. The satisfied hum of Slade’s voice. A door opening in the distance, the muted bass of the club, the cars in the street above, the sound of him swallowing.
The clack of the clasp of the leash against the ring in his collar as Slade gently tugged him forward.
“Gorgeous,” Slade murmured, and Dick heard every inflection.
The hypersensitivity was astounding. Dick could feel the silk pressed to his face, the tautness of the leather around his neck, the vibrations of every precise footstep he took. He could sense the minute shifts in the collar as Slade moved, the leash’s slack allowing Dick to stay a step and a half behind, and the music humming against his skin as they stepped onto the club floor.
The belt of his jeans digging into his hipbones, the stray sucking gusts of wind tugging at his top, the appreciative catcalls as he walked through a crowd he could not see. Slade was mostly silent, twice murmuring a warning about steps and once about an uneven floor, and if not for the leash, Dick wouldn’t even know he was there.
He had to consciously relax his fingers and his shoulders. His gait automatically slipped to catlike, moving up to the balls of his feet to keep his balance in the absence of visual stimuli. He took slow, steady breaths, carefully counting them to keep his heartrate down and adjust to the overstimulation.
Dick stopped focusing on the words and concentrated on the way his footsteps landed. Every time he swallowed, he felt the collar press tighter, and the weight of it helped ground him. He wasn’t alone. Slade was right here.
A mercenary was right here, the world’s deadliest mercenary was right in front of him, holding a leash to his collar, and Dick had voluntarily handicapped himself and—
Deep, slow breaths. Focus on the collar. Forget about who was holding it. The music thudded through the floor and up his legs, and Dick shifted easily with the movement of the crowd, like a leaf in a river.
This was a mission, and he was undercover. That was it. Slade had to steal something off of his target, and they needed get close to Angela Carelli to clone her phone, and—assuming Slade had actually been listening to the instructions Dick had given—they would be done. Dick could remove the blindfold and collar and never have to see Deathstroke again.
Being hyperaware of every brush against him, especially on bare skin, accidental or deliberate, was doing him no favors. The leash jerked sharply to pull him away from one particularly grabby hand, and for a moment, Dick was pressed up against Slade’s side, feeling the mercenary’s heartbeat against his skin as gun-callused fingers curved over his hip.
And then Slade was gone again, and Dick was back to following the leash.
They were going in a meandering circle, Dick could track that much, and they were nearly three-quarters of the way around by the time a hand landed on his bare shoulder and pressed him back against the wall.
“Okay,” Slade said quietly, words rumbling right in front of him. Dick felt distinctly underdressed with how completely Slade was caging him into the corner, warmth searing through Dick’s thin clothes. “I have my drive. Time to find your target, kid.”
“What?” Dick wheezed, “When?” He hadn’t even noticed.
“Couple of minutes ago,” Slade said smugly, “Not that observant, are you—oh, there’s Carelli. Hmm.”
“Hmm?” Dick hissed into Slade’s shirt, “What does hmm mean?”
“She’s near the scening booths,” Slade said. And, after a pause, “How far did you say your cloning device could work?”
“Five feet radius, but it’ll take nearly five minutes to work.”
Slade hummed again. “What are your thoughts on impact play?” he asked.
“What.”
“Carelli looks like she has a type. Impact play, yes or no?”
Dick took as even a breath as he could with Slade pressed firmly against him, and tried to think. A scene would be an easy way to keep Carelli in one place long enough for the cloning to work, but it wasn’t the only way and Dick could definitely hear the thread of desire in Slade’s voice.
Dick didn’t trust that Slade wasn’t just fucking with him, but he was keenly aware that with Slade having already completed his contract, Dick had no leverage to get him to follow Dick’s lead.
“Fine,” Dick said before he could talk himself out of it.
“Three taps or red to abort mission,” Slade reminded him in a low whisper, before steering him towards the scening booths at the back of the club.
There was a low murmur of interest as they neared, and Dick felt the floor underneath him change to the give of a mat before Slade stopped him and pushed him down to his knees. Dick made a soft, surprised sound of protest at the sudden manhandling.
“Something to say, kid?” Slade asked, muted footsteps circling Dick. From the murmur of voices, they were definitely drawing an audience.
This was fine. Maybe if he repeated it enough, he could force his too-fast heartbeat to believe it.
“No, sir,” Dick exhaled, and Slade’s footsteps drew to an abrupt halt.
Dick nearly jerked back when hands closed around his upper arms, but they yanked his arms forward with no apparent effort. Leather cuffs snapped into place around his wrists, and Dick let Slade stretch them up to attach them to a hanging chain. The chain was adjusted, drawing his arms further up until Dick was forced to sit straight on his knees, leaving him uncomfortably exposed.
