#dom!dick

Bleary eyes open–

And things like “I’m going to take care of you,” resonate in his brain pan.

The last twenty-four hours slamming into his immediate consciousness is not conducive to good morning, Red.

Rather, his eyes move frantically around Dick Grayson’s bedroom in a poor attempt at a hopeful bout of crime fighting with some kind of hallucinogenic thrown in.

Fat chance.

A full bottle of water is sitting on the nightstand. His clothes are in a chair by the door.

The Dom supplements and chemical blockers are out of his system.

He’d gone down into Subspace safely for the first time in his life, knowing that by the ache in his body and bleary, half-memories of things like safe.

And now that the crisis is over, he’s back to being somewhat balanced, he’s going to get his ass chewed out and who knows what Dick might insist on after the big secret is out.

A spike of panic hits him in the chest, cold and sharp, and he needs to get moving to try getting a headstart on some damage control.

On silent feet, he throws his clothes on over the bruises and rope burns, noting he doesn’t have a phone, a comm, keys, or anything else that would be, you know, helpful.

Since he’s in Gotham, his only chance is to get to the Perch and get some tech under his belt, prepare before Dick tries do something he thinks is probably in Tim’s best fucking interest since now–

They know.

Random things going through his head while he dresses, mentally struggles to push himself up and away from the call of Subspace.

(If...if he was still here when Dick finally came back, maybe he would be nice and gentle, happy that he woke up still close to slipping over.)

(Or he might want to talk about things like we should find a Dom to take care of you. It’s for your own good, Timmy.)

(“You’ll learn to love it.”)

Dick might think he needs to go to hormone therapy, might make him register so an interested Dom could...could–

(It’s all about ownership, isn’t it, Tim?)

There’s too much “I won’t punish you like this,” that he doesn’t have enough evidence to know what Dick’s next move would be now that he wasn’t going to go catatonic and shit.

(You won’t be able to hide forever.)

What he does know, is that he needs some time to get himself together–

–and make a plan.

The window is up and he’s halfway out, heart in his throat when he picks up the sound of footsteps and a door opening. A strange bout of sudden panic climbs up out of his chest at the noise, and it’s enough to spook him into not to bother closing the window when he throws himself on the fire escape and starts to climb.

**

Panicky impulse is not necessarily a good motivator. Give it to someone with years of vigilantism and extensive martial arts training under his belt, and the decision-making process is fraught with more options and factors than the average person.

Which is why Tim Drake is taking a short-cut through the Red Hood’s usual stomping grounds in hopes to cut the route he’d need to take to his Gotham Perch by half. It’s a stupid move on his part, attracting too much attention by going via the rooftop express than making it down to the street to get lost in the shadows between lamp posts.

But before Hood had claimed this as one of his territories, back when Tim was the one wearing the tunic, the shuriken R on his shoulder gleaming in the night, back when things were simpler if not still bat-shit crazy (heh) because of things like psychopaths with delusions of grandeur and megalomaniac kinks, back when he was that Robin, he’d combed every inch of these rooftops, crouched down to eat power bars and drink grape Zestis in-between busting drug deals and kicking the shit out of purse snatchers.

Gotham was his first stomping grounds in the cape, so he knows all the good places to hide.

It’s why his battered blue and white DCs feel like boots when he lands it on Gold’s Pawn, takes the whole thing in five big strides, pushing up into gravity, flying for just a second, and landing it on the run-down laundry mat next door.

He crouch-walks to keep himself low as possible, moving in the shadows when he can, breathing in the night around him with senses painfully alert after the first easy drop into Subspace he’s ever had.

(Which he is absolutely not thinking about. Nope.)

The drop-off into an alley and corresponding sprint to the next dumpster are so he can hot-foot it up to the side of a bail bondsman, avoid a loose plank, and scale up with a few handholds in the brick that are all about forearm strength.

He’s running on adrenaline, paying attention to the path ahead, panting and too full of his own thoughts–

–that he doesn’t expect the whistle of a bolo sailing through the air, or the abrupt stop of it wrapping around his knees. Embarrassingly, he makes an eep before he hits the roof, fumbling enough to scrape his damn hands.

He flips over, already working the heavy weights of the bolo from around his knees, eyes darting to the shadows, wondering if Hood might have found him after all.

(How the fuck was he going to talk his way out of this one?)

But it’s Nightwing that steps out of the shadows, brows drawn above the domino, his mouth such a sharp downward slash that Tim cringes, automatically tries to make himself smaller.

“D-Don’t!” He tries hoarsely, fingers working faster, more frantic.

(If he was back up, he’d be out of this already – his panicky brain is telling him, and that just makes it even harder, and he can’t stop to think through what he could be facing next–)

“Stop. Now.”

And the bitter bile rises up in his chest when he responds to that voice, when he stops, has to wait.

He’s still too fresh coming off of Subspace, too long of not going down, that it’s ten times harder to resist.

“I’m not happy,” is low and dark from the Dominant in front of him, hands deceptively loose at his sides. “You aren’t ready to be out yet. I’m sure you’re fully aware of that, Tim.”

His hands are starting to shake because he still tries to fight, eyes fixed on booted feet coming toward him. His fingers curl into fists, but that’s as far as he can go.

“What if you dropped a few minutes ago? No grapple? No way to catch yourself? You obviously aren’t thinking rationally, which means you need to be taken down at least once more before you’re stable. Maybe even twice if I can get you there.”

A sob works it’s way up, and he has to clench his teeth against it, arms straining with the effort to just get his fucking hands to work.

“You were so good for me, and this? Running away? Such a big no-no.”

(“Don’t fight it. Don’t ever fight it.”)

He bites down hard, harder, needs the pain to break free. He has to get free.

(“I’m not going to punish you like this.” So, you’ll wait until I’m not dropping, right?)

“I understand why you didn’t come to me when you needed help,” and Nightwing is only two steps away, pauses when he notices blood on Tim’s chin, on how the chest under the oversized hoodie is rapidly rising and falling.

The choked sound could have been a laugh or a sob, telling the vigilante some of what he needs to know.

“You presented after Bruce was lost in time, didn’t you?” It’s deceptively soft, but the undertone is all Dom.

“Y-Yes,” he grits out grudgingly, unable to stop himself. “After I lost my spleen.”

There’s something there that makes Nightwing pause, the booted feet hesitating.

“I’m sorry.” Is softer than he wants to hear, than he wants to deal with while he’s fighting against his true nature. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I wasn’t there for so long, and it’s going to be hard to trust me now.”

It’s all a jumble of whatever, so he’s only got half an ear on the voice, trying to make it subtle when he lowers his clenched hands enough to wiggle one finger in the bolo’s rope around his knees from the back. He needs to get them loose enough to get away–

(from that voice, from that promise, from everything Dick represents to him right that second).

“But you need to at least try,” the older vigilante continues, takes one step forward, pausing again when Tim flinches violently back, is breathing too fast, too harshly, might work himself over into hyperventilation.

“Ssstop,” from between clenched teeth, “stop it.”

