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Though Grayson’s not so amateur to wake with a groan or a flail or anything else that would give him away, Slade can tell when he wakes nonetheless just from the way his breathing picks up. He looks up from across the table where he’s cleaning one of his guns to find the kid already glaring daggers at him.
“What the hell, Slade?” Grayson rattles in the chair.
Slade raises an eyebrow. “This is the thanks I get for saving your sorry ass?”
“Yes,” Grayson bites out, voice full of venom. “And why am I still tied up?” He jerks again in the chair for effect.
Slade shrugs. “Those guys drugged you.” Discarded hypodermic needle had said as much — Grayson’s captors didn’t need to say anything. Didn’t have the chance to, at that. “I didn’t know what it was. Wasn’t sure if you’d be dangerous when you woke up.” It’s the thinnest veneer of an excuse and they both know it. He could take Grayson in a fight any day, just likes to see him squirm. Likes how rope digs into that skintight suit.
Grayson sighs, but doesn’t press it. “It wasn’t anything that would make me hurt you. Did you get the drive?”
Tied up in the safehouse of the world’s deadliest mercenary and the kid is concerned as ever with the success of the mission. So predictable it’s almost endearing. Slade retrieves it from his pocket, a thin flash of silver, and slides it onto the table in front of him. Grayson’s eyes track it before flicking back up to Slade’s.
“And—” he hesitates. “The guys in the lab? What happened to them?”
“Do you really want to know?” Nothing bad, but there’s no harm in letting him sweat it out a little.
Something Slade can’t identify flickers over Grayson’s face, but it’s gone before he can think about it, the venom in Grayson’s voice coming back twofold. “Yes, I want to know. I said no fatalities. That was my one condition for helping you—”
“Relax. I just knocked them out. Besides, fat lot of help you were. I found the drive all on my own, and had to lug your dead weight all the way back here to boot.”
“I — I was trying to distract them.” At least Grayson has the grace to look a bit sheepish.
“Right. Getting yourself tied up and knocked unconscious. Pretty compelling distraction.” Admittedly, Grayson wasn’t tied up in a particularly fun way. Looked like whoever had caught him was gearing up to interrogate him, judging by the setup.
Grayson only shakes his head. “Whatever, Slade. Just untie me already,” he orders, like he’s in any position to give one.
“Manners, manners.” Slade pockets the drive again, relishes the way Grayson’s eye twitches. “I could just take this with me and be halfway to Aruba before you could get free.”
“As if that drive would tell you anything without Oracle’s decryption. You were the one who told me that when you asked me to come on this mission. My mistake for thinking you’d be less of an asshole just because we’re on the same team for once,” he grumbles.
“I could be even more of an asshole and leave you like this ‘til you lose feeling in your fingers,” Slade says cheerfully. “Your call.”
Grayson’s glare is murderous, but he relents. “Untie me. Please.”
“See? Not so hard, was it?”
Grayson makes the funniest little sound at that, something like the squeak of a cornered mouse.
“N-no,” he finally says, sounding choked.
Hm. Slade makes his way around the table and gives an experimental tug at the knots. He retied the ones Grayson’s captors had done — those would never have held Grayson for long. But these, he’s proud of. Learned how to do ‘em like this just for tying up the notoriously slippery Nightwing. The trick is tying his hands behind him, against something, so he can’t contort his shoulders around.
“Are you just gonna stare at me all day?” he grumbles. There are pinpricks of sweat all down the back of Grayson’s neck, under the mess of black curls, despite the chill in the safehouse.
“I’m beginning to think you want me to leave you tied up like this, kid. So shut your mouth or I’ll give you what you want.”
Grayson coughs, a hint of pink appearing at the tips of his ears. “What I want is — ngh.”
Slade pauses. He’s acting real strange. “You planning to finish that sentence?”
“No,” Grayson says, sagging suddenly against the chair. But he finally remains blessedly quiet as Slade works one ankle free, and then the other. Truth be told, he could just take a knife to the rope and be done with it, but he’s liking the way Grayson’s ears have stayed pink the entire time, liking the way his thighs flex under Slade’s hand when he steadies his leg’s nervous bouncing.
