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Dick's hands tremble around the grips of his escrima sticks, exhaustion making his body numb, making all of him shake. His ears are ringing from the last hit he took to the head, and he blinks rapidly, trying to pull himself together. He just barely manages it in time to swerve back to avoid the sharp arc of a blade that was heading towards his stomach.
Fighting Deathstroke is never an easy feat, a task that always requires all of his attention and skill, requires him to be on the top of his game to have a chance of outsmarting Slade and grabbing the win, but today—today it's something else entirely. A whole new level of difficult, and Dick is just barely keeping himself afloat.
Because today, Slade is pissed. Today, Slade isn't holding back. He's coming at Dick full force, his rage driving him forward, none of the amusement or sometimes condescending fondness that usually layers their interactions. Usually, Slade enjoys their fights, and is never out to really hurt Dick.
But usually, Dick hasn't ruined a contract that costs Slade half a million dollars. Usually, Slade doesn't have reason to go after Dick like this. But he sure does now.
A backhand cracks across Dick's face, and he stumbles back, sucking in heavy breaths as his brain screams at him to not lose focus, to keep moving, to not let himself get pinned—
But he's exhausted and aching and, thanks to Slade's enhancements, the man isn't the slightest bit winded. He isn't lagging, isn't tiring, only shrugging off the blows Dick doles out—the ones that manage to connect, at least—like they're nothing.
Slade presses the advantage of Dick's unbalance, forcing him backwards, not letting up, controlling the direction of their fight until Dick's back slams against brick. His breath goes out of him in a rush, and he loses his grip on his escrima. He's spun around before he can even blink, stomach pressing to the chimney Slade's pinned him to, cheek grinding against the rough brick when Slade grabs a handful of his hair and forces his face hard against it.
There are a few moments of stillness, during which the only sound is the heaving of Dick's lungs as he desperately sucks down air, and the faint echo of Slade's ever so slightly quickened breathing. Nowhere close to what Dick's is.
"Feel like apologizing, kid?" Slade asks after a little while, once Dick doesn't feel like he's going to die from oxygen deprivation. His voice is flat, filled with the cold anger that Dick has always known Slade possessed but has never had directed at him so strongly. It sends a shiver down his spine, and Slade presses closer as if warning against an escape attempt, emphasizing their size difference as he layers himself against Dick's back.
"Never," Dick manages, a tad breathless but forcing himself back into control. He can do this. He can get himself out of this. "Why, there somethin' I should be sorry for doing? Because I really can't recall—"
Dick cuts off with a wheeze as Slade's free hand, the one not still grinding Dick's cheek against the brick, wraps around his throat, squeezing just tightly enough to restrict airflow, to make Dick feel it.
"Do you ever shut up?" Slade asks coolly. "You ever reach a point where you realize you should stop running your mouth? Because I'm telling you, Grayson—right now is that point. You should be very, very careful with how far you want to push me right now."
Yeah, Dick really doesn't doubt that. He knows how pissed Slade is, how powerful violence is still roiling beneath his skin, itching to be let out again. That tonight, with how much Dick screwed Slade over, it is a very bad idea to needle at him. That if he was ever going to pick a moment to stay silent when going up against villains, this is the textbook definition of when he should do that.
But Dick's never been good at doing what others want him to, especially when the instructions are coming from enemies.
Not that he can talk right now, actually, with the hand around his fucking throat. No, he has more important things to worry about right now than his next comeback, like the fucking black spots dancing at the corners of his vision.
He thrashes against Slade's hold, searching for a weak spot, trying his hardest to escape, to breathe. The thread of air Slade is allowing him isn't enough, not even close, and with every moment that passes he can feel himself growing weaker.
Slade chuckles darkly, head tilting forward until Dick can see the corner of his sharp grin, the cruel pleasure the man is deriving from the pain he's causing Dick.