“My inner Dom would never let me leave a Sub in need, and I wouldn’t anyway because you, one of my partners, needs this. You need to submit. You can feel what your body is telling you, Tim.”

To run the fuck away and never look back.

And Nightwing slowly takes a knees, those whiteouts focusing on the Sub’s face hidden by the hood.

Luckily, Dick Grayson is a good Dom.

He’s the one that figured out B’s secret not long after getting the inner Dom senses when he presented. It all happened during the crazy span of time Clark had to vanish deep in the universe, and left B to keep things on Earth in line with the JLA while also doing the usual vigilante justice in Gotham.

Still in pixie boots, Dick had done everything to help shoulder the burden, but it wasn’t long when he started seeing the signs. When his Dark Knight was getting closer and closer to the edge. He’d overwork himself to the point of exhaustion, trying to keep from getting too violent with criminals and megalomaniacs. The struggle to keep himself at the top of his game, one step ahead of the baddies, the more intense brooding.

It killed Dick to watch B spiral, so he’d done his homework on Submissives, trying to put his first scene together that would be easy for both of them without ever acting as a Dom before.

Even back then, he was good at anticipating, and it was as simple as ordering his other Dad to shower and change into pajamas, to eat everything Alfred made him, and sleep for eight hours.

That was enough to balance them both out, to bring them closer as partners.

That might have been the first time he used the Dom Voice on Bruce, but it wasn’t the last. It was the high point of their partnership when Bruce finally gave in and let his Robin take him down when his Dom was busy and the world was closing in.

It had gone far in making him into a good Dom, able to talk down terrified Subs, to volunteer as a Service Dom, to separate out Dick Grayson’s Dom with all his personal preferences and the Dom that wants to give the Sub what he or she needs.

(It’s still a sore point with him, how he thought being Bruce’s stand-in Dom is what drove him to take away the tunic, because B couldn’t look at him the same, couldn’t see his sidekick after a while…)

He hoped he and Tim could at least come to an understanding. To be equals, partners again. And this revelation could be such a big step to making that happen. If he could make Tim believe in him, if he could give the third Robin a safe place to be able to let go.

He could make up for at least some of those old pains, maybe even earn Tim’s trust back again.

It was a solid plan, but not as easily executable as he’d thought, proven when he had caught the sound of the window opening, half-way into making something breakfast-y, his heart slammed hard when he’d taken off down to the hall to find his bed and bathroom empty.

A moment of panic hit Dick in the chest because Tim was still too vulnerable to the Dom Voice after the drop into Subspace while riding the dregs of withdraw–

He hadn’t had time to explain the plan to keep Tim from running. Hadn’t had the time to admit he’d had taken a blood sample to analyze once he’d finally un-tied the dazed Sub and let Tim sleep off however many days of insomnia he’d been riding. A call to Bruce while Tim was passed out cold in his bed to share the results, and they made a tentative plan.

He’d talked to Bart, Kon, and Cassie, asked them to come by tomorrow night, hopefully to see for themselves that Tim was getting better, more lucid and on-his-game. He thought making a point to bring some of the Titans to Gotham could have meant avoiding this very thing.

Tim’s usual deflection methods.

And as much as he doesn’t really want to, he’s going to have to put his foot down, and listen to his instincts on this one.

Blinking away the wetness in his eyes, Tim’s hands pause, and the sinking feeling in his chest that might N have a valid point weighs him down on the rooftop in Gotham, just as much as the bolo around his legs.

The Dom is doing that Bat-loom thing because he’s fucking concerned.  Just looking up to see hands poised over his arms, waiting for permission, and everything in Tim sways closer when the Dom voice comes out–

(like when he’s told how good he is, how beautiful in ropes and restraints, how perfect he is when he just gives the fuck in)

–so, of course, when he insanely thinks he can’t have this means he has to push it and see if it’ll break.  

“Trust? You want me to trust you, Dick? You think I don’t know you all want the same thing?” He grits his teeth to shut the Submissive in the depths of his brain pan the hell up, “fucking Doms. Want to punish me, Dick? Want to beat me until I bleed for you? Want to hit me until I’m a good little bitch?”

Some kind of tension bleeds out of Nightwing’s rigid spine. His hands flex and loosen, the deep frown gone when the vigilante sighs.

He finally moves then, pushes Tim’s hands away to work the bolo loose himself.

“Not all of us are assholes like that. I know you know I’m not like that.” And even when he gets the ropes loose, drops it beside them, the weights making a light thump, fingerstripes flash through the night act like impromptu manacles.

“Look at me.”

Even without the Dom voice this time, he can’t disobey. More because it’s Dick rather than the man that wrapped him in ropes and gave him what he needed to be able to go down without pain or force or fear.

“This is terrifying for you. No, I don’t really know, but there’s no other reason for you to run away from me than if you thought things were going to change, or if you thought I would give a crap about you being a Sub.” He taps his domino to raise the whiteouts, blue, blue eyes zeroing right in. “I would never, never punish you for protecting yourself, Tim, and that is exactly what you were doing. I hope, after you were able to go down for me, you’ll realize you don’t have to anymore.”

And since it’s Dick, the words his deep enough to make him suck in a breath, to ease down some of the blatant fears that came along with this little reveal.

Tim can’t look Nightwing in the face as blood rushes back in his lower legs when the bolo comes off, but blue and black kevlar is presses in tight against him so he can’t get up to run again.

“Hey, c’mon Detective. Use the evidence you’ve already got.” Is more gentle than he expected, making some of the steel in his spine soften.

“I...he-he told me,” and the words get caught up somewhere, stuck somewhere in the center of his chest because he’d never spoken about what happened when he was desperate, before synthetic supplements, before heavy mediation and self-dropping techniques.

(But he couldn’t only ever get himself down so far, only to skim the top of Subspace, still achy and half-manic after every attempt.)

“Well, well, well, lookit what we got here.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

Nightwing is on his feet in a breath of movement, escrima sticks out automatically, knees bent and ready to lunge.

But the Red Hood just holds up both .45s, barrels pointed to the sky, and cocks out a hip. “Nice ta see ya, Baby Boy. Thought ya couldn’t be out t’night ‘causea some business.”

Tim already knows it’s too late to run, but the opportunity is one he really can’t pass up.

“Case, we were...we were working on a case. Hood. Hey man. How’s kicks? Any new baddies lately?”

“Slow night in Gotham, Timmers,” as he hops down off the high ledge and makes the walk over look good. “Good t’ see ya made it outta that last throw-down. I hate those DaDa fucks like ya wouldn’t believe.”

“Tell me about it,” he ignores Nightwing’s hand and clambers to his own feet, hoodie keeping his face on the down-low in case nosy reporters are snooping about the rooftops.

“Nah. Ain’t one a’ my best stories anyhow.” Hood puts a big hand to Tim’s shoulder, ducks down a little so the whiteouts can catch his eye, “‘sides, ya look like ya could fall the fuck over any minute now. Been balls deep in yer case means ya ain’t been sleepin’, right Timmy?”

