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**
1.
For how early Dick finds out Deathstroke is in town, it takes him far too long to actually find the guy.
Granted, he is already sleep-deprived when he starts looking, and said looking requires so much running. So much. Dick’s almost healed ankle starts acting up the moment he goes out again. It only gets worse by the time he hunts down the information he’s looking for. Then he has to get all the way to where Deathstroke’s hit is about to take place—and at this point he has gone almost 72 hours without sleep, so…
Yeah, things are not great. It contributes to how much time it all takes him and leads to Dick finding him literally minutes before Deathstroke is supposed to carry out the hit he’s here for.
Maybe he could convince Slade to send a warning in advance whenever he plans to take a contract anywhere near him. It would be the nice thing to do, giving Dick a chance to get some sleep before he has to deal with another one of Deathstroke’s appearances. Or maybe he could convince him to just give up being a mercenary altogether; seems just as likely to work.
The point is, Dick is really tired when the night starts, and he gets progressively worse as time goes on. He can not be held accountable for the decisions he makes when that exhausted. Which means what happens is absolutely not his fault. That’s the story he’s sticking with.
Anyway, by the time he finds Deathstroke on the roof of the building with the best vantage point to the courthouse, he is way past the point of running on fumes, and in some hard to quantify amount of pain. So his first thought when seeing the orange and black of the Deathstroke suit is that he really doesn’t want to engage. Just the challenge of going against Deathstroke would normally be enough to make Dick’s pulse race with excitement, but fuck does he not want to fight right now. He can already imagine how getting his face slammed into the concrete roof will feel like.
He has to; he can’t let a man die just because he’s tired. It doesn’t stop him from wishing there was another way.
Which is where things go sideways, because the second thought Dick has is entirely unhelpful and something he’d normally dismiss without looking at it too closely: The Deathstroke armor does make Slade’s thighs look exceptionally well. It is hard not to notice, with the way he is down on the roof by the edge of the building, all his attention on a rifle and through it on the front steps of the courthouse.
Dick knows he has at best minutes. He runs through all the attacks he could start with, and his mind flashes with all the ways they would be brushed off by Deathstroke without taking his hand off that rifle. Or maybe the armor itself would be enough to hold Dick off until the shot was already made. He’s in no way capable of out-thinking Deathstroke in the state he knows he’s in, and brute force is never enough to stop Slade, not even Superman’s. Dick, at his best, has nothing on Superman, and he is very much not at his best.
So maybe he makes a questionable decision, is the point. No one’s there to see it but him and Slade.
Instead of opening with a kick that Slade is no doubt ready for, because there’s no way he has not noticed Nightwing’s presence, what Dick does when he gets close enough for contact is straddle Deathstroke and fall forward, plastering himself to Slade’s back.
“The view’s so nice I’m almost sorry I have to interrupt you,” Dick drawls and slides his hands around Slade’s chest and then up, up and really hoping the way he is clinging to Slade’s back and talking right against his ear will distract from his hands just long enough to—
With a loud bang the rifle fires before Dick can grab it, before he can so much as move it out of position.
He hears distant shouts and oh, he barely has time to start feeling the sinking weight of failure, when he realizes he hasn’t exactly failed. From what he can see over Slade’s shoulder, there are people running back up the steps and inside the building and… there are no dead bodies lying on the steps. The shot has gone wide. Dick blinks several times to make sure his exhaustion is not making him hallucinate. Deathstroke does not miss, especially not at this distance.
Well.
That worked much better than Dick expected, even though he did not even get to the part where he was going to do the thing. That he had planned to do. Huh.
Five seconds after the shot—apparently Deathstroke is just as stunned by that miss as Dick—he finally does get slammed into the roof, though thankfully not face-first. It isn’t as bad as he imagined, mostly because he gets thrown a way shorter distance than he would have in a fight.
Deathstroke looms over him, mask hiding his face, but the iron grip he has on the front of Dick’s suit makes Dick think he is angry. For some reason. Not as angry as he could be, though, based on how Dick can still breathe and has no broken bones.
For a moment they stay that way, Dick not willing to fight, especially now that there’s no need to—the initial terms of the hit can’t be fulfilled. He highly doubts the target will just come out that same door and stand on the steps with no cover anytime soon just to let Slade take another shot at sending the message he was hired to send.
Slade silently stares down at him for almost a full minute. Normally Dick would fill that silence, but the concrete is starting to feel really comfortable for a nap right now. Maybe that getting slammed into the roof has also given him a teeny tiny smack to the head too, and it isn’t interacting all that great with his preexisting… everything.
Just the thought of fighting or trying to get up makes Dick’s muscles ache. Warmth starts spreading through him slowly from Slade’s hand—their one point of contact—and it suffuses Dick to the bone. Finally being horizontal after far too many hours of running feels like a drug; it makes Dick’s muscles relax involuntarily to the point where he doesn’t think he could put up any kind of fight even if he wanted to. Deathstroke hovering above him ominously and holding him down doesn’t stop Dick from practically melting into the nice flat surface underneath him.
After a full minute of silence where Dick thinks his eyes might be sliding shut of their own volition, Slade pulls him up half a foot by that grip on his suit and slams him down again. By the time Dick blinks the stars out of his eyes, Deathstroke is long gone, so he does not bother getting up immediately.
It’s not the best place to pass out, so he needs to get home, but. He made Deathstroke miss a shot. Why did that work? How can he do it again? Which part of all that was what made Slade move out of position so suddenly he couldn’t compensate for it with his stupid super brain?
It sure wasn’t Dick’s weight on his back. He could probably carry Dick around one-handed and not break a sweat.
So then… the flirting? That can not possibly be it, because Dick is pretty sure half the people that hire Deathstroke also attempt to get him into bed; it makes no sense. Okay, so maybe he can admit it makes some sense. He did notice those thighs and maybe, and he is not admitting this under pain of death, that ass too.
Anyway, Slade should be used to being hit on by people when in costume. People in costumes generally flirt way more than one would think and in all kinds of extremely inappropriate situations, in Dick’s experience. Maybe what threw Slade off his game is that it was a hero trying to stop him that did it. Even then, Dick has a really hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that it worked.
“No sense,” he mutters, and starts on the grueling task of getting up. It’s not like this will ever come up again.
*
The next day Dick rolls out of bed and gets halfway through a shower that should wake him up, but might end up drowning him before he remembers everything that happened on that rooftop. He inhales some water. When he finally stops coughing, he spends the rest of the day marveling at the fact he’s still alive.
**
2.
The thing is, it comes up just a week later. Deathstroke’s current employer gets fed up with the elaborate messages getting ruined by hero intervention and random circumstances, and straight up sends Deathstroke to kill everyone on his list, no special demands on the how.
It’s much, much worse, because a delay or a missed shot is not going to cut it this time. Dick is not deluded enough to think anyone could stop Deathstroke entirely. Sooner or later, he’ll kill his targets. So obviously the thing to do is making sure he doesn’t get paid. He’d have no reason to be here if he wasn’t getting paid.
While other people are taking care of tracking down the employer and freezing all their very secret accounts, all Dick has to do is stall Deathstroke long enough.
There’s no exhaustion to blame it on this time, so Dick blames it on—scientific curiosity. He just wants to see if it will work a second time, or if the courthouse was a fluke.