“Good?” Slade asked, and Dick tested the give of the cuffs before nodding. Those were definitely murmurs behind them.
“I’ve always wanted you like this,” Slade said, soft and dangerous, and a shudder shivered down Dick’s spine, accompanied by a brush of something thin and hard. Cane, his mind supplied when it traced over the counters of his spine and pressed against his lower back before whispering up his side.
It’s just a job, Dick reminded himself. Angela Carelli was somewhere behind him, and the clock was ticking down. Five more minutes.
“You’ve been insubordinate, sweetheart,” Slade said lowly, “So let’s say ten strikes to warm you up, ten for disobeying, and ten to make sure the lesson really sinks in, hmm?”
Oh, fuck. Dick was beginning to realize how stupid of a decision it was to hand a man whose contracts he’d thwarted several times a carte blanche to hurt him. “Yes, sir,” Dick said through gritted teeth.
Five more minutes.
It hurt. It hurt a lot, warmth searing to burning, and his entire back was stinging, his jaw locked to stop from shouting and—
“Ten.” The cane pressed harder against the welt for an instant before Slade let go, and Dick sucked in a sharp breath as stinging intensified.
“There you go,” Slade said lowly, “Nice and warm.” He ran his fingers down the welts—gentle, the pressure light, but Dick had to curl his hands into fists to keep from arching his back. “Now we can get to the real punishment.”
Had it been a minute yet? Squinting didn’t make the blindfold any more translucent, and Slade’s first strike caught Dick off guard and won a strangled hiss at the sudden sting.
“Eleven.”
He tried to keep his breathing steady, but every time he managed to level it off—
“Twelve.”
And the asshole knew what he was fucking doing, he could hear Dick’s breathing—
“Thirteen.”
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep—
“Fourteen.”
Deep—
“Fifteen.”
Dick’s breath rushed out in a shocked exhale as Slade disrupted the pattern, and he couldn’t win it back—Slade kept hitting faster and harder, and ragged breaths interspersed with suppressed hisses as the numbers ticked up. He couldn’t focus on the cloning device, or how many minutes were left, not when his entire world narrowed to the burning in his back.
He couldn’t see, he could barely hear anything over his own harsh breaths, he could only feel—
“Twenty.” And the strike landed at an angle, across all of the existing welts, a pained keen tearing itself from Dick’s throat.
Footsteps vibrated through the mat again, stopping in front of him, and a strong hand gripped his jaw to tip his head back. A thumb pressed down on his lip as Dick panted. “There we go,” Slade murmured in satisfaction, “That’s what I want to hear.”
The hand moved up to cup his cheek for a second, stroking a few stray locks out of his face, before disappearing, leaving Dick with nothing but the fire coursing down his spine.
The tip of the cane traced across his shoulder blades, and Dick whimpered.
“Ten more to go, sweetheart,” Slade said evenly—and the strike impacted before he even finished speaking. “Twenty-one.”
It was—
“Twenty-two.”
Dick felt like he was clinging to a branch by the side of a raging river—
“Twenty-three.”
And it was exhausting him and half-drowning him and—
“Twenty-four.”
Why couldn’t he let go?
“Twenty-five.”
Deathstroke—he was undercover, not safe, not trusted, no—but it was too late.
“Twenty-six.”
Dick slipped down and let the haze take control.
“Thirty,” Slade finished, letting his smile grow as he beheld the fruits of his labor. From shoulders to the hem of his top, Dick’s back was striped and red and nearly glowing, and murmurs of appreciation came from the crowd behind them.
Slade took a moment to check the cloning device in his pocket as he ran his fingers across warm skin, relishing in the bitten-off whimpers. Carelli was turning to leave, he noted out of the corner of his eye, and—the device blinked with a successful cloning. Good.
“Have you learned your lesson, sweetheart?” Slade asked for the benefit of the lingering stragglers, stroking lightly down Dick’s back and imagining how badly he’d yelp if Slade used his nails.
“Yessir,” came out oddly slurred, and Slade stilled.
Dick’s heartbeat was steady. He had slumped slightly but his breathing was level, and his face was dry. Slade couldn’t shake the unease, though, and undid the blindfold.
Dick’s pupils were blown wide, his blinks slow and his eyes glassy. They immediately focused on Slade, and Dick swayed closer to him.
“How are you feeling?” Slade asked, settling a hand on Dick’s cheek as ‘shit’ ran on his head in a loop. Of all the outcomes he’d been prepared for—Dick backing out, them being caught, Dick panicking—this had not been one of them.
“G’d,” Dick smiled at him, open and beaming, and it wasn’t an expression Slade had ever witnessed directed at him. “Sl’de—”
“Shh,” Slade placed a finger on his lips—the last thing they needed right now was Dick spilling their identities. “Can you be quiet, sweetheart?”