And Dick can't move an inch, doesn't make any progress. Slade is simply too strong, keeping Dick pinned against the brick with offensive effortlessness. Dick's thrashing doesn't effect him at all, and he starts rhythmically squeezing and releasing his vice grip around Dick's neck, seeming to delight in his control over Dick's breathing, over something so intrinsic and important to Dick's life.
Dick is completely powerless against him. His chest is burning, his body stuck in panic as it fights to breathe, as it struggles to make sense of the strange pattern Slade has set, the pattern Dick has no control over despite how he should. He's lightheaded and dizzy and in pain and can't stop himself from croaking out, "Please."
Slade chuckles again, nose brushing over Dick's temple. "What was that, kid?" His large hand keeps squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing. "Don't think I quite caught that. Why don't you say it again."
Humiliation churns in Dick's gut, and he so desperately wants to keep silent, but he's more desperate for air. "Puh—please."
With a hum, Slade gives a powerful, rough clench of his hand, depriving Dick completely of air, and then blessedly his hand releases and then relaxes completely. It settles loosely around Dick's neck in a clear and ever-present threat, but Dick barely even notices, too consumed by the desperate breaths he sucks in again and again, trying to reach some level of equilibrium.
"I've given you so much leeway, kid," Slade says. He sounds less cold than before, but the cruel amusement in his voice really isn't an improvement, just a danger of another kind. "I've been downright gentle, in fact. Let you keep buzzing around like a gnat, sticking your nose in everyone's business, in my business. I put up with you interfering with contracts, and even derailing them completely. I've humored you, and play fought, and had a good time.
"But clearly that was a mistake, hm?" he continues, and presses forward even more, crushing Dick between his body and the unforgiving brick, making Dick cringe. "Clearly I've been too fucking lenient. Because what you did tonight?" The chill returns to his voice. "You wouldn't have dared if you understood what I could do to you."
Dick's throat bobs as he swallows around a thick tongue, the motion burning. "Sl...Slade. Slade—"
"I need to teach you," Slade interrupts before Dick can say any more, not that he has a clue what he would say, no idea what could possibly get him out of this. "Clearly I need to teach you what happens when you fuck up my job."
Dick squeezes his eyes shut, trying to prepare himself for the beating that's to come. This is going to be—extremely unpleasant. But at least Slade's plan of 'teaching him a lesson' means that he doesn't intend to kill him. Why teach someone who isn't going to be around to actually learn?
Not that a beating is going to make Dick stop. He's Nightwing, a hero, it's what he does. A rough fight and rougher aftermath isn't going to make him leave Slade alone, isn't going to make him just allow the man to keep murdering people. No, he just has to survive the beating, and then next time he'll try to be more prepared.
Once again, Slade presses forward. But there's something—different about it this time. It isn't full-bodied, it's just Slade's lower half. And then he...does it again, a rolling motion that is—that is—
Dick's eyes flare wide, and he bleats a protest, once more fighting against the hold as Slade grinds his crotch against Dick's ass, the meaning behind it perfectly clear. His heart thuds painfully fast in his chest, his breathing speeding up once more, but he—he can't escape. He gets nowhere, Slade's control absolute. There's no room for Dick to do anything, no way for him to stop this, and he has to swallow back a fearful, helpless sob before it can escape.
"Slade, no—" Dick chokes out, pressing his forehead against the brick, trying to think of anything else, trying to wake up, to realize this is all a bad dream, that this isn't happening, that Slade isn't—that Slade wouldn't—
But why does he think that? Why did he draw a line in the sand about Slade's morality, the lines he won't cross? What made him think he knew the mercenary well enough to be able to determine that? What the fuck possessed him to make him so sure that Slade was above rape, when he's not above anything else?
All the comments Slade's made over the years, all the innuendo, all the looks—how did it never cross Dick's mind to be afraid? To wonder what might happen if Slade decided to go after what he wanted?
"Please," Dick says, eyes squeezing shut as Slade's hands begin to roam over his body, groping roughly at every piece of Dick he can reach, uncaring for the way Dick is trembling, the way he still is jerking against the pin, involuntary now but no less desperate. "Please, Slade, don't—don't do this."