“So did you miss me?” Dick asks cheerfully while dodging Slade’s sword. “I definitely missed the lovely view.”
The only answer he gets is a growl and a sword sticking into the wall right about where he was a second ago. Thankfully it’s embedded so deep into the wall that Deathstroke deems it easier to switch to hand-to-hand rather than pulling it out and giving Dick an opening at the same time.
“Wow, nice depth,” Dick praises right before he uses the sword as a springboard. He really is impressed, both with Deathstroke’s strength and with his own ability to enrage him to the point of that much overkill.
Maybe that’s why the distraction works—Deathstroke is offended by Dick having the audacity to hit on him. Unlikely, as Nightwing is very much known for talking people into, well, whatever he wants. Into getting distracted, into implicating themselves, into giving up whatever information they don’t want to give up. No one who knows about Nightwing should be surprised at his habit of distracting with words, is the point, and Deathstroke definitely knows about him. A lot more than Dick knows or is comfortable with, most likely.
“Hypothetically, would you count this as a date?” Dick is not even directly in the way, but Deathstroke goes after Dick instead of his target. “I mean, what’s your general stance on the three date rule? Hypothetically,” Dick adds, breathless from the fight and the fine dust they’ve kicked up into the air. He’s not getting any answers, but he is almost certain the questions are working great as a distraction.
He’s also completely certain he’s having too much fun. At least he remembered to mute his comm on this side before he started taunting Deathstroke.
When he can’t avoid a fall, Dick pulls Deathstroke down with him. Right on top of himself, actually. And the bruises on his back were almost gone, too.
“Oof.” He finds out up close and personal how heavy Slade is. “So you did miss me!”
Instead of getting out of the position or acting like he normally would when pinned, Dick wraps his legs around Deathstroke’s waist. “Wow, is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?” Definitely a gun, and more than one of those, but for a moment Dick also lets himself appreciate the feeling of someone very—solid pressing him down against the ground.
For a split moment he wants to yield, or maybe fight and lose to all that overwhelming force.
“So,” Since he hasn’t gotten punched in the face yet, Dick goes ahead and puts his arms around Slade’s shoulders and pulls him closer to slightly limit how much damage he’ll be able to do to Dick when he does punch him. “You, me. This nice, moonlit construction site. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Slade, braced on his elbows, drops even more of his weight on Dick. It is not as much of a deterrent as he probably expects, because wow. Now that Dick’s said it, and with Deathstroke’s mask just inches from his face, it is starting to almost feel like—
The shimmering dust swirling around them really adds to the ambience, is all. And maybe Dick has talked himself into being slightly confused at what the situation actually is. Maybe someone should check the dust here for chemicals.
Dick is already tilting his head up when he feels more than sees Slade reach for a gun. He only manages the barest brush of lips over the cheek of Deathstroke’s mask—so faint Slade must not even feel it—before he has to react or be shot.
He hits Slade’s elbow and rolls them the moment Slade can no longer use that arm to balance. He’s honestly surprised it works. They end up with their positions reversed—Deathstroke on his back and Dick straddling him, holding his hands down by the wrists. Slade must be extremely off his game, because the only reason it can possibly be working is that he has forgotten that Dick doesn’t actually possess a fraction of the force required to keep him down. Or maybe he is letting it happen, which would be just as interesting.
“That’s not very nice. Guns are definitely not something I’m down with on a first date.” Just as Dick is saying this with the tone of playful reprimand, he hears an all-clear on his comm. Which is why he doesn’t try to stop Deathstroke again when he gets thrown several meters. Deathstroke pulls his sword from the wall and runs off in the direction of the target that has by now been evacuated.
He’ll leave informing Slade of the sudden financial difficulties his client is experiencing to someone else.
Huh. So he could count this as a successful experiment.
Dick gets up and brushes dust and sand off his costume. The silence drags on and gets increasingly more pointed.
“What?” Dick asks with a frown.
“I do not want to know,” Red Hood says. He’s still leaning against the same stack of cinder blocks he was standing by when the fight started. Dick frowns at him some more. “I really don’t. When B finds out, I want to be able to say I knew nothing.” Okay, that’s fair. Jason isn’t always the best liar. Also, Bruce will not be finding anything out, especially since there is nothing to find out.
“But dude,” Jason emphasizes. “Dude.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Dick says. He’s totally on top of Deathstroke. On top of it. The situation. That’s what he meant.
“Sure you do.”
The complete lack of anything resembling confidence in Jason’s voice is a little insulting. This is an isolated incident, and it only happened because Dick was testing a theory. It won’t happen again. He doesn’t bother explaining that to Jason because he is not rewarding that kind of hurtfulness.
**
3.
“So why can’t you just go question him and then toss him towards the authorities?”
“Multiple agencies have tried arresting him more than once. It got bloody and as you can tell by him still walking free, it did not work out.”
“Yeah, but...” Dick trails off. It is not likely that Helena will do as badly as the police at getting past some henchmen.
“He’s expecting more than just the law after him. Not us, necessarily; he has a lot of powerful enemies. But he also has an obscene amount of money and no aversion to spending it on security.”
“What’s stopping you from abducting him in the middle of the night?”
“This,” Helena says and throws a stack of surveillance photos.
Dick flips through them, noting that the guy really is paranoid if he is constantly paying that many mercenaries just for playing bodyguard around the clock. Still, “We could take them. It would have to be timed right, so he doesn’t have an opening to run and disappear for another few months, but—”
“That’s what I thought when I asked you to help. Then this happened a few hours ago.”
The photo Helena hands him is of Slade Wilson exiting the airport.
“What are the chances he’s been hired to take Matthews out?”
“He drove right to the hotel without any attempts to hide his presence here.” So very low.
“Not even God has enough money to hire Deathstroke as a bodyguard indefinitely.” Waiting it out isn’t usually Dick’s go-to strategy, but with Deathstroke involved, it might be the best option.
“Maybe. It doesn’t matter how long he hires him for—I need that information this week. Today, if at all possible.”
Yeah, so probably not. “Well… maybe we could—”
“The moment we get close, Matthews will throw money at Deathstroke to hold us off long enough that he can get away. I can’t take that chance.”
It would work, too, since Slade isn’t afraid to get arrested, if it’s necessary for the job. He’d be out within days, anyway.
Dick looks at the photos of the bodyguards at the resort, a perpetual party in the background. There are some shots of Matthews having business meetings on the terrace, right next to where a bunch of inebriated, scantily clad people are dancing. Bad for possible collateral damage, but hmm…
“But if Deathstroke wasn’t there, you could do it?”
“I don’t think we can outbid Matthews.”
“That’s not what I was thinking. I can—distract Deathstroke long enough to give you an opening, but I won’t be able to help otherwise, if I’m on that.”
He can see Helena narrow her eyes as she calculates the amount of opposition left with Deathstroke out of the equation. “Yes. With him out of the way I can.”
“Okay,” Dick mutters to himself. Then he repeats it again, with more confidence. “Okay! I’m on Deathstroke duty then. I’ll go get changed, give me five.” He starts walking, then stops when he remembers Jason.
“One thing first—you have to promise none of what happens here will get back to Batman.”