Before he starts untying Grayson’s arms, he draws himself up in front of him, looking down. “If I let you out, you gonna be good for me?”
The little cough from earlier turns into a coughing fit. “Yes. Fine. Whatever,” Grayson says at last, still a bit strained. Maybe the drug in his system is some slow-acting poison. It’s a little fun to watch him struggle like this, though Slade makes a mental note to run vitals on him in a moment.
“See, I can play nice if you do,” Slade says as he leans down to take care of the remaining rope.
“Yeah, yeah,” Grayson says. “If you wanted to play nice you’d have cut these off me with your sword, but you like messing with me.” Hey, kid’s nothing if not perceptive.
“Well, I’m certainly not playing dirty. If I was playing dirty I’d have left you tied up back there for anyone to take advantage,” Slade says.
Grayson rolls his eyes. “If you were playing dirty you’d…” he falters, goes a little pale for some reason. “…you’d just take advantage yourself,” he finishes weakly.
Slade chuckles. The balls on this kid. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs back absentmindedly, still focused on the knots at Grayson’s wrist.
And then — well, something goes very wrong with Grayson.
He makes another one of those sounds, somewhere between a gasp and a cough, as if he’s trying to simultaneously swallow and eject something stuck in the back of his throat, and lurches forward in the chair so violently that if Slade hadn’t shot a hand out to stabilize him he would have tipped over into the table.
“Jesus, kid, what the fuck is it this time?” Slade says.
“Yes,” Grayson says, the word coming out in a sharp rush of breath, like he’s trying to spit it far away. “What the fuck it is is yes, I’d like that, and stop asking me questions.”
The kid’s gone absolutely, ludicrously red, face angled away from Slade like he’s trying to burrow into his left shoulder. All of the pieces — the discarded needle, the choking noises, the scarlet butterflying his cheeks — click into place, clean as a magazine sliding into its housing. Well, there’s one mystery of that lab solved, and they didn’t even need the drive to figure it out.
Oh, this will be sweet.
Slade lets the rope free from the chair, but leaves the last knots around Grayson’s wrists. He gives it a generous beat before he finally asks. “Truth serum, huh?”
“Yes, Slade, and I said stop asking me questions.” Grayson stands up so suddenly that the chair clatters to the ground behind him, trying to shove past Slade with one sharp elbow, even though it’s still attached at the wrist to his other arm.
Slade catches the arm easily. “What was it that I said about manners?”
“You just repeated the word twice,” Grayson bites back. True. Slade can’t help his laugh, a bit hysterical and a bit disbelieving. “Just — just finish untying me and let’s call Oracle.” Grayson is still refusing to look at him, voice high and strained.
Funny thing is, the two hobble knots around Grayson’s wrists are just as paper-thin an excuse as Slade’s justification for keeping him tied up the first place. Now that he’s detached from the chair, he could bring his arms ‘round front and get the knot undone in half a minute. But he hasn’t yet — and that’s all Slade needs to know. He yanks Grayson backwards by his arm, reveling in the look on his face, eyes wide and terrified, still glowing red to the tips of his ears.
“Tell you what, kid I’ll make it easy for you.” (He won’t.) “Do you actually want to me to untie you?”
Grayson’s jaw goes tight. Bingo. Should’ve been an easy yes. His throat bobs, the same half-swallowing half-choking motion as before. Again, and then again. And then, finally: “It depends.”
Slade only raises an eyebrow. Grayson immediately realizes his mistake in not elaborating willingly, tensing in anticipation. “Depends on what?”
“On — on what you want. Fuck,” he stutters.
“Got a dirtier mouth on you than I gave you credit for,” Slade says, a statement this time, just to see the relief on Grayson’s face. Just to see it wash over with terror all over again when Slade asks: “What do you want, then?” The million-dollar question.
“I — I want — I want to get this drive decrypted, for one,” Grayson says, the last of it coming out like a breath of relief. “What the hell do you think?”