"That fear you're feeling?" Slade prompts, uncaring and cruel and—and aroused. "Remember it, kid. Remember this terror you're feeling, the next time you think about getting in my way. Remember how fucking easily I took you down, and how easy it is for me to do this to you. How easy it will be for me to do it again."
There's the sound of metal sliding out of leather, and then Dick feels Slade's knife at the nape of his neck. Dick goes still instantly, a thrill of fear jolting through him as his mind races, trying to figure out what the mercenary is doing now.
Suddenly, the blade jerks downward, and the material of Dick's suit rips open, splitting under the force of Slade's weapon. Dick is helpless as Slade steadily cuts his suit off of him, the cold night air making him shudder as it hits his skin, drawing goosebumps to the surface. Slade manipulates his body like it's child's play, twisting his arms and torso this way and that until the suit falls in ribbons, catching on his hips briefly before Slade shoves it down the rest of the way to make it pool around Dick's boots.
Dick's breath hitches when he feels the knife return, Slade using it to tear through Dick's underwear, the material splitting like butter. The use of the weapon is utterly unnecessary for just a pair of simple cotton boxer-briefs, but Dick knows it's not about practicality; it's supposed to feed into the fear.
It works.
Dick shivers in place, feeling vulnerable and exposed, and his chest clenches a vice grip around his heart when he feels Slade's hands land on his ass. He squeezes the cheeks, rolls them in his palms like a toy, pries them apart to expose Dick's asshole. The silence and stillness that follow have Dick's cheeks burning, feeling Slade's gaze on such a private area, the man just looking.
A thumb brushes over Dick's hole, and Dick jerks, sucking in a sharp breath. Slade only laughs under his breath, rubbing his thumb over the clenched muscles again and again, almost idly.
And horribly, repulsively, it feels—good. Shame is thick and sour in Dick's gut, hating that he's having a response to Slade's assault. He knows it's—he knows it's just a response to stimuli. He knows it's just his body reacting, that it doesn't mean he actually wants this. And he repeats that to himself over and over again in his mind, tells himself all the things he's told every rape victim he's encountered, but it's...so much different when it's him going through it. It's so much harder to believe a single word.
"Stop," Dick says, voice cracking. "God, Slade, please stop."
"I don't think so," Slade replies, dark and threatening and filled with lust, and Dick's eyes sting with tears. He's—he's actually going to do this. Slade is actually going to... "You're going to fucking take this, Grayson. You're going to take whatever I decide to give you, and you're going to remember how you begged me to stop the next time you're feeling high and mighty. The next time you think it's a good idea to fight me."
For a moment, Slade leans away, his weight lifting from Dick's back, his hands leaving his ass. Dick's heartrate spikes, and he immediately starts to twist away, to put distance between him and Slade as fast as he fucking can—
He makes it less than a foot before Slade slams him back against the wall, a combination of Dick's ankles still being trapped close together and Slade's superior reflexes meaning his chances of success were already close to zero.
"What did I just say, kid?" Slade drawls, almost bored. "If you're going to be difficult and fight your punishment, then I'll just have to make this worse, won't I?"
"No—"
But his protest is ignored. Slade grabs his wrists tightly and yanks them above his head, metal soon wrapping around both that Dick easily identifies as handcuffs. Then Slade stretches Dick's arms up even further before releasing them, and Dick grunts as he sags against the chimney, his bound wrists caught on something above him.
Craning his head up shows Slade's hooked the chain of the cuffs over the metal edge of the top of the chimney, one of the bars that extends upward working to keep him trapped. Dick tries pulling against it, but it doesn't budge, keeping Dick pinned and vulnerable and stretched out for Slade to do whatever he wants to him.
There's a faint whistle through the air, and then Dick yelps as a line of sharp pain suddenly erupts across his ass. It's instantly followed by a throbbing ache, and he barely has any time to acknowledge the pain when a second strike follows, and then a third. The cane-baton-whatever Slade is using is completely unyielding, and so is Slade, the man layering strike after strike after strike without a care for the way Dick shouts and twists and cries out, the pain building and building without reprieve.