Helena looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Promise,” she says with enough disdain to let him know exactly how she feels about telling anything to Batman, ever.
**
By the time they get in position, it’s already late. Only a thin sliver of the sun is visible above the horizon. The terrace and the pool area, open bar included, are illuminated by strings of glittering lights. Everything outside the reach of the lamps is twilight gray, which is bound to work in their favor.
Dick weaves through the party, dressed in his most obnoxiously expensive t-shirt and jeans, and fitting in scarily well, especially with the drink he has in hand. He doesn’t spill a drop. Not even when he gets to the wall of bodyguards and slides past them like water despite their best attempts to stop him.
“This party sucks,” he declares and sees the way Slade very carefully stops himself from tensing up where he is sitting across the table from Matthews. The air of sudden annoyance is hard to miss, though.
“You promised me we’d have fun, but all I’ve been doing is sit at the bar. Alone.” There are free chairs, but Dick goes straight for Slade, avoids another grab from a guard with a fluid move that makes the miss look unintentional, and sits down sideways in Slade’s lap. That puts a sudden stop to everyone’s attempts at grabbing him. “I’m bored, babe. Entertain me.”
He’s gambling on the fact that Slade won’t disclose Dick’s identity and he knows it. It might seem stupidly risky, which is one of the many many reasons Dick hopes no one else ever finds out about this. It isn’t that risky from where he is standing, or well, sitting. Slade has never disclosed his secrets while full on hating him, so a little friendly sabotage won’t make him do it either. Probably.
“I’m working,” Slade says, mostly pleasant with the barest touch of ‘go the fuck away, Grayson’ in his tone. Even his expression is fixed between mild and reluctantly amused. There’s only a faint amount of extra tension in his jaw, and both the arm around Dick’s waist and the hand on his leg feel like they might leave bruises.
Slade is already playing along more than Dick expected. This is going to work out great.
“Yeah, I can see. That’s the reason I’m bored, having my third sex on the beach.” Dick plasters himself to Slade’s side like he is trying to merge with him and raises his orange drink. “Just think, you could be having that right now.” Dick follows that up with an exaggerated wink that’s not at all necessary to convey that blunt an innuendo. Slade might not even be able to see it, with Dick’s head resting on his shoulder. “I promise I won’t even complain about the sand.”
“Work first. You know that. We’ll have some—fun later.”
Slade might sound decisive, but he has no idea how much more needling Dick can dish out.
Going by the momentary tightening of the hold Slade has on him, the shiver of anticipation that runs down Dick’s spine at the ominous emphasis on that ‘fun’ does not go unnoticed. He is shamelessly curious about how Slade will play this here, in public, where he can’t just slam Dick into the concrete and leave. Well, he could, but it seems unlikely.
There’s no need to really lean into heavy duty ‘annoy Slade into dragging him away’ tactics, because Matthews intercedes. He’s had a calculating gleam in his eyes since the moment Dick sat down in Slade’s lap and did not get decapitated for it.
“No. Go, enjoy your stay. Think my offer over,” Matthews all but orders. “We will finish this later.”
He looks almost gleeful at the spectacle Dick is providing. Maybe he thinks getting laid will make Slade more agreeable. More likely, he now thinks he has something to hold over Deathstroke’s head that will give him bargaining power, whether it’s Dick, or just the fact that Slade has human vices same as anyone. He doesn’t seem stupid enough to try blackmailing Slade, but you never know with these types.
Ugh, actually that unnervingly pleased expression on his face makes Dick think Matthews is going to use this information in some exceedingly creepy way. Maybe it will be objectionable enough that Slade will refuse to work for him. That can be their plan C, if distracting Slade doesn’t work out.
It won’t come to that, apparently—Slade does not argue. He sends a brief tight smile Matthews’ way, lets go of Dick and gets up easily, exactly like a whole other person’s worth of weight wasn’t sitting on him. It means Dick is lifted back upright as well. He avoids landing on his ass and once again makes it look like luck.
“Sweet! Let’s go, the beach is that way,” Dick babbles with unfeigned excitement and drags Slade away by the hand.
He’s about to find out what Slade considers appropriate punishment for an interrupted contract negotiation, but whatever it is will one, take time away from Matthews, and two, leave Dick alive and probably not very hurt.
And three, Dick is almost vibrating in anticipation, which is unexpected but feels almost nice.
Someone might say he should lay off the thrill-seeking, but this is nowhere near the craziest thing he has done. This month. Not this week, either. Yeah.
So maybe he was prepared for a fight and the change of situation means he isn’t getting one tonight. He’s slightly jittery.
Slade throws his arm around Dick’s shoulders and pulls him close; it makes steering Dick wherever Slade wants to take this look less forceful. Dick wouldn’t have resisted anyway, since going as far away as possible from that terrace is one of the main objectives here. And that arm feels very warm and pleasantly heavy, so Dick is not about to object. He leans against Slade’s side and keeps a vacantly lovesick expression on.
It’s not even difficult—plastered to Slade’s side, both of them out of costumes and with Slade’s arm keeping him close it’s easy to imagine how this could be a real date. Just them hanging out, no mission or contract. It feels exceedingly normal, so much so that it starts to slightly weird Dick out.
What would a normal date even be like, for them? Maybe it’s a sign Dick should get out more, but at the moment he can’t remember if the butterflies in stomach feeling he’s trying to suppress is even there on regular dates, without the constant danger of injury and death. Then again, that’s not something he could find out on a date with Slade, who radiates danger just by existing.
Slade leads him through the designated dancefloor and does not answer when Dick asks if he is up for a dance as well. They go past the pool, where Dick carefully doesn’t say a thing about them going for a swim because he doesn’t want to get drowned.
On the far side of the pool there are some tastefully placed palm trees that the glow from the fairy lights barely reaches. Every step they take is a step further away from the safety of witnesses and normally that would worry Dick, at least somewhat. It feels strange to let himself be taken somewhere secluded on purpose.
There’s a beach accessories shop that’s dark, closed for the night. Slade finally stops behind it, out of sight of anyone that might have been ordered to watch them.
This is also where Slade stops pretending to be nice and throws Dick against the wall. Always bruising Dick’s shoulder blades.
“Whatever you want better be extremely good.”
Dick smiles exactly like he has been invited to talk some more. It must be obvious, too, as Slade stops him with an uncomfortably tight grip on his throat before Dick can utter a single word. Slade pushes his hand higher until Dick is forced to stand on his tiptoes to ease the pressure. It takes some effort to leave his hands at his sides and not fight the hold in any way.
“Think carefully before you answer, kid,” Slade says, voice full of threat. He closes the short distance between them and presses up against Dick bodily, a weight so heavy that breathing gets a fraction more difficult. “What do you want?”
Dick breathes in deeply when the grip around his neck relaxes somewhat.
“Is that—”
“It’s a gun,” Slade interrupts before Dick can even ask, not a drop of amusement on his face. It startles a huff of laughter out of Dick.
“Well, now you’re just stealing my lines,” he complains, breathless. “I can’t just want you to entertain me?”
“Cute. It won’t work this time—” Aha, so it did work before! “—so you might as well tell me what the hell this is about before I drag you back there and leave you to the non-existent mercy of those guards.”