Slade’s eye narrows. It’s starting to get annoying. He crowds Grayson up against the table, thigh to thigh to unyielding mahogany, so he’s got no choice but to fold backwards, seated, onto the tabletop. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think that you’re talking yourself in circles so you can act like the decision’s in my hands. I think that if I leave you tied up, you get to keep pretending that you don’t want this.” Grayson recoils like the words have taken shape and punched him in his pretty face. “As long as you’ve got this last line of defense—” he punctuates this with a pull on the rope “—you get to pretend it’s big bad Deathstroke taking advantage of poor, defenseless Nightwing.”
Underneath him, Grayson has gone still. Slade continues. “I’m not going to ask you if I’m right or not. But if you want it, you’re going to have to tell me.”
Grayson peers up at him with those shining blue eyes and swallows, hard. “I told you. I want you,” he pauses. “To do what you want with me.”
Slade’s hand is at Grayson’s throat before the sentence is fully out of his mouth. Brat. “Say I do what I want with you,” Slade growls into his ear, feeling the way it bumps the kid’s heartbeat into a staccato. “You’re not worried about me taking you out for good? Could do without a little black and blue thorn in my side.”
“No,” Grayson says, the firmest and swiftest statement he’s issued so far, despite his racing pulse. “If you wanted to, you’d have done it already.” Slade leans back, studies him. There’s still a blush on his cheeks, but there’s also the firm set of his jaw. The Nightwing in him. It makes Slade, all of a sudden, need to see him unravelled. Slade presses him down against the table, by his throat, until his head butts up against the gun Slade had left there mid-cleaning. He lets his voice fall to a whisper.
“What if I want to do bad, wicked things to you? What then?”
Grayson’s eyes are still wide, but dark black now. His bottom lip trembles a bit when he opens his mouth to speak, but he meets Slade’s eye, level as he would in the field. “I’d let you do — almost anything,” he says.
That’s invitation enough for Slade. He catches that quivering lip with his teeth and bites until he tastes blood. For his part, Grayson gives as good as he gets, letting Slade wet the wound before biting back, harder, making the kiss taste overwhelmingly of iron. This doesn’t mean I trust you. Or even like you, Grayson says, sound muffled into Slade’s mouth, and Slade just smiles against him and says You know that makes it even better for me, and Grayson says I know. Vaguely, he notes Grayson has brought his hands around to the front, without him even noticing. Slade threads his fingers through one of Grayson’s hands, still wrapped up in that pathetic excuse for bonds, rope chafing against Slade’s skin where it meets it — must be rubbing Grayson raw right now — and presses those hands up against the table; he keeps his other hand on his throat, because when he squeezes Grayson stops moving for a moment and lets Slade’s tongue in deeper.
It’s hard to break away, but he can neck the kid all he wants later. He’s got to make the most of the opportunity at hand. “So how long have wanted me to have my wicked way with you?”
Grayson is still gasping for air, a red spot of blood on his chin that Slade licks up as he answers. “Y-years.”
“And here I thought you were just being a tease. You ever think about it like this? Tied up?”
“Yes,” Grayson says. “Often.”
“What else do you think about?”
“What I’m having for dinner. What I — ow.” Slade bites down on his collarbone.
“Brat,” he laughs. “What other wicked things do you imagine me doing to you?”
Grayson smiles for a moment, too, but it’s gone as soon as Slade asks, replaced by a blush. “Oh god. The — the contract you had back in February. On the roof by St. Bernadine’s.”
“I pinned you down.” Slade remembers.
“Yeah. The window right across the way, there were those guys watching the game.” Slade had rolled the two off the ledge. He couldn’t compromise the contract by being spotted. “I imagined if you had just kept me pinned there, under you. And — and made me stay quiet, or else they’d turn their attention away. But if I couldn’t stay quiet…”
“Mm,” Slade hums, working the closures on the bottom half of the Nightwing suit open, drawing his fingernails over the skin he reveals at the seam. “And you would have liked that?”