Dick nodded, nuzzling further against Slade’s hand.
Oh, he was so fucked.
“Stay still while I get the chains off,” Slade instructed, letting go of Dick but keeping his feet on other side of Dick’s knees. Dick leaned forward to rest his head against Slade’s thigh, which was not at all distracting, but Slade undid the chain quickly and crouched in front of Dick to unlock the cuffs.
There was no redness or stiffness in the joints, but Slade ran through a quick massage anyway, trying to ignore the pleased hums.
Subspace. Slade hadn’t clocked Nightwing as a sub at all, not with the way he effortlessly took control of any situation he was in, and hadn’t thought his poking would lead to this. He abruptly saw the kid’s twitchiness in a new light, and the events of the night were rearranging themselves in Slade’s head.
“Anything hurt aside from your back?” Slade asked, and Dick shook his head no. “Can you get up?” That was a yes, and Dick rolled easily to his feet when Slade pulled him up. “Do you want the blindfold back?” Slade asked, unsure if the stimulation of the club would be helpful right now.
Dick nodded again, and stayed perfectly still while Slade rewrapped the cloth around his head. Not a single flinch.
The kid kept his fingers tucked into Slade’s belt loops as Slade replaced the gear back on the table and cleaned up after themselves. He moved…pliantly, following Slade—no, anticipating his movements and moving along with them in order to be closer to him. Slade was half wondering if he’d gotten the wrong Dick Grayson, because this couldn’t possibly be Nightwing.
Tugging Dick to his side kept the kid plastered against him, nestling closer and not even twitching at Slade’s possessive arm around his lower back. It made walking slightly awkward, but Slade could support enough of Dick’s weight that it didn’t matter, and subspace didn’t touch Dick’s preternatural grace.
When they were out of the club, however, was when the dilemma arose.
Their alliance was at an end. Slade had the drive he’d stolen from his target’s pocket, Dick had his cloned phone, they had both gotten out of the club. It was time to part ways. Or, Slade supposed, looking down in bemusement at the kid still hugging him, he could be generous enough to pay Dick’s fare back to his apartment.
But Slade wasn’t a generous man. He was a possessive one—he never let go of the things he considered his, and for all that Nightwing played hard-to-get, right now he was standing in Slade’s collar, submitting to him.
No, Dick wasn’t his. But Slade could change that.
Dick had slipped down so easily and so beautifully, and Slade hadn’t even been trying. How easy would it be to keep him like that, keep him collared and leashed, a caged bird with only Slade to hear him sing?
Or if keeping him was too much trouble, Slade could just take what he wanted, right here and now. Dick was down and so, so very pliant, so very obedient, Slade could force him to his knees or take him against the alley wall or up on a roof and Dick wouldn’t even complain.
Slade raised a hand and hailed a taxi. Dick followed him into the cab without a murmur of protest, curled up in his lap without any nudging, and tucked his head against Slade’s chest. The ride was an exercise in self-control as Slade kept his arms firmly around Dick’s waist, ignoring the soft puffs of air against his open collar.
Slade didn’t bother waiting for the change when the ride was over, not when he wanted to be inside.
“Wait here,” Slade said, depositing Dick in the living room, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He kept an ear on Dick’s heartbeat as he got supplies, and it remained steady and unchanging.
When Slade returned, Dick was on his knees. On his knees, coat off, hands clasped to his elbows behind his back, head tilted up, mouth open.
Slade stopped in the doorway and let out a slow breath.
“You never make things easy, do you, kid?” His voice was low, and Dick unconsciously shivered as he oriented to Slade’s voice.
Jesus fuck. Slade stepped closer, and closer, and closer, looming above the vigilante, and Dick didn’t flinch. When Slade placed a hand on his cheek, Dick sighed and slumped further in place, tilting his head into Slade’s palm.
“This is the kind of shit you mention before a mission,” Slade said flatly, and Dick flinched at that, withdrawing at the censure in Slade’s tone. Slade caught his collar before he could move too far, and crouched down, sorting through the supplies to retrieve the nuts and dried fruit.
Dick made a questing noise as Slade poked a couple of almonds and raisins into his mouth. “Chew,” Slade instructed, and followed each bite with a sip of water, until the water bottle was empty. “I’m going to remove the blindfold now,” he warned, and tugged the cloth off to reveal Dick’s still-hazy blue eyes.
Slade ran his thumb under one eye and watched Dick blink. “Do you know who I am?” he asked quietly.
“Slade,” came Dick’s response, steadier than last time.
“What else?”
“Deathstroke,” Dick answered without the slightest hesitation.
“Do you know where we are?” Slade asked.
Dick blinked, and peered over Slade’s shoulder, scanning about half the room before turning back, and replying confidently, “Your safehouse.”
“Do you remember what we were doing tonight?”