“Not the best threat,” Dick says, and pauses for another breath. His ribs are slightly protesting the force with which Slade is pressing him into the wall. He’s not Deathstroke right now, in a regular suit instead of armor, so all that force Dick can feel is just Slade, just Slade’s own hard muscles and superhuman strength. “You did play along. It looked like he really wanted to believe I’m your boyfriend, too. He might just think you’re lying. Or working against him.” Dick has no doubt Slade could talk his way out of it, but it would be a hassle.
“Dragging you to my room and making you talk is an option as well. Believe me, the housekeeping here won’t bat an eye at screaming and bloodstains.”
Slade is close, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper. Each word is a caress of warm air against Dick’s face, and Slade is so close. Dick’s wires get crossed somewhere between danger and intimacy. He can’t hide his violent shiver at the very clear threat.
“You move fast, don’t you? Torture on the second date?”
“Grayson,” Slade practically growls his name, finally out of patience. “If you—”
That’s when the sound of distant gunshots interrupts their moment. The gunshots are followed by more gunshots and the sounds of general chaos. Apparently, the other guests are not sticking around for a shooting.
“What,” Slade growls, “did you do.”
“I was here with you the whole time.” Trying to sound insulted by the accusation does not work so well when Dick is struggling to breathe.
This is the point where an exit strategy would be a good thing to have. Dick might not have bothered with one since he had no idea how this part would go and if he’d even get this far.
Slade tightens his grip on Dick’s throat and stares at him for a minute with a considerable amount of rage. Then Dick blinks and suddenly the hand disappears from his throat and so does Slade. Just gone, like magic. Okay, maybe Dick is really short on oxygen right then and loses a little flash of time.
But he is alive, mostly unharmed, and when he checks his messages on the way out of town, there’s one from Helena. Total success.
**
4.
The next time Dick hears about Deathstroke being in his city, he brings his new strategy out very deliberately. Why fight when he can sabotage Slade’s contracts in a different and far more entertaining way?
The main reason he finds out about Slade’s presence before anything blows up is that at least two of the local gangs are pitching their resources together to hire Deathstroke, supposedly for something big. And the more people are involved, the less likely it is that everyone will keep their mouths shut.
Nightwing finds out about it before the contract’s even finalized by way of a henchman that brags about it while Dick is cuffing him to a chair for the police to find. When the guy starts talking, Dick just makes concerned sounds in the right places and pays attention to every word. It takes longer than he expects for the guy to realize what a mistake he is making. He pales and clams up, but the damage is done.
Dick leaves with a smile and a wave, very sure the guy will die before admitting to anyone that he has spilled all kinds of secrets to Nightwing without even being prompted.
**
Showing up before the meeting starts is easy when he has all the details down to the minute. Even better, from what he can see, Slade is already waiting in the dimly lit office. He’s out of armor once again, hands in his pockets and looking around with a very unimpressed expression. He’s probably wondering about the same thing Dick is—what kind of idiot is trying to intimidate (or impress?) Deathstroke by setting the meeting in a room that looks like it has been chosen for being faintly ominous and mostly just tacky. Slade looks both more dangerous and more impressive in his plain suit and slacks than all the dubiously sourced weapons and trophies on the walls put together.
The meeting is about to start any minute now, so Dick pushes the window open and slides into the room silently. He makes no sound, but Slade’s eye is on him instantly.
“Nightwing. I don’t think you were invited,” he says. He sounds a lot more carefree than the last time they saw each other.
“My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.” Dick turns around slowly and takes in the full scope of the ugly décor. He swears he sees the corner of Slade’s mouth twitch up in almost a smile when Dick makes a disgusted sound.
“That seems unlikely, with the meeting being about you.”
Oh, giving out information now? Unlike the henchman, Slade is definitely not doing it accidentally. So there must be something he wants or expects Dick to do with that information, though Dick can’t immediately see what.
“Then it’s just rude not to invite me, don’t you think?” He hops onto the desk and moves sideways until he’s sitting right in front of Slade. “You clean up nice,” Dick says without meaning to as he’s looking Slade over. He follows it up with a bright smile to hide how unplanned that admission was.
“Kid. Get out of here before you get yourself in a world of trouble.” Slade is calm this time, not even attempting to threaten. Dick still feels a frisson of excitement. He barely stops himself from saying ‘You’re trouble.’
“Sounds like you being here is already trouble for me,” is what he changes it to.
“I’ve yet to hear a compelling offer. Stay out of it and it might stay that way.”
Like that doesn’t sound suspicious at all. Why is Slade even here, if he’s not planning to take the contract?
“Have you ever known me to stay out of things,” Dick asks, not expecting a real answer, but still curious if Slade really expects him to take that advice.
Slade hasn’t moved away to put any distance between them, so Dick’s knees are brushing against Slade’s thighs. Dick can feel his pulse speed up as Slade looks down at him, taking him in unhurriedly. Slade’s gaze slides over him almost like a physical touch, like there is weight to his regard.
“Mm, no.” Slade’s eye is still tracing Dick’s face. He feels a careful, barely there touch—Slade is slowly sliding the tips of his fingers over the material of the Nightwing suit just below his knee, other hand still in the pocket of his slacks.
“Someone should really put you in your place one of these days,” Slade says without any heat and maybe faintly amused. Like he’s stating a fact. The low, considering way he speaks and the words themselves clash in a way that makes Dick feel off balance.
“What would that look like?”
The touch on his leg stays light, testing, and it feels like every cell in Dick’s body is focusing on that point of contact. For some reason, it feels almost obscene after all the much more violent ways they have touched each other. It feels more personal than the most personal of fights.
“How eager are you to find out?”
The answer should be zero eager. Dick should be as un-eager as possible to find that out. Instead there’s heat spreading through his chest at the thought, at the invitation in that question.
He doesn’t know how good the enhancements make Slade at spotting lies, so he doesn’t even try to answer directly.
“Thoughtful of you to ask.” They’re so close that it takes very little effort to wrap his legs around Slade’s thighs and reel him closer. Well, Slade is his mostly immovable self, so what happens is that Dick slides closer to the edge of the desk. The result is the same—they are utterly in each other’s space.
Dick grabs handfuls of Slade’s jacket, leans up until he only has to tilt his face up to press his lips against Slade’s.
As a distraction it’s… effective. Too effective. As Dick loses every thought he had in mind about three seconds into the kiss. He expects violence, one way or another. What he gets isn’t it—Slade kisses back slowly, thoroughly, like he means to take all the time in the world to familiarise himself with every millimeter of Dick’s mouth.
Slade’s fingers brush Dick’s jaw, his cheek and then trace the edges of his mask carefully, while Slade slowly, inexorably devours him. Dick tastes echoes of coffee and some kind of alcohol on Slade’s lips, and he can barely remember why—
The door slams against the wall from the force it’s pushed open with. Loud cursing follows almost immediately.
They break apart, but it’s already too late. The image they make is very damning and all but unmistakable.
“I didn’t believe it, but fuck, you really are in bed with the Bats, you bastard!”
Dick looks past Slade and sees a group of very very angry men. He has a suspicion that pointing out it’s a desk, not a bed, will not go over well. No sense of humor.