“Yeah,” he makes his eyes meet the whiteouts, tries to play it off because he desperately doesn’t want to react to Jason Todd’s inner Dom (if anyone would know how to cause pain, it would be the vigilante that almost killed him more than once. They might be better now, might even work together sometimes, but he’s got no way of knowing how Jay would react to the truth). “Yeah, it’s been a rough couple of days.”

He internally cringes when the helmet perks.

“Seems that way since yer workin’ a case right after those fucks had yer team runnin’ ragged.” And the Red Hood takes a small step closer, a hand goes for Tim’s wrist, leather fingers overlapping. The tight hold makes his knees wobble, black eating at the edges of his vision (he’s between two Doms and the Submissive in him can’t help but want to drop to his knees for them, to be Good, to beg for their orders, to give himself over–).

Hood is saying something, but he can’t really hear the words, can only stare up at the whiteouts with his wrist held tight between them.

Your restraints would feel safe comes completely out of left fucking field and that panicky feeling is back, creeping up his throat, coppery in his mouth.

(I’m so screwed.)

Subtly, Nightwing slides a hand up to the back of Tim’s neck, thumb pressing at the right pressure point, helps flood his brain pan with the right endorphins, shaking him out of the daze.

“Yeah, lookit ya,” and the helmet shakes from side-to-side while the synths register the tisking. “Better get yer ass somewhere and sleep it off, Timmy. Ain’t ya still godda Perch in Gotham?”

“I’m taking him to my place,” N interjects, “so I can make sure he takes care of himself.”

Tim is with it enough to look at the Dom behind him, the threat of the hand on the back of his neck enough to keep him from protesting in front of Hood, but he can’t stop his body from tensing up when Nightwing takes just a tiny step closer to his back, the heat of him, the power and strength, the command an enticing pull and terrifying prospect in the same breath.

(“You’ll learn to love it.”

“I’ll never punish you for protecting yourself.”)

The synths are quiet for a long second, the Red Hood pulling off a little bit of that Bat-stillness.

“Hey Dickie, what case didja say ya were workin’ again?” Is off-handed, but if Tim knows anything about Jason Todd, it’s that very few things about him are accidental.

He opens his mouth to blurt out something that could be somewhat believable, but Nightwing beats him to it, “we’re looking into some shady dealings happening in a few care centers around town. Abusive Doms that like to ignore contracts if you know what I mean.”

It must have been the thing Hood needed to hear because the vigilante’s attention shifts, and he throws up a pointer finger in their direction, “s’at so, Big Wing? Ya need anyone else on ‘at, just lemme know. Motherfucking hate shitty Doms, you feel me here?”

Through the haze settling over him, fighting the urge to sink to his knees, Tim sucks in a surprised breath, not sure if he wants more information or to get the hell off this rooftop before he gives himself away.

“I mean, ya know what I’m sayin’. Some asshole ain’t gonna be what his Sub needs, ain’t gotta place workin’ a clinic. ‘At’s fer damn sure.”

“Agreed,” Nightwing replies quickly, “so we’re going through a lot of personnel files, you know? If we need another pair of eyes or hands in on it, we’re going to call you first.”

“Sounds righteous, boys. If ya need it, ya know how ta find me,” a two fingered salute before the gauntlet grapple fires into the night, “an’ fer fuck’s sake, Timmers. Get some damn sleep. Look like a fucking pile a’ shit warmed over.” With that parting shot, the Red Hood leaps off the roof, going back to patrol.

The second he swings off around the 7-11 on the corner, Tim lets out the breath he’d been holding in a woosh, and with it, the strength left in his knees.

“Stubborn ass,” Dick gripes, catching him easily enough, slides one of his arms over Kevlar and Nomac. “But you’re my stubborn ass, aren’t you?”

He might make a noise, something slurry and low, something that could have been bite me or bet me.

But he turns enough to catch those fingerstripes stark against the pale skin of his wrist, and something in him, something long buried and denied makes a knot warm in his belly, makes his mouth water, makes the random flash in the forefront of his brain pan–

Those fingerstripes in his mouth, opening him up, playing with the rope around his chest and shoulders, tapping on the gag in his mouth, feeding him bits of food, his tongue curling around them, following the motions of his Dom…

– “Timmy? Oh baby, you’re going down deep aren’t you?”

“N-No, no, I’m–” but somehow he’s sitting on Dick’s overstuffed couch, his shoes and hoodie removed, and Dick crouched at his side, holding a grape Zesti with a little straw sticking out. The top of the Nightwing suit is open to the waist, the top half pulled off to flop around Dick’s legs.

Fuck, how much time did he lose?

When he would have jerked up, tried to run his mouth for a little deflection tech, he’s pathetically at a loss for words when Dick’s free hand comes up to cup over his mouth, not letting the deflections come out–

And Dick keeping a hand over his mouth, muffling his moans, his screams, his sobs…

– and a thumb pressing gently into the pressure point in his wrist makes his eyes flutter enough to focus.

“That’s it. Open again for me. Such a good boy,” and his mouth drop open automatically, another piece of bagel with cream cheese for him to chew. He’s on Dick’s lap this time, not on the couch by himself, or kneeling at Dick’s feet, but just laying against the Dom’s chest with some sense of satisfaction when he chews, swallows, and opens up for the next bite.

“I know it’s hard to think right now, but you’re so perfect like this. Doing exactly what I wanted. My perfect Sub, doing so beautifully for me.”

He moans a little around the bite, warming at the praise, hands lose in his lap, gets to lick the extra cream cheese off Dick’s finger for the next bite.

“Mmhm. I’m going to let you stay down for a little while longer. You’re feeling really nice right now, and you need it, don’t you, baby? You haven’t let yourself have this nearly enough.”

He makes a soft noise in his chest, using words too much of a bother at the moment.

“I know, I know. But it’s okay. You’re safe here with me. You can let go when I’m here, Timmy, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

A few more bites and he gets a few drinks of some tart juice, the taste sharp and tart enough to make the haze around him lighten up, gives him enough awareness to turn his head and make sure he knows where they are this time.

The color of the walls and pulley system on the ceiling tells him they’re in Dick’s bedroom this time, and the suit hanging on the back of the door has absolutely nothing to do with their usual nightlife.

He gets a few minutes to take in the shine off the latex, the embedded rings stark silver against the black, the heavy hood with extra straps to go over the eyes and mouth, holes in the nose so the person inside could breathe.

“Another drink, Timmy. That’s it. My pretty Sub is almost ready, aren’t you?” Dick leans down just a little to talk lower into his ear. “You’re going to go down for me again, all the way, aren’t you? You’re going to let me see you like that again, how gorgeous you are when you’re in Subspace. And you’re going to be good and let me help you get there.”

But Tim shudders a little in the Dom’s hold, trying to think through the haze that just wants him to be pliant, that wants him to give in and make Dick happy, wants to do whatever he has to for Dick to keep saying he’s...he’s good.

But...But there was a reason he left in the first place, isn’t there?

“D-Dick, I…” but that felt wrong in his mouth, the words so hard to form when he feels almost woozy, wants to slide to his knees and kneel at Dick’s feet, wants to call him Sir and feel that attention fixed on him again.