That gave Dick pause. His face scrunched up, unconsciously tilting further against Slade as he thought. “The cane?” Dick answered, clearly hesitant.
“Before that.”
Slade could pinpoint the exact moment Dick came up, because his heartbeat stuttered before going haywire, and his eyes widened to saucers. Slade grabbed him and pulled him closer before he could flee, shaking out a blanket and wrapping it quickly around the kid as he began hyperventilating.
“Shh,” Slade said, holding Dick tightly and tucking his head under his chin, “It’s okay, you’re safe here. Deep breaths. Come on, kid.” Dick was struggling against the blanket, hard, and Slade loosened his grip, wondering if he’d taken the wrong approach—only for Dick to cling to him after wresting his arms free.
“Let it out,” Slade said quietly, rubbing circles against his shoulder as Dick buried his face into Slade’s shirt to muffle the sobs. “It’s okay, there’s no one else here.” No one except a mercenary, which he supposed wasn’t very reassuring, but Dick continued crying in his lap, shaking through gasping sobs and clutching tighter at him.
“Deep breaths,” Slade said when Dick started hiccupping, “Come on, Grayson, you can do it. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.” Dick took a spasming breath and held it, chest heaving through another hiccup, before exhaling explosively. “Again.” This time, the exhale was slower. “Again.” The hiccup cracked the inhale halfway through.
Again and again and again, until Dick’s breathing had more or less evened out, even though he was still hiccupping, his face wet. “Here,” Slade handed him a water bottle, “Drink.” Dick cracked the seal with trembling fingers, and nearly drenched himself with an inopportune hiccup, but most of the water ended up in his mouth.
Slade handed Dick another water bottle before snagging the bruise cream. “Can I put this on your back?” Slade asked, raising the tube of cream.
Dick looked up with a tearstained face, makeup a smudged mess, and blinked at the tube for a stretching moment before nodding and focusing on the water again. Slade braced Dick’s waist—originally to get out from under him, but Dick went rigid when Slade moved, and Slade swiveled to merely twisting so that Dick’s back was to him, the kid still curled up in his lap.
Dick relaxed in increments.
The bruises were bright red, and Dick made tiny flinches and suppressed sounds as Slade slathered on the cream, careful to get all of them. He didn’t tug the blanket back up, and waited for Dick to finish the water before speaking again.
“Can I take off the collar?” Slade asked. It was generally a good judge of where a sub’s headspace was at.
Dick stopped breathing.
“Or not,” Slade said smoothly, keeping a hand on Dick’s waist. The possessive part of him snarled in satisfaction, and Slade shoved it down. One thing at a time. “Do you want a ride home?” Still no breathing. “Do you want to spend the night here?”
A breath, but shaky, and when Dick twisted to look at him, his eyes were wide and fearful.
“Sleeping only,” Slade raised an empty hand, palm out, “Separate beds, if you’d like.”
Dick’s eyes tracked over his face, searching for something. “Why?” he croaked finally, “What—what do you get out of it? Our deal is over.”
“Yes,” Slade agreed, “And it wasn’t a real scene, right up until you slipped into subspace. That made it real, whether we’d agreed to it beforehand or not, and I take care of my partners.” Dick still looked skeptical. “Kid, if I wanted to fuck you, I could’ve done so at any point after you went down, you certainly wouldn’t have stopped me. In fact, you can’t stop me, whether you’re in your right mind or not.” Slade flexed his grip on Dick’s waist to prove his point. “Either trust me or don’t. It won’t change a damn thing.”
Dick’s face made a complicated series of emotions before it finally settled on exhausted resignation. “Okay,” he said quietly, “Sleeping only.”
Slade left Dick cautiously peering into the bedroom while Slade found clothes that would be more comfortable than what Dick was wearing. “You know where the bathroom is,” Slade handed Dick the sweatpants and T-shirt, and while the vigilante was washing his face, Slade got changed himself.
He was sitting on the bed when Dick left the bathroom. The kid stuttered to a halt on seeing Slade.
“The couch’s still open if you want to take that instead.”
Dick’s expression firmed, and he marched towards the bed. He got under the sheets like it was a challenge, and Slade made a mental note of that button. It was truly a shame that he’d gotten the chance to see Nightwing open and unguarded and vulnerable, but hadn’t been able to take his time with it. Enjoy it to the fullest.
Well, now that Slade knew that there was a chance of getting Nightwing on his knees, there was no way he would let it slip by.
Not when Dick nestled so sweetly into his arms, tucking against Slade and clinging tight. Not when he shivered and sighed in relief as Slade curled around him, practically melting when Slade ran a hand through his hair.
The hand slipped down to trace the edge of the collar, his collar, the collar Dick didn’t want removed, and Slade smiled.
So very perfect.