It's not until the tenth hit that Dick realizes the baton Slade is using is actually one of his escrima sticks, and the concept of being caned with his own goddamn weapon is just—it's just—
Fuck, Dick can't do this, he can't—he can't do this.
"Slade stop," Dick sobs out. His ass is aflame, burning and stinging and throbbing endlessly, the pain only made worse by the knowledge of what's being used to cause his suffering. "God, please, stop, please—"
The next strike makes Dick scream, the force Slade hits him with nearly double what he's been doing so far. His vision whites out for a minute, and when he comes back to himself he finds himself limp against the brick, and there's—there's a—there's—
Slade has a pair of slick fingers inside his ass, thrusting them roughly in and out, scissoring them open again and again without care for Dick's comfort. His other hand has a firm grip on one of Dick's ass cheeks, pulling it to the side so he can watch his own fingers slide in and out of Dick's ass, and it—fuck does that hurt, the welts on his ass screaming under the force of the rough grip, nerves alight and on fire and god Dick just wants this to end.
A third finger is shoved inside of him. Dick tries to relax, because he—he knows what's coming. And it'll hurt so much worse if he's...tense. He knows that much. He needs to relax, no matter how fucking impossible that seems right now.
"Tight little ass," Slade mutters, mainly to himself, and then his voice rises to a goad when he continues with, "Not surprised, considering the stick you've had up your ass for years. Anyone ever fucked you, kid? Anyone ever used this ass like the cocksleeve it's clearly meant to be?"
Dick chokes on the humiliation that rises in his throat, horror and shame flooding his system at Slade's words. "Please, please, Slade, please stop, please—"
"Begging is a good look on you, kid," Slade says, and Dick can hear the smile in his voice. "Such pretty little words coming out of such a pretty little whore."
The next thrust of Slade's fingers brush against that spot inside of Dick that makes pleasure spark up his spine, and he jerks at the sensation, toes curling. The action makes Slade pause for just a moment, and then his hand leaves Dick's ass cheek, instead reaching around between Dick and the wall to grab at Dick's cock.
His hard cock.
Slade laughs outright, and he begins roughly jerking Dick off, timing it perfectly with the continuing thrusts of his fingers. "Damn, kid; this is supposed to be a punishment. You aren't supposed to like it."
"I don't," Dick protests weakly, hating the heat pooling in his gut, the unwanted pleasure beginning to thrum through his body as Slade stokes the fire of his arousal, forcing him to find enjoyment in his own assault. "I don't."
"Oh?" Slade says. "Could've fooled me, considering you're hard as a fucking rock. Always knew you'd be a little slut, desperate to be put in your place, and now here's the confirmation. That why you always mouth off, kid? Were you just waiting for someone to take you like a whore? Fuck that willfulness out of you?"
"No, no—"
"I think you were," Slade interrupts cruelly, stroking him faster, inserting a fourth finger in his ass. "I think you're gagging for it. But don't worry, sweetheart—I'm all too happy to oblige."
"Stop, Slade, fuck."
But he doesn't. He keeps up the punishing pace, fucking his fingers roughly in and out of Dick's ass, beating off his cock with matching strokes. It's—it's just too much—and it feels so good and Dick hates Slade so much for this. Hates that Slade is deliberately working to make Dick get off on being raped. It's—it's not fair, part of him wails. It's not fucking fair.
His entire body is singing with arousal, his breathing fast and harsh. The grit of the brick against his face is a strange counter-sensation to Slade's ministrations, and Dick tries to focus on it, on the sting instead of what Slade's doing, but it's—it's impossible. Slade is impossible to ignore, overwhelming and all consuming and Dick can't—he can't—
Dick comes with a high whine, shuddering against the chimney as the orgasm rocks through him. The way his body humps forward into Slade's palm is completely involuntary, carrying with it a thick and cloying shame, made only worse when he distantly hears Slade give an amused huff, still stroking Dick through his orgasm.