The hand on his jaw is warm and the touch sends a thrill through his nerve endings, automatically lets him lean into the touch, eyes fluttering open–

(when did he close his eyes?)

–to the dark blue of Dick looking down at him critically, assessing, seeing more than Tim had let anyone but the occasional Titan in on.

“Oh,” the Dom breathes out very, very quietly, looking at the soft flush to Tim’s pale face, the way he’d immediately softened at skin-to-skin touch.

A new plans starts forming, his eyes darting to the latex suit he’d pulled out when it seemed like Tim needed another scene with sensory deprivation (not that the idea of putting his Sub in the suit wasn’t very appealing to his helpless kink – his mind going places featuring Tim in the suit writhing below him), but the automatic reaction makes him change his mind immediately.

He tests his theory, hand slowly moving so his palm spans the side of Tim’s throat, thumb back-and-forth over his jugular.

The vulnerable position doesn’t bring any self-preservation to the fore, just makes Tim’s mouth open for a soft sigh.

Touch-starved.

“Mmhm,” he draws out, low and deep, “you’re ready to get started now. I want you to stand up and strip down to your boxers. Fold your clothes neatly and put them on the bureau. Then, I want you to kneel and wait for me. Do you understand, Tim?”

He sees the sluggish movement of violet-blue eyes go to the suit on the back of the door, start to get fixed.

“I asked once, Tim. I don’t want to ask again.”

The hazey quality makes his movements more sloppy and sluggish, something he can’t focus on while he’s trying to do what his Dom wanted, half-terrified of punishment, half-excited at what his Dom might do to him this time, what could make the quality of his tone, the glaring warning (“I don’t want to ask again.”) change into something...else.

His hands are shaky by the time he’s done, laying his folded clothes neatly on the bureau. There a moment of panic, of fear, spearing his chest when he realizes he doesn’t know where to kneel. Sir didn’t tell him where.

(Close to the suit, by the bed, in the middle of the floor? If he gets it wrong, what will Sir do to him? If he asks, will he get punished anyway? He didn’t listen close enough the first time, must have missed it, because he’s bad at this, a bad Sub...)

His mouth goes dry and coppery, the air cool on his bare skin, goosebumps rising on his arms.

“S-Sir, where…?” Is trembly and tentative, so unlike the dangerous vigilante lurking under his skin, under the haze, under the need to do this, to be this.

To give in.

“Right by the bed, Timmy. That’s where I want you. Good boy for asking.” Sir calls absently while he’s in the bathroom, light on and door open, where he’d apparently gone while Tim was stripping down.

But the relief is a palpable thing, makes him stumble on the first step. But he focuses on sitting back on his heels, hands loose on his bare thighs, breathing through his nose.

He keeps his chin tilted down when Sir comes back with a white bottle in his hands, and opens the nightstand drawer, pulling out a set of leather cuffs.

“You’re doing perfectly. Stay right there while I get some things ready for you.”

But his eyes slide to the suit waiting, something about it just–

Dick pauses in rifling through the drawer, turning to look at him, really look even though he hadn’t heard a sound. Something here set off his inner sense.

“Tim,” is careful, curious. “Check in.”

But his eyes can’t leave the hood, the shiny zipper up the back, the straps over his mouth both soothing and stifling and his brain doesn’t know if he can take it right now, if he can calm down enough not to fight it. If it won’t choke him.

(That could be your punishment after all. No movement, can’t scream, can’t breathe, just a body tied down to be fucked or bled, just like he promised…)

Dick’s hand is warm on his jaw again, the touch turning him abruptly, breaking him out of a mental loop.

“What are your safewords?” The Dom Voice, the one thing that could really bring him back, make him focus.

“Red...Yellow...G-Green, Sir.”

“Good Boy,” low and slow, “now check in.”

He swallows softly, trembling with the possibility he’s getting himself in trouble by admitting, “...y-yellow.”

And as deep as he is, as the heavy haze settled over him pulls this part of him out, the one with the need to please, that wanted praise, terrified of fucking up, of being bad, being thrown away and abandoned and–

He cringes back, wincing like an animal waiting for the blow.

But the Dom doesn’t let him pull away, the grip on his jaw gets tight, giving him another spike of fear right in the center of his chest.

But Sir is unfailingly gentle when he says, “that’s right, baby. My. Good. Boy. I’m so proud of you for telling me the truth.”

The breath he’d been holding rushes out, leaving him trembling slightly, trying to concentrate on just staying still where Sir’s hand is holding his jaw.

“What do you need to calm down? Maybe a collar?”

“I…” his eyes go to the suit again, “th-that. The suit. I...I don’t know if I can– if I can do it this time? I...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Sir, I–”

“That’s okay. I changed my mind about the suit, too. Maybe another time. I think you don’t need that to go down. I have something different planned.”

His shoulders and back relax with the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying, but he keeps his jaw right in the palm of his Dom’s hand. “Th-thank-you, Sir.”

“You’re welcome,” is gentle, but still with an edge. “And now you know I expect you to use your safeword, Tim. You will use it when you need to, just like you needed to a few minutes ago and didn’t.”

“I,” and he blinks wetly, eyes suddenly hot, “I...Sir–”

“Mmhm. I already told you last time that you will safeword out, and you didn’t, did you, Tim?”

His breath is more of a gasp, a hiccup, and he has to blink again, try to keep his eyes from spilling over, “No. No Sir.”

“Tell me why.”

“I-I,” and he has to swallow, can’t close his eyes, or stop the tremble up his spine, “I was a-afraid you would punish me if I...if I said no.”

“Mmhm, and what did I tell you on the roof?” Is soft with a dangerous, low edge.

“That...that you wouldn’t punish me for protecting myself.” And it’s too late because one lone drop spills out, rolls down until Sir’s thumb rubs it away.

“That’s right. You will safeword out when something might hurt you. That is absolutely non-negotiable.” Dick’s tone is firm, an edge of anger that makes the Submissive in him shrink down because he’d made the Dom angry with him. “Rule number one, Tim. If you let me hurt you when you could have stopped me–”

Tim’s eyes widen, a shudder runs down his spine, because the cool, calm facade doesn’t touch those eyes, a promise of something dark lurking just under the surface.

(And it’s not too far out of the realm of possibilities that Sir’s been playing the Good Dom with him up until now. Being nice and attentive, caring and touching … but there’s something, something there that pulls at his instincts, makes it easier to submit each time...would it sting so good if Dick was the one using a crop on him this time?)

“–I will punish you. Do you understand?”

“Yes–yes, Sir,” and punish makes his spine snap ramrod straight, makes him tremble in the palm of Dick’s hand, makes him lower his eyes.

“Now, you are going to wear my cuffs again. I’m going to restrain you, and you are going to lay down on my bed on your belly.” Sir’s thumb swipes under his eye again before the hand is gone off his face, letting Tim drop his chin to his chest.

Dick watches the struggle for a few moments, the movement of eyes under the lids, the pink staining his nose and under his eyes, the rapid blinks to keep his eyes from spilling over. And even if he wants to do nothing more than drop to his knees and take Tim in his arms, to keep him held securely, to surround him in strength and support, to talk against the top of his head, to call him little brother and I’ll never let another Dom hurt you. Even if his arms ache, his chest tight with it, he knows that isn’t at all what the Submissive hiding inside Tim Drake, Red Robin, really needs.