“This a set-up, boss,” one of the lieutenants asks, and all hell breaks loose. The very angry men turn into angry and panicked men with a lot of guns. Dick had planned to escape, but he doesn’t get the chance to go anywhere; the shooting starts almost immediately.
He might have miscalculated. He expected at least some talking before it got out of hand. Just enough to give him a chance to slip out the same way he arrived. Slade might or might not have been able to talk his way out of being caught in a compromising position with a hero, but the contract would have most likely been a bust.
That all relied on Slade’s potential employers not being this trigger-happy, which was apparently a mistake.
Slade pulls a gun of his own faster than should be possible. The hand that moments ago was ghosting over Dick’s face, wraps firmly around the back of his neck and pulls him closer to Slade’s chest until Slade is shielding him with his body as much as possible.
Slade’s return fire is less return fire and more so fast that he actually shoots first fire. He takes out everyone in the hallway with a single clip. It takes seconds, but it feels so much longer for Dick. When everything falls silent, Dick opens his eyes and leans back so he can see the damage.
For a second or two, the heavy palm at the back of his neck doesn’t let him move, but then the resistance disappears.
There are a lot of bodies in the hallway outside the room. Dick can’t tell if all of them are dead, but if they aren’t, they most likely will be very soon.
Fuck. This was not supposed to get bloody.
Miraculously, none of the bullets have hit him. The worst he has is a graze on his shin that is not even bleeding much, his boot having taken almost the entire damage.
Slade is… slightly worse off. Dick is almost sure there are at least a couple of bullets in his back right now, not that he gave the slightest sign when he was hit. He rolls his shoulders back on a deep inhale and holsters his gun. When he opens his eye and looks once again at Dick, his expression is no longer calm. Or it is, but it’s the icy rage type of calm that is incredibly likely to lead to someone getting stabbed.
Dick leans back, but once again, the weight on the back of his neck stops him. Slade steps away from the desk. With Dick’s legs still around him and his heels still digging into the backs of Slade’s thighs, it is not at all difficult to take Dick with him. Dick is in a really bad position to struggle, so he hooks his legs tighter around Slade’s bulk and goes with it for now, letting himself be moved wherever Slade wants.
The where ends up being the nearest wall. Slade slams him against it, and when Dick pushes against his chest by reflex, Slade grabs his wrists, pulls them up above his head and holds them there using just one hand. The grip is nevertheless practically impossible to break. Dick doesn’t bother putting much effort into trying to get out of it.
“So. You, me, this tastelessly decorated office,” Dick says and knows his voice comes out sounding less confident than he means it to and then breaks completely when he glances at the dead bodies again.
Slade leans forward and half-whispers against Dick’s ear in a parody of tenderness. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Grayson?” The tone is mild, but when he leans back, Slade’s stare is sharper than the edge of a blade. The fingers of his free hand settle on Dick’s jaw ever so lightly, the threat so clear it makes Dick’s breath catch.
Maybe they aren't thinking the same thing. Actually, Dick really hopes Slade is not thinking the same thing he is. With the sudden change in demeanor, it seems unlikely, though.
There weren’t a lot of words said before the guns came into play, but what was said was pretty damning. Damning for Dick. ‘I didn’t believe it, but fuck, you really are in bed with the Bats’, that guy had said. Like Slade being involved with heroes, maybe even working with them was the kind of thing people were saying about Deathstroke. There is really only one reason Dick can think of why that kind of rumor could be floating around right now, and it is very much his fault.
He’s also very well aware how much Slade’s reputation means to him.
Dick smiles weakly. The hold on his wrists tightens to the point of pain.
They are interrupted by a shocked sound from the open doorway. They both turn to look and for a moment they are staring at a very shocked and horrified henchman staring right back at them. Over the pile of dead bodies.
Then the guy bolts. Slade swears, drops Dick and runs after him.
Fuck.
Not a total success.
**
5.
There is no plan to use that same tactic again.
Then Dick runs into Slade at a political function, both of them out of costumes. They are both equally visibly surprised for a moment before they smooth the emotion away.
The first thing Slade says is, “Don’t even think about it.” He looks wary, like he’s not sure what Dick is about to do, but he knows he won’t like it.
And well. Dick wasn’t planning anything. And he wasn’t thinking about it a second ago. But there is no reason he can’t have some fun, now that Slade has put the thought in his head. No one’s going to open fire at them here, so there’s no risk of a repeat of last time.
The dawning smile on Dick’s face is probably very telling—Slade’s eye narrows, and he drags Dick into the cloakroom he was just coming out of. The door slams shut behind them with more force than necessary. Slade doesn’t let go of Dick’s arm. Instead he pulls Dick closer and growls into his face.
Then Slade twists his arm until Dick is forced to get down on his knees, fight back, or break his arm. He chooses the first option and folds down gracefully, like he’s choosing to do it and hasn’t been forced.
“Think very carefully about the consequences—” Slade says through gritted teeth, visibly trying to rein in his anger. “—of Deathstroke being seen with Nightwing. Followed not very distantly by me bringing Richard Grayson as my date to a very public event.”
He’s staring down at Dick with enough fire that annoying him on purpose is an awful idea. The worst idea, in these circumstances. The only reason he got away unscathed last time was an untimely interruption that Slade could not ignore.
So Dick sways as close as the hold on his arm allows, looks up at Slade through his lashes and says “Who said anything about a date?”
He might have gotten punched, or maybe it would have led to something else entirely, like him unbuckling Slade’s belt with his teeth.
But coincidentally, this is also the moment the door of the cloakroom opens again. Dick has to lean sideways to see who’s there. The employee on the other side pauses, clears his throat a couple of times before steeling himself and putting on his professional face.
“Sirs, I am going to have to ask you to leave,” he says. “Please don’t make me involve security.”
Dick laughs, even with the bone-aching strength of Slade’s grip on his arm. Slade stays silent and leaves with Dick without making a scene. Whatever he was here for probably relied on staying unnoticed, which is now pretty much impossible.
Dick is still laughing when they reach the street and start walking towards the parking garage. He’s clutching Slade’s arm, leaning against him to stay upright as his breathless laughter trails off into giggles.
“Did you see his face?” Dick gasps, words mostly lost against Slade’s shoulder.
God, if Dick ruins enough contracts, will Slade give up and stop taking jobs near him? This might be the most enjoyable way Dick has ever foiled crime.
At the parking garage, Dick is finally ready to let go of Slade without collapsing. The moment he does and takes a step forward, Slade grabs him by the hair and slams him against a support column. Dick throws his hands up to protect his face, and as a result does not get smashed face-first into concrete, but his face still aches from the impact.
“Slade, come on, don’t—” Slade pulls him up by the grip on his hair until Dick shuts up and gets up on the tips of his toes. Then he plasters himself to Dick’s back with as much force as he did that night at the beach, only this time Dick is facing away from him. It still makes his ribs protest and his breathing speed up to compensate.
“Somehow I don’t think you are taking this as seriously as you should be,” Slade drawls against the side of his face darkly. “I know you know better, kid. You know what happens to people that get in my way.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m in your way,” Dick hedges. There aren’t any good ways out of this, which is something Dick didn’t consider when the only consequences were Dick having some fun. No excuse that could possibly convince anyone he didn’t do it all on purpose. Slade would maybe let it go if it was an accident. But, well, it definitely wasn’t and they both know it.
