Work Text:
Not for Public Consumption
by nightwing_subs
Dick Grayson waited, he fretted, and it took all of his considerable willpower not to hurl himself against the suave bearded guy in the Armani suit seated on his ex-girlfriend's desk, taking all of his sweet time to check out her recent but abandoned designs.
In times like these, the training of the Bat took over, and he stood like a muscled toned statue as his new employer frowned at leather, raised his eyebrows at cotton, and let out a long silent whistle at silk.
Dick had a contract to fulfill, and there was no getting out of this one. His new boss, no stranger to agreements forged in blood, had made that clear to him.
Only ten hours earlier, the peace he had felt at giving his resignation letter turned to shock as the man who looked larger than life, too large for his neatly pressed suit, informed him with a cat-like grin that he had bought out Cheyenne and was taking a sudden new interest in fashion. The purchase had been done through a dummy corporation, naturally, and Dick's new boss was taking an assumed name in public. No need to alert the capes who would certainly wonder, probably aloud with much profanity, how the assassin they had managed to lock up in a high-tech supposedly unbreakable jail had bought his freedom.
"I've been cleared by the highest executive in the country, for certain favors, of course," Slade Wilson had yawned in Dick's face, ignoring the astonishment that was threatening to glaze the hero's blue eyes. "Part of the deal is that I become `respectable'. Well, I saw your posters splayed all over New York, heard about the splash you made as the billionaire's adopted son turned fashion model…and I followed your lead."
Shock turned to dismay as the man who once called himself Deathstroke reminded Dick of the contract he still owed the Freemont Fashion House. Services which he had to fulfill for another three months. To wear whatever wardrobe the new owner would want totest on his toned physique.
Then Wilson tossed him a couple of samples – two thin, tight slices of very light material – and Dick's eyes popped out.
"I am not wearing this!" he sputtered, "You are out of your sick mind."
"Sickness – or sadism – has got nothing to do with it," Wilson smoothly said, obviously enjoying the position his prey found himself in. "Our new marketing director concluded that there is a very huge base of consumers for this kind of clothing. Very underground, of course, very discreet, but extremely profitable. I can't think of anyone better than you to do the test run."
Dick threw the crumpled lingerie on the floor and jabbed a finger on Wilson's chest. "Bruce can buy you out, anytime. I refuse to honor my contract. Sue me. I am leaving."
The younger man stormed off and almost unhinged the door in his anger when he threw it open. Two steps out, and Wilson barked, "Renege on this, boy, and other cities will follow the way of Bludhaven."
Dick turned, dread battling with murderous fury in his heart. "You wouldn't…."
"You can stop one, maybe hold two, block of three with the help of your super-powered friends…but there are more cities in the world than there are capes. You sure you want to risk it, kid?"
"Why, Slade?" Dick lashed out, he wanted to get to the bottom of it now. "No amount of profit can make you this reckless – or vindictive. Did I piss you off that much? Is it because Rose joined the Titans?"
The older man stroked his beard and shrugged. "If Menelaus can launch a thousand ships for his prize, would you deny me a hundred cities for mine?"
For once, Dick was speechless. There was no rejoinder to this kind of attack, especially not when Wilson's one good eye roamed around his body, measuring, assessing, claiming, undressing. Against his control, Dick shivered and involuntarily he stepped back under the unexpected visual assault.
With one elegant swoop, Wilson picked up the scattered clothes from the floor and thrust them back into Dick's surprised hands. "Relax, kid. You'll not show this off a runaway. For this kind of thread, it's more of a private party."
Fortunately, characteristically, the mercenary was true to his word. Dick wore what he mentally called his torture clothes under a satin shirt and gentlemen pants, both of which cost six times his former salary as a policeman's. His runaway was a small stage on a very private bar where only the richest patrons, men and women, who did not want to be associated with this kind of affair, were allowed. Shattering lights blazed from the ceiling, slicing through his cover wardrobe, exposing the torture test fabric that was literally hugging his skin.
Gasps filled the room as the combination of neon and sneaky sartorial skill highlighted every muscle in Dick's body, outlining in particular his sculpted chest, rounded cheeks, and the treasure tucked between his legs.
"Oh, my God," a dignified voice of a man in his 50s suddenly lost its dignified demeanor to tremble, "He seems to be more naked than if he were naked."
"That, ladies and gentlemen, is the erotic ingenuity of the design before you," Wilson's voice rumbled from somewhere out of the darkness.
The initial nervous laughter turned to a buzz of excitement, and Dick closed his eyes as he felt sweat break out over his body. Don't, he commanded himself. Any drop of liquid will show more…
"Tantalizing as all this is," another man hemmed and hawed, "can't we just do away with all the special effects and actually see what we are buying?"
No, please, don't. Don't touch anything. Don't remove anything.
Salvation came in the form of firm fingers on his shoulder and a confident baritone that spoke to the crowd, although it sounded very much close to his ear.
"The lights have shown you every inch of the fabric that you want to purchase. The skin of this model, unfortunately, is not part of the show." The small crowd chuckled, a bit in ribaldry thought Dick, then laughed louder when Slade slapped Dick's ass.
"However, you have been provided the equipment to examine in detail and at a much closer range these new night designs, and only the designs, let me remind you."
More laughter, a clink of glasses, and Dick heard wine corks being popped open. Then about a dozen elderly men, a few women, in high-priced suits and elegant evening gowns approached him, phallic flashlights searing at his shoulders, his pectorals, his torso. Dick closed his eyes and stifled a curse at the stimulation. They were close, too close, and even with his eyes shut, he could feel their barely leashed desire. Perfume and cologne thickened the air and made him sick. So did the murmurs that caressed his skin and in a dozen languages crafted with all the niceties of the high and the mighty described in glowing terms his musculature.
The one hour stretched into infinity and by the time the examination was over, Dick's sweat had soaked most of his clothes, his nerves were frayed, and it was only Slade's masterful hands on his shoulders and arms that allowed him to walk out the door and into the waiting car.
That was thirty minutes ago, plenty enough time to straighten his wobbly knees, calm his nerves, clean himself up, and…wait as Slade looked at the new batch of designs that had been placed on his mahogany table.
end part 1