Grayson’s brow furrows. “In practice, no. In theory, I — it’s more about what you said to me after — oh,” he says, screwing up his eyes again as Slade scrapes lines above his hipbone. “After you rolled us onto that fire escape, and you pinned me there instead. You said — you said ‘what would your precious civilians say if they saw Nightwing like this,’ and by ‘like this’ I thought you probably meant ‘defeated,’ but — but — the things you’d say to me sometimes, god. They’d get me so worked up.”
“Oh, good. I thought all my flirting was wasted on you.” Slade pulls the top half of Grayson’s suit up his body and over his head, leaving it bunching at his still-bound wrists.
“Flirting,” Grayson pants, hair sticking up in all directions. “That’s what you were doing?”
“Not my fault you weren’t paying attention. Could’ve done this sooner.”
“I was,” he says, “paying attention.”
Slade is about to ask what were you waiting for but is distracted by the way Grayson’s eyes meet his, so full of fire, before they squeeze shut. How different he looks with them closed. He looks small, vulnerable. But he’s not. He’s dangerous, even like this. Dangerous in how badly Slade wants him, what he’d do to have him. Even now, practically offering himself up on a silver platter — he’s dangerous. Maybe even more than usual.
Slade had let Grayson distract him, that February night. And his mark had gotten away.
“Go on. What else did you imagine?” Slade moves down Grayson’s chest, rolling one pink nipple lightly between his teeth.
“Oh — I imagined you’d just fuck me right there without preparing me, and I’d scream, and they’d see me under you like you said—“
“Circus kid likes an audience. Who’d have thought.”
“And they’d just watch me being used by you—” Grayson continues, spurred on by the serum. Slade is struck with the sudden need to know something.
“You ever imagine being used like that by anyone else?” Slade asks, cards dangerously close to the table.
“Sometimes others. Mostly you. Oh, fuck,” Grayson moans; it could be because of his admission or it could be Slade’s teeth returning to his nipple to bite down, hard. “It wasn’t about them, those guys. It was about you. You’d fuck me in front of them, and while you did it you’d ask me how humiliating it must be for me, everyone seeing wh-what a good slut I was being for you.”
“I’d have to kill them if they saw,” Slade says, thinking about the contract being compromised, and thinking about anyone else seeing Grayson like that.
“S-so I’d just really have to stay quiet, then,” Grayson breathes. “For their sake.”
“For their sake,” Slade agrees. “You’d have to beg me to finger you open nice and slow. So you wouldn’t scream.”
“Yes, yes. Or you’d gag me, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you to stop—“
“But you wouldn’t in the first place, would you?”
“I would,” Grayson says. He licks his lips. “But I wouldn’t mean it.”
Slade suddenly feels incredibly hot. Strips off his t-shirt as quick as he can. When he looks back at Grayson, his eyes are fixed on Slade’s chest, mouth parted slightly, looking so inviting that Slade can’t help capturing his mouth in another kiss. The bulge in Grayson’s suit is insistent at his thigh. As he kisses him, Slade works the bottom half of the suit down Grayson’s hips, exposes his straining cock, already sticky with precome. Grayson’s eyes are closed in anticipation, but Slade doesn’t touch him. Not yet.
“So that’s one of your fantasies,” Slade asks, confirming even though he doesn’t need to, even though Grayson can’t lie, just to set him up for what he’s going to ask next.
“Yes,” Grayson says.
“But it’s not your deepest, darkest one.”
Grayson’s eyes fly open. “No. Slade—”
Slade smiles, all teeth. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to play dirty?”
“Ugh. Yes. But don’t — don’t —”
“Don’t? Whyever not?”
“Because. It’s. Humiliating,” he grinds out. The blush is back in full force.
“Oh,” Slade drawls, savoring it. “But you like the humiliation, don’t you, Nightwing?”
Grayson stares up at him, eyes narrowed, searching. Slade’s certain he’s got his most self-satisfied smirk on, but whatever Grayson sees on his face makes him stick his chin out. Swallow hard. And say “yes.”
He wasn’t expecting that. The sheer, unflinching truth of it — it almost knocks Slade to his knees.