“What do you want me to say? That I won’t do it again?”
“Oh, I think we’re past that,” Slade says ominously. He kicks Dick’s feet apart and pushes a thigh between his legs. Given that Dick was already balancing on his toes, he ends up putting most of his weight on that very hard thigh. The high-pitched sound he makes echoes in the empty garage.
“How about instead I impress upon you how badly another stunt like this will end for you,” Slade offers almost kindly as his hands slide roughly down Dick’s flanks.
“Oh? So not—” Dick inhales sharply when Slade’s thigh pushes another inch higher. “—not this time?”
“Depends on how much you piss me off by the end of this chat.”
That’s totally unfair—Slade must know how naturally pissing people off comes to Dick. He just has a way with words.
“Understand?” Slade asks with another uncomfortable nudge of his thigh.
“Yes, sure, I understand. Just,” Dick pauses for a breath before continuing. “I’m getting very close with your thigh right now. Maybe, maybe ease back? A little?”
“Why would I do that when it helps illustrate my point so well?”
Dick is honestly a little too dizzy to understand at first, but Slade oh so helpfully forces one of his hands into the nonexistent space between the concrete and Dick’s hips. And presses his palm right between Dick’s thighs.
With Slade’s burning hot palm on it, Dick’s already mostly full cock gets so hard so fast that he feels light-headed. More light-headed.
“Slade,” Dick forces out between shallow pants. “Slade, what—”
“What’s going to happen next time is I will make you follow through on every promise you’ve been making,” Slade says and then rolls his hips unmistakably. “Every implication. I will take my time,” he promises, hand kneading Dick’s cock almost painfully.
“And I will make you regret every word.” He grinds his hips against Dick’s ass and, oh God, Dick can feel his very hard cock through the layers of their clothes. It feels big enough to add another dimension to the threat. Fuck, Dick has to bite his own lip to keep quiet. He can’t—His reaction should not be—He shouldn’t moan at Slade promising to violate him.
Another grinding thrust that pushes Dick more firmly against Slade’s palm and Dick shuts his eyes tight to keep what little remains of his control.
“Or maybe I’ll just kill you,” Slade whispers in his ear, free hand reaching for Dick’s throat and wrapping around it tightly. “Whichever I feel like at the time. Maybe I’ll do both.”
That—Dick’s breath catches at that and he knows he needs oxygen, but his mind is stuck on the dark curls of Slade’s voice, on the way his lips brush against Dick’s face softly as he’s promising—
Slade lets go of Dick and backs away suddenly. Dick doesn’t even try staying on his feet, just collapses on the concrete floor and rests his forehead against the column as he tries, mostly unsuccessfully, to get his breathing under control.
He hears Slade’s steps as he walks away unhurriedly.
It takes Dick a minute to get up and remember where his car is. The moment he is inside it, he yanks his slacks open, pushes his underwear out of the way and jerks off with sharp, unsteady strokes. He comes all over his shirt and slacks after a dozen strokes and then spends another five minutes sitting there and—processing.
He might have a problem.
**
1
There’s no way Dick is admitting how easily he fell for the trap. No one saw it but the bad guys, and Dick is going to pretend it was a much more elaborate trap than a staged mugging, if anyone ever asks.
Anyway, the end result is Nightwing getting shot with a tranquilizer and waking up somewhere unfamiliar with his hands chained to the ceiling, just high enough that he can reach the floor if he balances on his toes. That brings up all kinds of recent memories that have nothing to do with this and that he should not be thinking about.
When he wakes up fully and starts paying more attention, it turns out his subconsciousness was right on the money.
The guys keeping him hostage apparently don’t have any grudges against him or any world domination plans that involve blackmailing other heroes by threatening Nightwing. Not even simple, classical ransom for money.
No, these guys are idiots.
“You have no cause for worry. As long as Deathstroke fulfills the terms of his contract, we will not lay a hand on you,” his keeper promises.
“You will not,” Dick mutters to himself.
This is so bad. He has done his best to not get into Deathstroke’s way, which has been made very easy by them not ending up in the same city for weeks, not that Dick has been aware of. And now these guys have completely messed up his staying un-murdered streak.
The cuffs are too good to get out of quickly, and he can’t take his time because there is always someone watching him. Dick’s hopes of somehow avoiding Slade get dashed after an hour of waiting for the guards to turn away for longer than a few seconds.
“—you’ll understand that we have procured some insurance. We have no doubts about your abilities, but our competitor’s offer… Well, here is your extra incentive to not doublecross us.” The voice of the leader of whatever this group even is gets closer with every word. Dick prepares for the inevitable.
Five seconds later Deathstroke enters the room Dick is being held in. He stops and takes the sight in silently. The mask hides his expression, but Dick still feels very judged. Unjustly, because none of this was his idea.
“Look, I know what this looks like, but I swear this time it’s not my fault.”
“When isn’t it?” Slade mutters low enough that Dick barely hears it.
“Well then, Mister Deathstroke,” the oblivious guy in charge of this mess says and claps his hands. “Let us discuss the details of our—”
“Not interested,” Slade interrupts without even looking at the guy.
A moment of silence stretches between them.
“I expected seeing your lover—” Dick almost chokes on air. If that rumor has spread this far, his chances of survival are dwindling. “—would be enough to assure you we are serious. If you think we are bluffing, well,” the guy waves his hand at one of the guards, who then approaches Dick brandishing what looks like a souped up cattle prod. Dick eyes it warily, not keen on testing it out.
Before he has to, the guy holding it falls over with a knife in his throat.
Dick closes his eyes and repeats to himself that this was always the only possible option after these guys tried to blackmail Deathstroke. Even if their attempts at blackmail were heavily misguided.
The sounds of violence stop soon enough, and Dick opens his eyes. Only Slade and Dick are left alive, which does not surprise him at all.
Fuck, this is the second time Slade kills a bunch of people because of Dick’s ill-conceived sabotage. This time he knew how it was going to end before Slade even arrived, and he hates himself for how little horror he feels at the result. He tries not to look at the dead bodies directly, already well aware he’ll be seeing them again in his nightmares.
Slade walks around the room, inspects a few random bits of gear. Stops to read through the blood-splattered pages strewn across the floor.
“Comfortable?” The question sounds offhand, like they don’t both know that Dick is the only reason Slade hasn’t set the place on fire and disappeared yet.
“Oh, sure. ‘S nice to stretch my muscles. I think my shoulder injury fixed itself when they first put the chains on.”
Most muscles in Dick’s body are screaming for a rest, aching in new and very unexciting ways. He wants to get down from where he is yesterday. He’d strongly prefer lying on the cold hard floor for the rest of the week than spend another minute in the cuffs.
Not lying about the shoulder, though.
“I’ll just leave you up there, then,” Slade says, and drops the pretense of caring about the documents. He watches Dick with an intensity that’s somehow impossible to ignore, even through the mask. “It’ll give me more time to decide what to do with you.”
Dick remembers vividly how it feels to believe Slade is seconds away from murdering him, but it’s difficult to hold on to the feeling when Slade’s in a good enough mood to make fun of Dick for being chained up. Not that recalling that feeling makes him react in a sane way, anyway.