The wave of pleasure fades eventually, Dick's body settling slightly, but Slade hasn't—Slade isn't stopping. His fingers are still fucking inside Dick's ass, his hand still jerking over Dick's cock. It is quickly becoming too much, unbearable, the recent orgasm making him oversensitive and off-balance, and Slade's touch is now setting his nerves on fire in a completely different way than before.
"No, please," Dick sobs, writhing in place, trying weakly to escape Slade's hold. "Stop, Slade, please, it's too much—"
"You'll take it, Grayson," Slade purrs against the shell of his ear, nipping at the lobe. "You'll take whatever I decide to give you, and then you'll say thank you. So how about you say those two pretty words, kid. How about you thank me for giving you what you so desperately want."
Dick can barely think straight as his body screams at him, protesting what Slade's doing, making him want to cry. It's too fucking much, and now Slade wants him to thank him for it? Thank him for raping him?
When Dick says nothing in response, Slade's fingers slide out of his ass, and Dick releases a relieved sob, even though he knows Slade can't possibly actually be leaving him alone, not a chance. But at least it's a reprieve, and least for the moment it has stopped—
And then Dick screams as his escrima stick slams against his ass again, so much harder than before. The pain whites out his vision for a moment, and then it's tempered into a low throb by the conflicting sensation of Slade's hand still around his cock, still jerking him off.
And Dick is...he's getting hard again. God, please, no.
"What did I say?" Slade asks dangerously, and the stick comes down again, layering over the welts left before and making Dick wail. He does it again. Dick writhes, helpless and afraid and in pain and hard again, so fucking hard, and he just wants this to end. "What did I fucking tell you to do?"
The escrima comes down again and again and again and Dick is sobbing, shaking, whimpering out helpless pleas as Slade mercilessly beats his ass.
Eventually—fuck, eventually—Slade stops striking him, and Dick flinches when the hand that brought his so much pain instead strokes gently through his hair, brushing sweat-soaked strands away from his forehead with all the care of a lover.
"Please," Dick whines. "Please."
"Your begging is delicious," Slade coos, pressing a kiss to his temple. Dick trembles. "But you know what I want to hear."
Dick can't—he can't thank him—but he doesn't want Slade to start hitting him again, not when he's so fucking close to shattering. What's a little sacrificed pride, at the end of the day? What's a little humiliation, if it spares him a lot of pain?
"...Thank you," Dick croaks out. "Th-thank you, Slade."
Slade hums, pleased, still petting his hair. It's so soft, but god if it doesn't feel incredibly threatening. This hand can break bone with just a fraction of its strength, no matter how gentle it's being now. It isn't safe.
"For what, kid?" Slade asks, amused and goading and cruel, and Dick's eyes squeeze shut. No, no, he doesn't want to say it.
"I..."
"What are you thankful for?" Slade prompts again, still mock-gracious but hardening quickly, and Dick shudders, knowing what will happen if he doesn't comply.
"For—for...giving me what I—I desperately want."
"That's right," Slade says, low and smooth, grinding forward against Dick's ass. It hurts, the welts and rising bruises hypersensitive, but his pained keen doesn't make Slade stop. "Thank me for fucking your slut hole."
"Please, Slade—"
Slade bites down on Dick's neck, just hard enough to make it flare with pain, and Dick's breath hitches, cutting his words off. He swallows thickly, and hates himself as he forces himself to speak, to echo Slade's horrible words.
"Thank you for fucking my—slut hole."
"Good boy," Slade says, voice filled with sadistic amusement. "Now beg me to do it again."
Dick swallows down his nausea. "Please, Slade. Please...please—fuck me."
"Fuck your what?" Slade goads.
"Fuck," Dick hisses, thudding his forehead against the brick. Tears slip down his cheeks. "Fuck. Can you please—please fuck my slut hole, Slade."