He needs to understand where the boundaries are, not the ones imposed on him from the abusive Dom, but the real boundaries Submissive and Dominants set for any Scene (normally by way of contracts, which they will be having that conversation, Timmy, you can bet on it).

“Give me your wrist, sweetheart. I’m going to take care of you,” no room for questions or internal struggle. It’s the Dom in him taking care of his Sub in need.

The hand trembles but rises up without Tim lifting his face, and Dick very gently leans down to press his mouth against the throbbing pulse before fitting the thick leather cuff around and buckling it securely in place.

Without being told, Tim holds up the other one, the trembling moving down his wrists to his shoulders, and Dick can see how it’s starting to be too much, too overwhelming, knows where they need to go, how they need to stop all those riotous thoughts from controlling him.

“Good boy, Timmy. You look so good in my cuffs, just perfect.”

“Thank-you, Sir.”

“Now, up on my bed, sweetheart. I want to get your ankles.”

Even though he doesn’t want to, Dick steps back instead of helping his shaky Submissive, watches Tim crack his eyes open and turn to crawl on the bed, laying down on his belly with every muscle strung tight.

It’s fine. By the time he’s done, he’s going to make sure Tim falls into Subspace, soft and relaxed, eyes dazed and mouth pink, smiling up at him when he’s so sweet, so trusting, so perfect putting himself in Dick’s hands and giving the hell in.

He doesn’t give further instructions, just picks up the two remaining cuffs, runs his fingers gently down Tim’s calf until he gets to the ankle, wraps his long fingers around one and tightens down. The tense muscles relax just a little, just enough that he can tell, can take the sign for what it is, and fit the cuff, buckle it in place with the D-ring facing the right way. Dick repeats the process with the other ankle, working his Sub into it with his touch first before fitting the cuff and tightening it down.

The bottle he’d prepared and chain lengths he’d attached to the braces at the bottom of the bed are ready for step two.

It’s easy to keep one hand moving up and down his Sub’s lower leg while the other clips the chain on the D-ring at each ankle, moving up so he can make light circles on Tim’s back. He doesn’t need to tell Tim to stretch out his arms, the tentative movement puts the cuffs close enough to secure.

“That’s right. You know I’m going to take care of you, aren’t I, Tim?”

The body under his hand shudders, “yes, Sir.”

But, no, Dick isn’t convinced, but right now, he and Tim have all the time in the world.

He picks up the last thing he’d prepared. “Yes, I am. Now, open.”

His jaw trembles, but Tim closes his eyes and tries, tries, to believe. He opens up and the taste of silicone is like another checkpoint. This one has holes, is more breathable, and he holds still as the buckle is fastened and then, the silk comes over his eyes.

He just breathes out and lets it happen.

And it’s so beautiful when Tim stops fighting him again, starts to give in, is gingerly putting his submission in Dick’s hands.

It gets to him down deep where the Dominant wants his Sub to always be this loose, this giving, whether it’s after a few rounds with the riding crop or overstimulated with more orgasms than they thought possible.

Or, what plans to spend the next two hours doing.

“Shake your cuff, Tim,” is soft and dark when both hands start making easy strokes up and down his back. One disappears and comes back smelling like soft musk, is slick and warm and strong. It’s a crazy thing how he unconsciously arches into it, the touch light but still firm, his skin sensitive against it.

It takes a second for his brain to hear the gentle jingle-jingle-jingle.

Bell. Attached to the restraints.

“Shake it once for Red. Twice for Yellow.”

Tim might have made a noise, might have raised up when those fingers lightly brush over old scars. He might let out a soft noise through the because it’s starting to feel like too much, just being...touched.

While Tim tenses and relaxes, Dick tries to be easy about throwing a leg over Tim’s hips, using both hands to start working out all the tension, all the knots, all the tight tendons. Back when, he’d worked at the gym in the Haven, he’d had plenty experience rubbing out old injuries, not to mention his many, many superhero and vigilante besties that get hurt doing something stupid in the name of justice. He literally spent an hour on Wally’s calves and thighs once, and the guy passed right the hell out before Dick was even halfway done.

But this? Feeling how hard Tim falls for this, moaning out at being touched and tended, those noises helpless through his gag when the hard muscle finally gives under his hands, the way he sinks further into the bed between Dick’s thighs just gives him all the evidence he needs.

(Octopus Hold Protocol is a GO.)

So he settles back on his heels, sitting gingerly on the back of Tim’s thighs, gets himself in the mindset for the long haul, occasionally picking up the bottle to slick his hands with warming massage oil so he could move slow and firm, touching and rubbing and working his tense Submissive all the way down to the waistband of his boxers, then takes his time to work back up again.

It takes a few minutes of constant touch, of Dick’s hands on him, before the tension really starts melting away under the massage.  The Dom finally moves down, starts on thighs and calves, rhythmic and soothing, taking satisfaction from each boneless flop when he’d worked out the entire leg, listening to the soft sounds, muffled but oh so enticing.

By the second or third time he’s reached the back of Tim’s neck, uses thumbs to work the vertebrae and around to the hinges of his jaw, Tim was making soft, satisfied noises.

Dick’s pretty sure if he removes the blindfold, those eyes would be dazed and soft and trusting,  that Tim is down far enough to be in Subspace, completely lax in his restraints, hands open, flopped on the soft bedspread.

“That’s perfect, Pretty Bird,” when he just slows down to rubbing his thumbs down his Sub’s neck again, humming from his own high off the successful scene. “I want you to stay just like this.”

And since Dick’s an amazing detective, he’s completely right when Tim’s eyes are softly unfocused, don’t immediately seek out the boltholes and easy-getaways, but lazily blink up at him, relaxed and open and trusting.

He unconsciously brushes fingers over Tim’s cheeks, is enamoured when his palm is nuzzled and a big sigh lifts Tim’s chest a little, making the Dom roll with the rush of endorphins from a job well done.

“Beautiful,” Dick praises softly. “But it’s time to eat, sweetheart, and I want you to kneel for me, just like this. So soft and sweet while you’re down.”

He unclips ankles and then wrists, leaves Tim’s ankles free, but arms pulled behind him, the D-rings fastening his wrists together.

The gag comes out, but Tim’s too far down to fight and put on a mask, just leans into it when Dick wipes the saliva from his chin with a soft cloth.

“One more thing,” is the (his) collar buckled and snug, marking him. A leash clips to the ring right under the Good Boy, makes it easier somehow for Tim to find his balance when he stands with his arms fastened behind him, hazy and focused on Sir’s every move now that he can see.

Eat. Sir said it was time to eat, time to kneel. He can do that. He can be good and do that.

He follows a step behind, his body achy and loose, legs wobbly like Jello-O, but he’s never felt lighter.

It’s easy now when the real world is far, far away, and he can be here, in Sir’s apartment, following the rules, making Sir happy with him.