“Okay, first of all, this seriously had nothing to do with me. I don’t even know who these guys are. You’re the one who took a contract with people suicidal enough to attempt blackmailing you.” Okay, maybe blaming this all on Slade isn’t the best strategy, even if this time it is Slade’s fault, kind of.
“And second?”
“Second, do you take suggestions?”
Slade takes his mask off, finally, and raises his eyebrow, silently telling Dick to go on.
“I would very much prefer not to die. So. That would be my first suggestion.” Dick is only half joking, but so far Slade doesn’t look very murderous. Maybe he’ll get another pass.
Slade watches him for another minute, arms crossed over his chest.
“That doesn’t sound much like you begging for your life,” Slade says, finally.
“Is that what you want?” Dick doesn’t think he can do that and make it look convincing, not to Slade. “For me to beg?”
Slade stays silent for another long moment before nodding sharply like he’s come to some kind of decision. Dick doesn’t think the nod is an answer to his question, anyway.
Whatever Slade decides makes him walk around Dick again. He stops somewhere out of Dick’s sight. It’s worrying, but Dick’s wrists, shoulders and legs are killing him and he’s not adding to that by trying to turn around.
“What I want,” Slade says, suddenly right behind Dick, so close his breaths are stirring the hair on the back of Dick’s head. “Is for you to never get in my way again.” Slade’s hands land on Dick’s waist and he closes that last half a step between them until his chest is pressed up against Dick’s back.
“That sounds unfeasible. I mean—” Dick starts talking faster when the grip Slade has on his sides turns painful, “—we ran into each other by accident just a few weeks ago.”
Another moment and Slade concedes the point by relaxing his hands and letting go.
Slade’s hands moving to the tops of Dick’s thighs is somehow very unexpected, and the confused moan that tumbles out of his mouth surprises both of them. Slade stills for a second and then very deliberately squeezes Dick’s thighs with his, oh, very big hands. Dick tries to stay silent, but that does not stop his blood from rushing to his face.
It doesn’t even make sense—they have been this close before. They have been this close a lot lately. But apparently coming all over himself at the memory of Slade’s whispered threats has broken Dick’s ability to compartmentalize.
“So there’s no reason not to take my pound of flesh right now.” It sounds so matter-of-fact that it sends chills down Dick’s back. He wishes he could say they’re strictly just the bad kind of chills.
But they’re still in the same room Slade just killed people. This isn’t the time or the place.
“Can we continue this somewhere else?”
“Here will work just fine.” Slade lets go of his thigh and uses the hand to find the traps and hidden zippers on Dick’s costume with frightening accuracy.
“I’m serious, Slade. Let go.”
Slade doesn’t even pause at Dick’s protest, and wraps a hand around his waist when Dick tries to struggle. There isn’t much he can do, but he tries anyway. This isn’t what he wants, not here. The ease with which Slade completely dismisses Dick’s attempts at stopping him makes Dick feel more helpless than the chains and cuffs.
“Slade, please, not here.”
“Think about that beforehand, next time.” The coldness of Slade’s voice makes Dick freeze and take a shaky breath. Nothing like a reminder that things could be worse, to force him to reevaluate. If he keeps reminding himself the alternative is being as dead as everyone else in the room, he might get over his—squeamishness.
Slade trails one hand up over his side, over his chest until it stops at his neck and squeezes lightly.
“This is kind of getting repetitive, huh,” Dick asks, resigned. It’s not a complaint, even if he does his best to make it sound like one. Repetitive is very far from bad, seeing as he has jerked off so many times to the thought of being in this position again.
He just can’t—Not here. He’d ask for anywhere else, but he trusts Slade could and probably would find somewhere even worse, if he put his mind to it. He squeezes his eyes shut and pretends no one else is in the room, no one dead. Just him and Slade. Just them.
“Oh? You wanted something different, kid? I think you get hot for being held down and this—” Slade tightens the grip until it turns bruising, “—is almost enough to get you off on its own.”
“I mean, that’s not—inaccurate,” Dick admits. Slade is making fun of him, but. He enjoys getting manhandled and restrained by Slade, and Slade apparently enjoys doing it to him. Telling the truth happens to coincide with getting him what he wants. He just wishes he had some choice on the location.
“You had some other ideas too, though, last time we met. I liked those,” Dick says, hoping Slade will take it for the admission it is and get on with it.
“Did you?”
“Yeah, they sounded—nice.”
“Nice.” Slade hums and puts his thumb under Dick’s chin, forcing his head back. “Getting killed sounded nice to you?”
“Not that part,” Dick says, distracted by the way Slade’s thumb is moving, drawing small circles on his neck.
“Didn’t it?” Slade sounds amused. “I think it did. You were ready to do anything for me, anything for another detail of how I’d end you.” He’s whispering, close enough that Dick can feel the way his lips move, can feel the way the bristles of his beard brush against Dick’s cheek.
“I—Maybe?” God, Dick wants to stop talking and get to the part where Slade’s hand is on his cock again. Or the part where he leaves, but he’s not holding out much hope Slade will change his mind.
“Is that why you’ve been running after me, panting for my attention,” Slade asks, and oh does Dick not like where this is going. “Were you trying to get my hand on your neck? Trying to anger me just so you could get off? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That, okay, that is inaccurate. I did not—”
“Yes, you did,” Slade cuts him off. “All this time you really were just begging to be put in your place.”
“And where’s that?” They almost had this conversation once before, before they got interrupted. Dick wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer then, but he does now.
“Like I said,” Slade whispers against the side of Dick’s face. “Here works just fine.”
Dick forgets what he wants to say when Slade lets go of his neck and pushes his costume down his hips.
The feel of the rough surface of Slade’s glove against Dick’s cock—and he hates that he’s mostly hard, despite all his protests—makes his knees weak for a moment. He scrambles to balance in a way that isn’t agonizing while Slade ignores his impossible position and just goes ahead and starts stroking. He’s fast and far, far too rough. The unbearable friction dances on the edge of pain from the start, which just makes Dick want to thrust forward into the circle of Slade’s fingers, no matter how much he’d regret the chafing.
He’s hurtling towards an orgasm so fast he doesn’t, can’t stop and think about what Slade wants from him. Not until he’s almost there, moments from coming, and Slade’s hand stops and squeezes the base of his cock painfully hard.
The wounded sound Dick makes in protest can’t possibly convey the full scope of his unhappiness in that moment.
“So this is your plan here—torture,” Dick asks when he can finally string words together.
“Trust me, you’d know if I was torturing you.” That feels like another threat and, okay, that’s very true, but it feels like torture right then.
And then Slade starts again and gradually builds back up to the same rhythm as before. Knowing Slade’s game doesn’t stop it from working. Dick doesn’t even know if there’s a point to trying to resist or drag it out—sooner or later he’ll give Slade what he wants. He tries to stay quiet the second time Slade stops him mercilessly.
The third time Slade starts up the strokes, Dick can feel tears gathering in his eyes. He can’t keep his balance and for a minute he puts most of his weight on his hands. Then his wrists and shoulders start aching so much he can’t take it and he has to rebalance again.
“Slade, please,” he asks, quiet as a whisper. His muscles are trembling from the strain already.