"Atta boy," Slade says, and the rough lust in his voice sickens Dick to his core. He stops grinding against Dick's ass, but this time when he pulls back slightly Dick doesn't try to escape, understanding he won't get away, understanding the punishment for trying.
Something blunt and hard and slick presses at Dick's asshole, and confusion runs through him when he realizes it lacks the heat and feeling of a cock. No, it's cooler, it's solid, it's...
"No, please," Dick wheezes desperately as Slade begins to press the escrima stick inside of him. "Slade, don't—"
"You don't make the rules here, kid," Slade tells him, forcing the escrima deeper and deeper, driving the air from Dick's lungs. It presses further than anything ever has, unyielding and firm and like nothing he's ever felt before. Drawing in air is hard, thinking of anything else is impossible; he's forced to remain in place, unable to stop Slade as he thrusts Dick's own weapon as far as it can go.
There isn't a moment's pause, once Slade gets it all the way settled inside. There isn't any hesitation to allow Dick to adjust, to not feel like he's teetering on the edge of sanity. No, Slade immediately draws the stick back out and then slams it forward, fucking it in and out again and again, powerful thrusts that drive Dick against the wall with bruising intensity.
And Dick is still. Hard.
He can't take it—he doesn't want to take it—Christ when will this end when will this end when will this end—
"You like that, Grayson?" Slade asks, laughter threaded through his tone. "You happy to finally get knocked down a peg like you've been wanting for years?"
"Please," Dick says, voice breaking. "Please, stop, fuck."
He doesn't stop. He'll never stop. Slade will take and he'll take and he'll take until he grows bored, until Dick has nothing left to give. Nothing will ever stop him, no matter what Dick tries.
Slade continues to fuck Dick roughly with his weapon, his other hand lifting to grab a handful of his hair and twist his head around, capturing Dick's mouth with his own in a searing kiss. Dick is slack and unresponsive, but Slade doesn't seem to mind, instead plundering Dick's mouth like it's his to claim.
He makes Dick come again, and Dick goes boneless against the chimney, legs failing him, leaving him solely held up by the cuffs and the press of Slade's body against his. His head spins, everything becoming very far away and fuzzy.
Distantly, Dick is aware of the chill against his back as Slade draws back once more, the escrima stick remaining jammed up Dick's ass despite Slade's hand falling away from it. As if through water, he hears the grunt from his rapist as he kicks Dick's ankles apart. It's all so very far away, though, and he's shamefully glad about that. He doesn't want to experience any of this anymore. He just wants it to end. He just wants to go curl up in a ball and stop existing for just a moment.
Against his wishes he begins coming back to the surface, just in time to feel Slade thrust his cock forward between Dick's thighs, large hands then forcing Dick's legs together to clench around Slade's cock.
And then Slade begins to fuck, hips slamming back and forth, and somehow this is even more degrading than anything Slade's done so far. He doesn't know why but—but having Slade fuck his thighs with an escrima stick still in his ass, it's just...The humiliation that fills Dick's entire being is nearly debilitating.
"Little whore," Slade grunts, teeth brushing the nape of Dick's neck. "Why did I wait so long to do this, fuck. You were fucking made for this, Grayson. Perfect little fleshlight, aren't you? Could do this all fucking day."
Full awareness returns to Dick, and with it, the pinpricks of rising pain as his oversensitive body begs for this all to stop, to not be touched anymore, to not have a cock using his thighs or a metal polymer stick up his ass. Every breathless exhale of his is now accompanied by a whine, trembling all over as he waits for Slade to be done, waits for this all to be over.
The snap of Slade's hips begins to speed up, and then the man is coming, coating Dick's thighs and the underside of his cock with the merc's release. He continues to fuck between his legs, spreading the release around with a sensation that makes Dick's stomach turn. His cockhead nudges against Dick's cock on every slide until finally, blessedly, Slade stops and draws back, roughly unhooking the cuffs as he goes.