It’s easy to keep one foot in front of another, hoping for hands on his neck, his shoulders, his back. Wants to feel hands in his hair, wants to suck on the fingers feeding him, wants to lay against Sir’s leg again and just be.

He kneels without being told, going down too hard, too fast, hitting the wood floor hard with a sharp crack, still not jarring enough to pull him back up from this fuzzy contentment.

“Easy next time, Pretty Bird. I don’t like my Subs damaged unless it’s at my hand when they’re begging for it.” Sir uses the leash wrapped around his hand to pull Tim up to his feet, free hand tilting his face up, and Sir’s eyes are light blue, are pleased with him. “First, you’re going to get the snack I made for us. Then we’re going to eat and relax a little.”

“Yes, Sir,” is soft and happy, making the Dom hum as he unclips the leash and sits back on the couch to watch what his Sub is going to do.

He’s too far down to realize picking anything up with his hands isn’t going to work, but the basket on the counter has food inside and a handle, with a clean cloth laying over it. So he doesn’t think of anything else but opening his jaw and using his mouth to carry their snack over and kneel on the pillow by Sir’s feet just like he was told.

He doesn’t even wobble, just tilts his head back and offers the basket to Dick with his cheeks pink and hair an adorable mess, waiting for the next set of instructions.

“So smart, aren’t you?” Dick coos, taking the basket from his Sub’s mouth and gently running his fingers through the snarls. “You knew what I wanted you to do, didn’t you, Timmy? My clever little Sub.”

The fresh fruit and lunch meat is cool and easy to take from Dick’s fingers, makes his Dom happy, makes his Dom focus on him, give him attention he desperately craves. The satisfaction wells up in his chest, gives him the boldness to lick at Sir’s fingers, scrape his teeth gently against the tips, suck more than he needs to.

Some water for him and Dick flips on the television, The Trouble With Tribbles coming on.

“I’m going to catch up on paperwork, and I want you to stay right here with me. Got that, sweetheart?”

Tim is already moving when the hand on the back of his neck makes him list against the Dom’s leg, eyes half-mast watching the program.

“Yes, Sir. Going to stay with you.” He sighs in contentment, falls a little further under where everything is soft and nothing hurts. He doesn’t have to offer to help, doesn’t have to focus on his own cases, doesn’t have to be Tim or Red Robin. He doesn’t have to be the vigilante or the leader of the Titans, he can just fuzzily tune into the show while soft scritches punctuate when Sir writes.

After a little while, he gets questions and doesn’t even have to think about his answers really. It’s okay to tell his Dom whatever he wants to know, to tell the truth because that’s what Good Boys do.

And it feels so good like this when Sir calls him good, runs fingers through his hair absently even when his attention is fixed on the spiral notebook. Getting the attention even when Sir is busy makes warmth bloom in his chest, makes it easier to sink back down.

“Hm. If another Dom put restraints on you, would you like that?”

“Mmhm. Feels good, Sir. Like being held.”

“That’s good, baby. I’m so glad you’re telling me the truth.”

“I...I’m being good for you, Sir?”

“You absolutely are. My good boy, my Pretty Bird.”

He vaguely hears tisking and rubs his cheeks against his Dom’s thigh, hears, “hm. Still a lot of questions I don’t want to ask while you’re nice and relaxed. Maybe I’ll come visit you in the Tower one day when you can’t run from me.”

The Submissive in him reacts when Sir’s tone changes, hides his face in Dick’s leg, shoulders tensing.

The hand in his hair starts moving again, subtly sliding down to palm the back of his neck, and the grip gets just a little more firm. “Mmhm. Seems like you’re back enough to know I haven’t forgotten. Does that mean you’re to tell me why you ran out this morning?”

And maybe because he isn’t the vigilante, because he’s down far enough that lying to his Dom makes him cold and sick, makes his eyes burn, and he has to blink wetly to keep from getting Sir’s pants wet.

“You… you were going to punish me.”

“What? Tim,” and the hand on his neck isn’t gentle or coaxing, but firm enough that his head moves bonelessly on his neck, dazed, watery eyes looking up. “I already told you I wasn’t going to punish you.”

“ ‘Like this,’ you said.” And his chest stutters with a hard breath, “but I lied. For years. It...it’s going to eventually be time, and I...I–”

Would rather get it over with.

“Tim,” and Sir’s eyes are so blue, “one of these days, I am going to punish you. That’s going to happen. But, I will always, always tell you first. I will tell you when and why you’re being punished, and when you can finally talk to me about what that other Dom did to you, I will make sure I don’t make those same mistakes. Do you understand?”

He opens his mouth, eyes getting hot, the haze of Subspace fading because he doesn’t know if he can really believe it, believe in Dick, believe in something different than what the other Dom made him believe.

“Tim. Check in. Right now.”

“R-Red,” is hoarse, his eyes finally spilling over.

The hold is gone from his neck, and he can pull away, can pull back, the softness of Subspace, the safety in it abruptly fading away until he can at least start to think again.

Well, he can come back up enough to pull away from Dick’s leg, off the pillow where he’d been kneeling, scramble back in his boxers to the far wall while Dick watches him try to hide, try to stop the vulnerability in every twitch of muscle.

“That’s really not how I was hoping to bring you back up this time,” Dick admits softly, and tries to be easy when he stands, keeps his hands loose by his sides, footsteps light when he kneels by the trembling Submissive, one that didn’t have time to come back in his own time, one that probably feels nauseous and disoriented and afraid with the abrupt mental shift.

Eyes intent, Dick Grayson has had enough experiences with Submissives to know the effect of being forced back out of Subspace and leans over slowly, snags a soft throw off his chair to wrap around Tim’s back, ignoring the obvious flinch.

“But, it’s definitely time we talked.”

This time when Dick’s fingers tunnel through his hair, it’s easy and gentle, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, just like back when they were train surfing and vigilante-ing it up all over Gotham and the Haven and most of the world, it’s a comforting thing he’d almost totally forgotten about in the years he’d been on his own.

“N-no, I...no.”

“Yeah, sorry kiddo, but I’m not taking that for an answer. Not anymore.”

And as crazy as it is, he tries to fight it with weak, bound arms and his brain half-trapped in that warm place where nothing hurts, tries to remember Dick is a Dom and anything he says could very well be used against him, but it’s all for nothing when the older vigilante wrangles him off the floor and back in the niche of a lap (safe), wraps both arms around him to keep him from running.

The ending credits are playing in the background, forgotten while Dick gently rocks Tim in his arms, waiting for the shivers to stop.

“Before Jay showed up, you were about to tell me what that other Dom said to you,” is breathed out against his too-long hair. “Maybe we should get back to that, so I can tell you exactly what is bullshit and what is the truth. We can set some boundaries to make this easier for you.”

Clenching his fists against the comfort Dick is making him take, keeping his eyes closed so maybe he doesn’t lose his pride, Tim grits out, “I know the truth, Dick. I’ve helped pull Subs out of underground clubs and shit too.”

Like I really have to remind you. Robin, remember?