Slade finally, finally puts his hand on Grayson’s neglected cock, lets him buck up into his grip with a hoarse moan before he finally asks. “What’s your deepest—” he strokes one rough hand up, down — “darkest,” strokes again — “fantasy? Of me,” he adds, graciously, and because he doesn’t want to give the kid the chance to tell him something he might not want to know.
Grayson’s eyes are closed again, whether in pleasure or in shame is none of Slade’s business. He’s tilted his head back, baring his throat; it’s a beautiful throat. No wonder Slade couldn’t help but go for it. “When I was with the Titans, when you tried to recruit me. There was once—“ he bites down on his split lip, drawing fresh blood. It’s no use. The waterfall of words tumbles on. “You tried to get me to call you master.”
“That’s your deepest and darkest? We’ve got different definitions,” Slade says.
“I was fifteen.” Somehow he sounds affronted that Slade doesn’t find it sufficiently filthy. “And you were practically holding my friends hostage — and — and I’m not going to justify myself to you.”
“Yes, you are,” Slade says, because he can see the kid’s throat bobbing in that way it’s been doing this whole time.
“Fuck.” Grayson is silent for a moment. Slade follows the line of his Adam’s apple as it moves up and down, each time bringing him closer to the inevitability of his confession. When he finally speaks, his voice is a whisper. “It’s more about if I had become your apprentice after all — what you would do to me with complete control. When I said I want you to do whatever you want, I wasn’t just trying to be a smart ass about it. I mean—” a hysterical, high-pitched laugh shivers through him. “That was part of it, but that’s not all. I meant it. That’s what I want. That’s what would get me off. Oh hell, I don’t know how to put it plainer, Slade, I want you to use me.”
The truth of it. Christ.
He almost feels like he’s the one exposed, the way Grayson’s words make him dizzy with need. Focusing on something else instead works wonders to rid himself of the feeling: Grayson, face crimson, near crying, his cock almost purple now. With every tug, Grayson jolts as if electrified; his breath is starting to stutter. Slade circles thumb and forefinger around it and squeezes until Grayson cries out in pain. “No,” Slade says. “Not yet.”
Grayson only nods, nods and strings together a fervent torrent of expletives, sounding so desperate that Slade needs to be inside him. His hands find the bottle of oil he knows Grayson keeps in his belt, and he slides one slick finger into Grayson’s waiting heat, feeling him tremble. He’s trying to keep an unhurried pace, but Grayson is just too damn tempting, spread out under him, hands still caught in that rope — those stupid, useless knots — holding on to their dangling ends like a lifeline. Slade thinks about the marks that will remain on his wrists for days, weeks maybe, and how he’ll have to remember this every time he looks at them.
“Did you like wearing my colors?” he asks. “Belonging to me?”
“No,” Grayson says. “Orange doesn’t look good on me.”
Slade adds a second finger before Grayson is ready, an attempt at retribution; Grayson’s moan tells him he likes it all the same.
“And — and — not in the moment, I didn’t,” he continues. “I hated it. I hated you.”
“And you hated yourself for wanting it,” Slade says, more a musing than a question, but Grayson answers anyways: “Yes.”
“Hmm,” Slade says, and watches his fingers go in and out of Grayson, watches his hole clench around him.
“It’s not just me,” Grayson says, voice suddenly strong, sharp. “You want to use me. You want to own me.” Kid makes it sound accusatory.
Slade sees where this is going, and he goes along with it anyways. “Yes,” he says.
“You’ve thought about this too,” Grayson says, emboldened by Slade’s own admission.
“Yes,” Slade says.
“How long?”
Slade chuckles. “Long enough, kid. If you’re asking whether I would have taken advantage of a young, helpless Robin calling me master — well. I’m not a good man,” he says. “But I wasn’t thinking about it that way then, no.”
The corner of Grayson’s lip quirks up. “Not many things I’ve been doing for longer than you, old geezer.” In that moment he looks and sounds so Nightwing that Slade remembers he’s supposed to be taking him apart. He doesn’t answer — just adds a third finger and curls them upwards, probing until Grayson’s hips rise to meet him. The sweat on his neck looks so lovely and inviting that Slade needs suddenly to lap it up, to claim it, to claim him.