As soon as the contact between them is broken, Dick's legs buckle and he crashes down to the roof, knees jarring as they connect with the cement. He presses his forehead against the chimney and shakes and shakes, overwhelmed like he's never been before, experiencing so many sensations that he doesn't know how to handle, doesn't know how to stop from rushing over him like a tidal wave.
It's not...bad, he finds. It's new and strange and overwhelming, but not—bad. This wasn't a...bad idea, despite how embarrassed he'd been when he suggested it to Slade. This is—it's good. Somehow it's good.
There are footsteps behind him, and then he feels the heat of another person as Slade crouches at his side. A gentle hand lands between his shoulder blades, the other wrapping around his waist to draw him against Slade's side. Dick goes pliantly, limp where Slade puts him, head rolling into the curve of the other man's neck. The escrima stick is carefully pulled out of him, and Slade shushes him when he whines at the feeling, kissing his forehead.
Then, with all the care no one—except Dick—ever thinks Deathstroke capable of, Slade lifts Dick into his arms. Something warm and soft settles around Dick, and he gives a pleased sigh at the familiar feeling of his favorite blanket, snuggling into it as Slade begins to walk. Dick drifts, trusting the man to have his back, to take them where they need to be.
He's safe with Slade, always. Safe enough to trust him with something like this, to do this to him. There isn't a single doubt in his mind that with Slade around, Dick is absolutely the safest he has ever been.
A window opens, and Slade ducks through it, moving carefully like Dick is something precious. He carries him to the bedroom, and settles Dick on his stomach on the bed, stroking his hair and pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. Dick hums, a slightly dopey smile creeping across his face.
Slade sits on the edge of the bed by Dick's hip, and callused hands slick with cream touch his throbbing ass, making Dick keen at the spike of pain. But almost instantly the cream starts to do its job as Slade rubs it in, cool and numbing and helping Dick to melt into the mattress, giving another pleased hum.
Slade kisses the small of Dick's back, murmuring, "I'll be right back," as he draws away. Dick's pulse spikes with panic. Slade pauses. "Fifteen seconds, Dick, I promise. And then I'll be here."
Dick nods, and starts to count as he hears Slade leave. He must drift off, though, because he has no idea what number he got to before he's roused again when the bed dips, Slade settling on it beside him, back against the headboard and legs laid out straight.
With firm but gentle hands, Slade maneuvers Dick upright, unbothered by how Dick is completely limp as he pulls him into his lap, chest to back. He apparently stripped at some point, and Dick melts into the bare skin contact, letting out a happy noise when the fuzzy blanket settles over them and Slade wraps a solid arm around his waist.
I'm here, the touch says. I'm here, I've got you, I'm not going anywhere.
"Drink," Slade says, and Dick lets his lips part compliantly as a water bottle is lifted to his mouth. Slade controls the pace, careful to go slow, letting Dick sip bit by bit until the bottle is empty. Slade discards it, and then something else is being pushed against Dick's mouth. He lets it enter as easily as he followed the earlier instruction, and enjoys the burst of flavor on his tongue, chewing the soft banana slowly before swallowing, and then accepting the next slice Slade offers him.
By the time the banana is finished, Dick feels more settled in his skin, more present. He tilts his face into Slade's neck, brushing a kiss there in thanks he can't quite voice yet. Slade strokes a gentle hand up and down Dick's arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake but in a good way.
"Are you alright, little bird?" Slade asks in a murmur, tucking his chin over Dick's head.
And the thing is...Yeah, Dick is alright. Really alright, really good. He aches but in a good way, sated and calm and so very content. And with Slade wrapped around him, taking care of him, the intimacy in every slide of his fingers against Dick's skin—Dick's never felt better.
"Yeah," he manages to say, voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper. "Yeah, 'm really good."
There's a momentary silence, during which Dick can picture Slade smiling, and then the other man kisses the top of his head, holding him closer. He says something against Dick's hair, quietly enough that Dick can't make the words out. But the tone is clear, and Dick slowly drifts off to sleep with the knowledge that he's loved warming his chest.