“Not yet. Don’t think you’ve earned it.” Slade keeps going and going and even with all the ways Dick aches, he gets there eventually. And Slade stops him again.
This time Dick can’t hold back a choked scream, and through the confusing mix of several types of unbearable sensations he feels Slade grind his hips against Dick’s ass. Like—Fuck, like Dick’s pained sounds are what’s doing it for him.
“Slade, please, I need—Please. Let me come,” Dick begs. He’s far past the point where he has anything resembling pride left. He just needs this to stop.
Slade pauses for as long as it takes him to take off his glove. Then he goes back to jerking Dick off, slower this time. Dick is so on edge it doesn’t take long. The orgasm slams into him with so much force he’d be on the floor if he wasn’t still chained up. The rush of endorphins makes him feel like he’s flying, like for a little while nothing hurts.
It takes him too long to notice Slade isn’t stopping.
“I can’t, please. Please stop.” Dick’s voice breaks on the last word.
“You wanted to come. I’m just doing what you asked.” Slade speeds up, not giving Dick a moment to get his bearings. He doesn’t think he’s ever stroked himself right through an orgasm. His cock is hardening before it has time to soften in the first place, and God, it hurts so good, it’s awful.
“This is me being merciful.” Slade infuses that ‘merciful’ with so much menace that Dick almost believes this really is the more lenient option when put next to whatever else Slade had in mind for him.
But he still can’t come again. It’s impossible, he’s never—
Without any warning Slade pushes a slick gloved finger against Dick’s hole and slowly pushes it in in in— Dick comes with a sob, painful and still somehow good.
Slade doesn’t try to get him hard again, though he keeps his hand on Dick’s cock. Instead he switches to thrusting his finger at an angle that hits Dick’s prostate more often than not.
“Stop,” Dick whispers, not having enough energy for more than a single word.
“I thought about killing you,” Slade says dispassionately, like it’s nothing important. “But you seem like you might be into that. Wouldn’t want you to think this is a reward instead of a punishment.”
This is all Slade’s fault, whispering his threats in a bedroom voice while all up in Dick’s personal space all the time. Anyone would get confused by it. He’s regretting it now, he is. Slade sure kept that promise.
Pained moans tumble out of Dick’s mouth at every thrust of Slade’s finger. Before long, one finger turns into two, and Dick can’t take it, can’t relax even a little in the position he’s in, his whole body a line of tension. He can’t, except Slade keeps pushing and then Dick does take it.
His face feels wet with tears and sweat. His every muscle is trembling so hard he can hear constant clinks of chains as a background to his own choked off sounds and Slade’s pleased hums.
He’d beg for Slade to stop no matter how little the chance of Slade taking pity on him, but he can no longer make anything resembling words.
“You can do it,” Slade purrs against the corner of Dick’s jaw. “Just one more.”
He thrusts his fingers more sharply, fucks him with them until he forces another orgasm out of Dick’s impossibly oversensitive body. Dick shivers, inexplicably cold, and then he can’t stop and gives up on controlling any part of his body.
He almost sobs in relief when Slade pulls his fingers out completely and doesn’t immediately push them back in.
Instead, Slade cleans him up perfunctorily and redresses him. With the costume fixed, Slade lets go and Dick collapses like his strings have been cut. Before Dick can dislocate a shoulder, Slade catches him with a hand around his waist. He moves them around until they’re chest to chest.
The next thing Slade does is lift Dick up effortlessly by the thighs. A low groan breaks past his lips when Slade guides Dick’s legs around his waist.
Slade lets go of his thighs and reaches up. He breaks the chain easily and Dick sags in relief. Surprisingly Slade even bothers to bring Dick’s arms down slowly to spare him more pain.
The cuffs are still on. Slade looks at them thoughtfully. “Let’s leave those on for now.”
“Slade. What…” Dick’s voice breaks on the second word, so he glares weakly in turns at Slade and the cuffs.
Slade ignores his protests. He puts one hand around Dick’s back and hooks Dick’s still cuffed hands over his own head, and proceeds to carry Dick like a damn koala bear. When they get out of the building, he expects to be let go. Instead Slade gets on a bike without letting him down and rides all the way to a safehouse with Dick still in his lap.
Sitting with his back to the direction they’re going in means Dick gets to see the building go up in flames just minutes after they’ve cleared it.
Dick drifts after that, content to bask in the lack of agonizing discomfort. He’s never appreciated having the ability to sit down as much as he appreciates it right now.
The moment the bike powers down, Dick throws the cuffs on the ground with a huff.
“I thought I told you to keep those on,” Slade chides. He keeps a hold on Dick’s thighs as he gets off the bike, so Dick has no choice but to continue being carried. He’d like to say it’s getting old, but he’s pretty sure he’s incapable of standing or walking on his own. It’s the main reason he’s holding back from questioning why he’s here at all. Or where ‘here’ is.
“I don’t have to do what you tell me to,” he mumbles.
Slade enters the security code by the entrance to the building with a thoughtful hum. Without the cuffs, Dick has to hold on to Slade’s shoulders. It takes so much effort he almost regrets taking them off.
“That’s okay. I’ll have fun making you.” Slade watches him with a hungry expression that Dick maybe kind of really likes, even after everything.
The front door closes behind them. Slade maneuvers them to the nearest wall and presses Dick against it so completely he can’t move even a fraction of an inch. Faster than before, Slade has Dick’s costume open and is pulling it down over his hips.
“Again?” Dick chokes out hysterically.
“Oh, kid, I’ve barely started,” Slade promises, lips brushing against his cheek.
Dick feels Slade’s smile like another whispered threat against his skin. It makes him shiver, makes him try to roll his hips and find some kind of friction, no matter how convinced he was a minute ago that he wouldn’t be able to go again anytime soon.
Maybe Slade’s going to kill him with sex.
Dick really, really plans to say no, but he still ends up tilting his head up into a kiss instead.
**
( 1)
Dick is so focused on his task that he completely misses the door opening. He does not miss the sound of breaking glass.
He jerks back and looks at the doorway where—
Fuck. Bruce is standing there, expression unreadable, a crushed glass in hand.
“I—” Dick’s voice breaks. He clears his throat and by the time he tries again, Bruce has stormed away. Fuck. He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, strategically not showing up to his own party. That’s the only reason Dick let—
“—know I disappeared that cheese platter, but that is not a reason to run me over, B.” Jason’s voice floats through the ajar door. A moment later it is opened again, this time by Jason, who’s still shouting at a rapidly retreating Bruce.
“The fuck is wrong with you? Did you—” Jason turns and “—oooookay, that explains it.”
Jason stares.
“Could you—?” Dick’s voice still sounds wrecked. “The door?”
“The—? Oh, yeah, closing it already.” And he does. And then shouts “Learn to use locks, Dick,” through the closed door.
Jesus, what the fuck. Dick pushes up, but a firm grip on his hair stops him, making him stay down on his knees.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Slade asks. “We are not done here.”
Dick can't help but shiver at the dark tone.
“At least let me lock the door.” In the span of two minutes he has been interrupted enough for a lifetime.
“I don’t think so. Finish what you started.” Then in a voice that almost manages to sound helpful Slade adds, “If you’re worried about being walked in on again, we can go faster.”
Slade definitely plans to kill him with sex.