“I used to have dreams about killing you,” Grayson whispers, unprompted, once Slade is at his throat. “Nightmares, too. In both I would think about looking you in the eye while I did it.” Slade feels hot; he sucks a deep bruise right beside Grayson’s traitorous Adam’s apple. “I’d want you to know. Want you to see me. Need you to know. It wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t,” he says, and Slade knows exactly what he means.
“Not such a paragon of virtue after all,” he murmurs, teeth scraping over Grayson’s jugular.
“Batman used to say it’s not about not wanting to. It’s about not acting on it. I didn’t understand until I met you,” he whispers. Slade doesn’t bother confirming if the kid is talking about killing him, or something else.
“Do you like knowing that I’ve thought about this?” Slade asks, instead of replying.
Grayson is happy to pick up that thread. “Yes. God, yes. I want to know what you like. What you want. How you’ve thought about having me.”
“Right now, I’m thinking about how good a collar would look on you.”
“Oh,” Grayson moans.
“Something to explore later, maybe.” He’s tired of waiting, pulls his fingers out of Grayson all at once.
“Oh — oh god.” He jerks his hips down where Slade’s hand used to be, chasing it.
“Keep still,” Slade orders, and, in a move very unlike him, Grayson actually does. How intoxicating it is, how satisfying, having Nightwing obedient and practically begging for it underneath him. Kid was onto something with his fantasy. “That’s right. Didn’t you say you’d be good for me?” Slade positions his cock against Grayson’s ass, waiting for the answer.
“Yes,” Grayson says.
“And were you thinking of being good for me like this?”
“Ye-es,” Grayson moans.
Slade pushes in in one long thrust, bottoms out to a choked scream. That alone almost makes him want to keep going, keep wringing screams out of Grayson; nevermind how divine he feels around Slade’s cock. Were he a normal man, he doesn’t think he could work up the willpower to keep still, keep from fucking into the tight heat of him. But he’s not a normal man.
“I’ve thought about keeping you like this.” Slade says, unmoving inside him. Grayson stills too, wide-eyed, and together there they remain, an obscene tableau vivant.
“Yeah?” he finally breathes.
“Just like this. Warming my cock for hours.”
Grayson’s panting a would put a bulldog to shame, but he doesn’t say anything else. His eyes don’t leave Slade’s, either.
“Would you let me?” Slade asks.
“Yeah.” Grayson’s voice is ragged.
“Would you like it?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Yes. Yes. Slade, please. You already know I’d like almost anything you’d do to me. Oh Jesus, oh god. I didn’t even know that about myself, I didn’t know a lot of this about myself,” he babbles.
Slade spits ons his hand, brings it down to to ease its way up and down Grayson’s cock. “Oh — Slade — I’m gonna—“ Slade squeezes again, right at the base, and his shattering, desperate moan is almost enough to spur Slade into motion, but he wants to see just how much more deliciously desperate the kid can get.
“Slade, please,” he asks again.
“No,” Slade says. “You wanted me to use you, I’m using you. For my pleasure, not yours,” and Grayson moans so loud and goes so tight around him that if he wasn’t holding his cock as it jerked, still red and hard and weeping, he’d swear Grayson had come just from that.
“Maybe next time you’re a pain in my ass I’ll knock you out and have you like this. Wake up on my cock, being used by me. Wonder how quickly you’d realize what was happening, how long it’d take you to start fighting back. You’d need to be awake. You’d need to know what I was doing to you. Then, only then, I’d fuck you.”
“Slade—” Grayson keens. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me now.”
“Still trying to give orders, huh?”
“Yes, and you can complain about it later. Just fucking move already. Use me,” Grayson demands.
It’s getting harder and harder to deny him his requests, so Slade, ever gracious, complies.
Grayson’s hands are out of his bonds twenty seconds after Slade starts thrusting, just like Slade knew they could be; they come up to scratch lines into his back and yank at his hair but they don’t come close to his own cock, hard and wanting between them. Slade adjusts the angle, pulls Grayson’s legs up over his shoulders if only to see where his hands will go, and still they just cling to the lip of the table until his knuckles go white. He hits a spot and Grayson shudders, hits it again harder and he screams.