“No,” is drawn out a little, Dick’s nose close to his, “you’ve only see the absolute worst of us, Timmy. Unfortunately, vigilantes only get to see the douche bag Doms that hurt their Subs rather than the good ones that understand what a gift it is to have someone compatible trust them enough to submit.”

“The only thing Doms want from their Subs is to fuck them or punish them. You think I don’t know that?”

And oh. Oh, Timmy. Just wait until he finds the Dom that did this to you. “Did I do either of those things to you?”

“T-That doesn’t mean it still isn’t true–”

“It absolutely isn’t true. At all. Don’t get me wrong, there are some Doms that might only want that from their Subs, and it’s their job to find a Sub into that same scene, not to force their preferences on someone else. But as for all of us? Hell, no. Jay isn’t like that and neither is Roy or Donna or Gar or any other Dom I’ve ever met outside of ones I’ve arrested.”

Those eyes flutter open, look sharper, less hazy and compliant, “You hang around with heroes, Dick–”

“Hey! I have a social life outside of vigilantes and metas, Tim. I scene, and often. I was even a therapy Dom for a while, so no. It’s not just because of the people we meet in our nightlife.”

In his lap, Tim shivers, the ring at the bottom of his collar shiny in the light through the windows.

Carefully, Dick reaches behind him and thumbs the D-ring on the right cuff open, lets the other ring slip out so Tim can bring his arms around and hold himself under the blanket.

It’s another way he can help ease the transition out of Subspace.

“This is hard, sweetheart,” he continues softer, reaches under to wrap his fingers around a wrist above the cuff, “I know it is. You haven’t felt safe enough or had the space you need to explore what you like as a Submissive. Part of my job is to help you find out so you can say no when you need to. And I want to help. I want to help you so much. I don’t want you to be afraid to go down or to let go when you need to.”

It makes his heart ache when Tim turns his face away, hunches deeper into himself.

“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t...ideal for you. If there had been time, B and I would have tried to find a Dom you could trust, but you were too close to dropping too hard to wait.”

And he may or may not have lost his mind, both hands fisting in the throw around his bare upper body, when he abruptly blurts out, “I know self-dropping techniques. It’s how...how I’ve dealt with it until now. It’s why I’ve never needed one.”

“It’s not enough anymore, Timmy,” Dick counters gently, appealing to the detective in him, “if you were so far gone that you went down in the middle of a fight, and again on the rooftop, then that’s your proof self-dropping mediation isn’t working anymore. You need to go all the way down, just like you were able to do for me. Twice.”

“I...I can’t. Dick, I can’t–” because the prospect of someone else putting a collar on him, trying to take him down, could possibly learn all his secrets while he’s in Subspace (if someone other than Dick apparently, could even get him there), is someone he would have no choice but to trust, is enough to make him want to run all over again.

“For the time being,” Dick cuts him off, easily listing him to the side, manages to lift his legs on the coffee table and settle deeper in the couch with Tim laying heavily against his chest, head nudged under Dick’s chin, “you’re going to agree to come back here next weekend and let me take you down again. And you’re going to do it for your own health. Because no one would be happy if a Dom like Ra’s al Ghul catches on when you get triggered to drop in the middle of another fight.”

“Are you–?” And even though he feels like his brain is fried from coming up too fast, even though his heart is beating harder, his thoughts faster–

“I’m not saying that!” Dick’s eyes are wide when he looks down, “I’m not saying you should think I’m trying to get a Bond out of you when you haven’t had the chance to know what you really want. But, I am saying I’m going to be your Service Dom until you are comfortable and stable enough to find someone with the same wants in a scene as you. For the time being, I’m here to help you figure out what exactly you like.”

Tim lays his head in his hand and resists groaning because honestly, this is not how he saw tonight going. Like, at all, at all.

“I…” and he’s so close to blurting out how terrified he is of giving up control, of losing himself while he’s down in Subspace.

“It’s okay, Timmy. It’s just me, just Dick. Nothing changes this between us, not the fact you’re a Sub and I’m a Dom. Nothing changes the fact we’re friends and partners and kick-ass vigilantes. So, it’s okay, you can trust me.”

He’s so close to telling Dick exactly what he wants to know that it’s the first thing he can think of to keep Dick from finding out the worst secret–

(I would go down for you every time just to hear you tell me I’m yours.)

“I...I presented after I took over Wayne Enterprises,” is more hoarse than he expected, makes his chest tighter just to start saying the words out loud. “I’d given up on...it was a shock.”

Dick makes soft humming noises, gently slides his hand up in Tim’s hair and scratches his nails against the scalp.

“I was hoping I’d be a Null or a Switch, but a full-blown Sub was...” terrifying “...not what I expected.” He swallows, lets his eyes slide closed to be surrounded by darkness where he knew how to hide. “I knew I needed to get a handle on it, I needed help outside the team and the community, someone that could be discreet.”

With a sinking heart, Dick can make a few guesses as to why Tim had been adamant about keeping the secret to himself when Dick was in the cowl and Dami the new Robin. Those raw wounds still stood between them to this day, and for over a year, Dick had to wonder if they could ever come close to the partnership, the friendship, the comradery they’d once had.

(Dami was my Robin, but so were you Tim. Don’t you get that?)

“The clinic out by the Midtown Bypass,” is soft with memory, “not a lot of crime, pretty quiet when you compare it to the rest of the city. I used a pseud, got a list of Doms to choose from, and went in disguise.”

Thumb moves to the tender spot right at the base of his skull, moves in gentle, mesmerising circles, makes it easier for Tim to fall into his narrative without stopping, without hesitating.

“He wasn’t that much older than me, but his profile said he’d been a Service Dom for over a year, and the ratings were good. No comments, but positive stars. He looked...kind I guess, so I was stupid and didn’t make a contract, thought verbal agreement would be enough.”

(He looked like you. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, nice smile. It’s stupid how I judged him based on what I started to want but couldn’t have from you.)

He sucks in a deep breath, eyes fluttering to keep the images at bay.

“He sat me down at the table in the room and started talking about the scene he’d planned for newly presented Subs. Said since I was older, he could go a little harder on me to make sure I was absolutely satisfied by the time I left. He said I’d need to go harder since I presented later than most people.”

“A-and he started out pretty easy. I got to keep my pants and an undershirt on, he let me pick music for the scene, told me his hard limits. It seemed to be...fine. No evidence to the contrary. I mean, even if he was a creep or something, I’m a vigilante, I could fight my way out if I had to.”

It’s shaky, the rawness of saying it out loud puts some strength back in Tim’s spine, shocked it comes out so easy when he’d never talked about it, never admitted any of it before today.

He comes closer to the surface, takes a deep, deep breath, and tests the octopus hold, pulling away just enough to be serious.

Dick lets him, and Tim pulls the throw closer around him and finds a perch on the other end of the couch, taking a second to close him eyes, focus on the floor under the coffee table.

He must have been quiet for long enough that just a blink and Dick is kneeling at his feet, bringing soft sweatpants up to his knees. He’s already got a shirt on, and makes it easier for the Dom to pull him standing long enough to bring the pants over his boxers, give him comfort and protection with just clothing.

The cup of coffee warms his palms and he drinks deeply, the confusing mass of wants and needs, fears and traumas starting to ease when he can put his brain in front of it.

With his own coffee, Dick is sitting sideways with less than a foot between them, the illusion of space.

“I’m guessing,” his old mentor and friend draws out, eyes strangely still intense, “you probably waited it out as long as you could, Timmy.”

He looks sideways, startled because he’s still floaty and flighty apparently, and blinks a few times, makes himself focus.

“The worst part,” comes out of somewhere deep in him, “is that he made perfect sense with what I was feeling at the time. I...I couldn’t move against him when it came down to it. I couldn’t pick his restraints and get myself free. He told me that this is what I was meant for, what Subs were supposed to be, and not to try fighting it. I wouldn’t win.” He blinks, his eyes feeling hot and heavy. “I mean, yeah, yeah. His first lesson was not to fight whatever my Dom wanted to do to me, never to say no. Second lesson was my Dom would punish me. No matter what, every Sub gets punished, and most Doms choose pain. Most of them enjoy it, and it’s the Sub’s job to give them what they enjoy.”

And he can feel the emotions emanating from Dick, even though the Dom is utterly still. He can feel how badly his vigilante partner wants to put on the black and blue suit, make some people that deserve it feel pain.

The Submissive in him wants to huddle into that strength, wants to trust Dick won’t hurt him, won’t use him, won’t be one of those Doms.

(But he hasn’t done anything awful, hasn’t been what that other Dom was, so he can trust Dick… can’t he?)

“He started with a ruler, then used his hand, rectangle paddle, oval paddle, belt, crop, and cane. I could barely walk out the next day, had to...” but those memories of having nowhere to go after leaving that clinic, a time when the Cave and the Manor weren’t home, weren’t safe makes him suck in a breath through his nose.

And it’s a hand gentle on his wrist, fingers circling without seeming like it’s suffocating–

(because he really believes if he pulls away, he knows Dick will probably let him go)

–that brings him out again. “So...it was the first time I kind of went under, and I hated every second of it. That’s why the chemical balancers and Dom supplements. Self-dropping meditation. It’s safer than trying again.”

Dick is oddly quiet and intense, the muscles of his biceps and thighs tense, but the hand on him is still loose, thumb moving over his pulse.

“So, you don’t have to...do this. It’s kind of you to offer, Dick, but I’ll figure it out again. My system is going to be clear in a few days and I can come up with another solution. But I appreciate–”

“Timmy, it’s not safe for you to go back on balancers and supplements, at least not for a while,” is gentle but still firm in a way that’s still shocking coming from Dick Grayson, a way that’s so different from the vigilante big brother he thought he’d lost for good, but still recently bullied his way in the Tower to start making Tim come back to Gotham again. (He’d totally claimed a couch in the communal room with unapologetic stubbornness. Pure exasperation from the Titans made him finally give in and literally take one for the team. He hadn’t imagined this is how that little sitch was going to end up...or the fact he’s got a room in the Manor again. Talk about a throwback.)

“When you’re balanced again, you’re going to go back to the Tower and rest for at least forty-eight hours. You can do analysis and work the back end on some of your cases, but no out and about until after that. The team can handle the field work for a few days.”

He blinks again, starts to open his mouth to argue, muscles tensing because he’s close enough to the surface, closer to himself to be able to fight.

“Hear me out,” and Dick somehow creeps just that much closer, “self-dropping and supplements will only take you so far, Timmy. Doms are the same way. We get the endorphins we need from having a scene. Sometimes it’s just about being touched, like we did today. Sometimes it’s about needing another person to make you stop, like we did first. For me, it’s being that person that can anticipate those needs, to be allowed to give my Sub these things.”

To keep from being admitting out loud how much he needed to be touched, how right Dick called it,, Tim sips his coffee again, glad to see his hands have stopped shaking.

“I just want you to completely understand what that Dom did to you was wrong. I didn’t make you tell me much while you were down because most of us respect Submissives, just like I respect you.”

And based on the evidence, he can’t call bullshit here. “All right. I see your point about not suiting up, I mean, I do feel less scattered than before.” Because he has to admit it to himself, how much better he feels after he’s gone down, how much calmer in that hidden part of his brain he tries to suppress. That if Dick really calls for that part of him again, how he’ll probably slide down to his knees, craving to be a good boy again. “I didn’t know it could…”

“You didn’t know it could work without pain or sex,” Dick fills in gently. “I hope you know it can be different, just like we’ve done so far.”

“I’d really like if you would listen to a few audio files while you’re working, just some lectures from an expert on Dom/Sub relationships. I really think–”

He pauses when Tim turns, eyes narrowed, clearer than he’d been since going down the first time, and the patient look is so very familiar. “By the time the Dominant and Submissive electives were available at my high school, I had already pretty much dropped out. Robin shit was going down in those years.”

And idea sparks in the back of Dick’s mind where the Dom is still hovering, is still intense, noting everything with his Sub, still angry he didn’t have enough time for more aftercare. If anything, an abused Sub deserved more cuddling and spoiling from a good Dominant, and watching Tim draw away, start putting the mask back on before he was ready, before he was able to come back up on his own terms, sweet and soft and balanced, ready to tackle the world.

It grates on him, makes him want one more chance to take the third Robin down so he doesn’t feel like he has to hide.

But the idea turns into a plan, on all the ways he should be showing his Submissive how their dynamic should be, how a healthy relationship between the orientations should work. How he could work punishments without pain while creating scenes to give Tim the freedom to explore his preferences.

Dick props his elbow on the back of the couch, and refuses to back off even an inch.

“Then give me a chance to show you, Tim. A blood test will prove you need to go down at least once a week for a while, then maybe stretch it out to once a month to get your system back to normal. Give me some of that time as your Service Dom to help you. Together, I can help you figure out what you need as a Submissive.”

And it’s so absolutely fucking unfair for Dick to look that intense, and Tim is sitting there never even thought he’d be facing a Dom actually pleading with him.

His brain still warming up, picking up on the possibilities of hitting a hard few nights and dropping in the middle of another fight, of Kon or Bart or Cassie getting hurt because he couldn’t keep himself together, because he was terrified of going down and being vulnerable.

“...okay. Okay. Until my system is back to normal, and I can either find another Dom or another option.” He swallows hard, wonders how much he’s going to end up regretting this.

But it’s almost comical to watch Dick’s tense shoulders relax, and the blinding smile come back to his face, already making Tim feel like he’s accomplished something just by giving in.

“Thank-you, sweetheart, that’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.” And just like that, the dynamic shifts between them, and the hand tightens down on his wrist again, “so why don’t we have one more try before bed? You could absolutely use it, and I have...another idea.”

It’s not until much later when the rope burns around his chest are just lightly stinging in a way that’s so right. It’s later when he’s buzzing off the easy fall into Subspace that seemed impossible even a day or so ago. It’s later when he’s lazily flopped in Dick’s bed, sipping juice from a straw, blinking up at the soft expression on his Dom’s face, something heavy-lidded and sated that the thought comes out of nowhere–

I really am going to regret this...once it’s over.

**