Slade doesn’t slow, wants to see if Grayson can come like this. There’s one moment that his eyes shine up at him, clear and bright, iris almost entirely swallowed by black, and Slade thinks he might ask to be touched, but instead he says tell me, and Slade knows what he wants to hear.
“In February,” Slade begins, and he knows he’s right because of the way Grayson’s eyes go half-lidded. “I thought about it then, too. When you let Carson get away, sure, but mostly when I found out you tipped him off about my employer. I thought about hunting you down, taking you apart. Showing up at your house and teaching you a lesson. Teaching you what would happen if you kept screwing with my contracts.”
“I got you so mad,” Grayson breathes.
“That excite you?”
Grayson looks up at him. “Yes.” Slade can feel himself hurtling closer and closer to the edge, and Grayson’s got to be the same, practically convulsing even though Slade hasn’t touched him since starting to fuck him. “I wish you did. I want you to teach me that lesson. I want you to try, oh god, yes, just like that.” His voice is getting breathier and higher-pitched, and the sweat all down his body makes him almost glow.
Slade is going to come very fucking soon if he keeps looking like this, sounding like this. Grayson should be more afraid of him, he knows. He should be doing more to make Grayson afraid of him, really show him what he’s capable of, make it so the kid trembles — in fear and nothing more — at the very thought of what Slade could do to him.
But god — then Grayson meets his eye, defiant, and says “Next time I win, Slade — I want you to come find me and just try and take me apart,” and Slade is pressing up against Grayson’s thighs so that he’s practically folded in half, holding him there as he thrusts, as Grayson sobs his want into Slade’s shoulder.
His hand is back on Grayson’s cock in an instant, pulling once, twice, and then Grayson is coming with abandon, arching his back, beautiful and reckless; his hands scramble for something to grip and knock Slade’s abandoned gun clean off the table and Slade can’t even bother to care about it probably denting on the floor, he’s too busy watching Grayson’s brows knit in and upwards in pleasure, too busy listening to the way he says, over and over, Slade, Slade, I want you, I want you. The sheer, sheer, truth of it, the sheer unmasked truth of it, of Grayson’s desire and shame both, laid out in front of him for him to see, painted all over his chest and Slade’s as he shivers, shivers, and comes undone. It’s not long before Slade follows, holding Grayson in place as he spills inside him, claiming him for his own as best he can.
Slade doesn’t feel particularly like separating for a while after that. A long while, if he could get his way. For a moment, he lets himself stay inside, letting Grayson’s legs fall to either side of him so he can press up against him chest-to-chest and feel the rise and fall under him. But he’s beginning to feel the weight of his own admissions, and if he doesn’t call attention to Grayson’s, the kid just might notice it on Slade, perceptive as he is.
As soon as Grayson shifts underneath him, Slade murmurs against his ear. “What do you want?” He regrets it the moment it’s out. It’s the same question he was asking earlier, but absent the context, it could be mistaken for kind.
If he picks up on it, Grayson doesn’t say anything. Just huffs out a little laugh. “I… I want a shower,” he says. “And to decrypt this drive.”
“Predictable,” Slade mutters. But he lifts himself off Grayson all the same, who is, indeed, dripping with sweat both Slade’s and his own, and in desperate need of a wash.
“Oracle probably expected our call an hour ago,” Grayson says, already shucking off the remainder of his suit and turning towards the bathroom. The trickle of come down his thighs proves incredibly distracting. Hell, Slade could care less about how long they make Oracle wait.
He follows Grayson, leaning against the doorway. “It’s not life or death. Besides, the tranq I put in those guys will keep ‘em out for another few hours at least. We’ve got plenty of time before they notice the drive is missing.”
In the sink mirror, he sees Grayson narrow his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“Ever thought about me fucking you in the shower?”
“Slade,” Grayson snaps, voice sharp. And then: “Yes.”