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Dick’s skin is on fire, his every nerve ending alight with sensation.
“Please, I can’t. Fuck, Slade please. Please I need it, I need it so bad. I—“ he breaks off with a groan more pain than pleasure.
“Little bird,” Slade’s voice is cruel. Mocking. The hand pinning Dick’s wrists tightens. “We both know you can beg better than that.”
“Grayson!” The captain’s voice rings out through the room. “Got a witness here who will only talk to you. Head to room D.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dick is prepared for a number of things as he opens the door. He’s prepared for one of his civilian friends or neighbors seeking his help. He’s prepared for a visiting hero looking for Nightwing in the daytime. He’s even prepared for some tabloid reporter in disguise, hoping to talk to Bruce Wayne’s estranged former ward. He is not prepared for Slade. Fucking. Wilson.
“Detective Grayson,” Deathstroke the Terminator drawls out as he slowly drags his gaze over Dick’s uniform. “I’d like to report a crime.”
Dick closes the door, takes several deep breaths while fantasizing about various methods of disemboweling the man, and reopens it to enter the room. As he takes his seat across from Slade, he flashes their sign for a non-private conversation, low and out of view of the cameras. Slade simply smirks in return.
“Little bird, none of the cameras in this precinct have been recording since before I even stepped in the building.”
Dick is going to strangle him. Does he seriously not understand how suspicious this will make Dick look?
Slade only grows more smug at Dick’s frown. “It seems they’ve been acting up all day. Had to be taken offline for maintenance in the late morning. Nothing that will tarnish your sterling reputation.”
“What do you want, Slade?”
“I’ve uncovered a… breach of contract, of sorts.”
“Slade, the BPD is not going to help you sue someone for shorting your assassination commission. Get the fuck out of my precinct before I arrest you.”
Slade laughs outright at that. “We both know exactly why you can’t do that, birdie. Although,” he licks his lips, “I’m sure we could find some use for those handcuffs. If you beg properly, of course.”
Dick hates knowing that Slade can read exactly what he thinks of that idea by the scent of his sweat and pulsing of his blood. Nightwing may be too well trained for anything so ordinary as flushing with arousal, but Dick is still only human. And something about Slade never fails to make him ache with want.
His hips cant, trying to force Slade’s fingers deeper. He’s beyond any self-consciousness or restraint; he needs to fucking come already and the bastard won’t let him.
“Slade please please please. I’ll be so good, I swear. Suck you off, ride you hard, anything just touch me, PLEASE.”
Slade’s fingers brush his prostate, and he arches nearly off the bed. He’s ready to cry with relief, ready to tip over the edge into earth-shattering pleasure. His moan breaks into a sob as the fingers retreat after only a moment, keeping him in agony.
“Not yet, birdie. Sing for me.”
Dick takes a deep breath, calming his heart and hormones as best he can. “I can still throw you out. Talk, or I’ll tell them you’re just here to waste time.”
Slade takes mercy on him, drawing up straighter to deliver his report as if some deep part of him never forgot what it was to be a soldier. “My client is trading in people. Children. Our contract clearly states that any such deals render our partnership null and void. I intend to handle him,” his eye is steady, daring Dick to argue, “but I lack the connections and… inclinations for the cleanup that will be necessary after I dismantle his operation.”
“And you want me to what? Turn a blind eye as you slaughter god-knows how many people? Be grateful that you told me about all the kids sitting in cages instead of taking your pay and leaving them there to rot?” Dick knows he’s being unfair—knows Slade has clauses like these for a reason and would never—but he can’t quite bring himself to care. Not when they’re having this argument at the BPD, and Slade has already backed him into a corner he can’t find his way out of.
“How about a deal? We get the victims out first. Together. Then I’ll give you a 5 minute head start, and any men you take down before I come in get to live.” His smile is mocking. “Call it a training exercise, Renegade.”
“Don’t fucking call me that.” Dick’s not going to get a better chance at saving people than this. Besides, Slade didn’t forbid him from calling for help. And birds fly in flocks. “I’ll take your deal. Come to my place at 7 in civies. We’ll head over together.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Never.”
“Please let me come. Master, please.”
Slade’s fingers stutter inside him in surprise, barely grazing his prostate. Dick moans, and the asshole goes right back to touching him anywhere and everywhere else. Slade bends down to catch his nipple between his teeth and pulls, and Dick wails in desperation.
“You can cry louder than that.”
They take off with the sunset, earlier than Nightwing would usually begin a patrol. It’s risky, but he can’t bring himself to leave the children there a moment longer than he has to. With Deathstroke at his side, working in tandem, they make short work of freeing the victims from the warehouse sublevel. There’s nearly a dozen of them, each in individual cells. Deathstroke’s hearing spares them the usual necessity of delegating someone to keeping watch, and his strength allows them to skip the blowtorch when a lock proves too rusted for Nightwing to pick.
The kids follow Nightwing like the Pied Piper, as enraptured and trusting as if he were still Robin. Deathstroke brings up the rear, and Nightwing doesn’t think twice about giving him his back. About trusting the man to be on his side here. He’s done terrible things in the past, and he’s never going to truly reform, but Nightwing knows who the man is here and now. He won’t let the children come to harm while he can prevent it.
Spoiler meets them just outside the warehouse. If Deathstroke is surprised by her presence, it doesn’t show through the mask.
“Hey kiddos, Nightwing needs to go take care of the men who took you so they can’t hurt anybody else. My name is Spoiler. I’m going to get you back home to your families.”
Nightwing’s endorsement of the woman is all the kids need to follow her.
Deathstroke’s voice would sound flat to anyone else, but Nightwing hears his amusement. “Clever bird, your clock started running the moment we left the warehouse. You’ve got 3 minutes and 20 seconds left if you want to save the traffickers from their fate.”
Nightwing is already running by the time he finishes speaking.
Dick thinks he’s been on the edge for seconds or hours by now. The world around him is fuzzy, his awareness reduced to the fire in his veins and the electricity coursing through his skin everywhere Slade touches him. He won’t cry out though, not again. He holds it in his mind, even as he can’t keep his body from writhing under the man’s ministrations. Whatever Slade does, he won’t make another sound unless the bastard gives him some relief.
Then Slade licks a brief stripe up his aching, untouched cock, and Dick is screaming in frustration once more.
Running headfirst into a warehouse of known hostiles may not have been Nightwing’s best plan. He blames Deathstroke. The man won’t hesitate to kill anyone Nightwing doesn’t take down himself, but Spoiler was still able to do recon while they freed the children. He knows the warehouse has 7 men, all armed with semi-automatic rifles. He takes the guns out of play first, strategic shots with his wingdings jamming or destroying them as he darts through the shadows.
He’s got about 2 1/2 minutes left to get the men down if he wants them alive, and he’s not particularly inclined to care how hard he takes them down so long as they’re still breathing. His escrima sticks crackle in the dark warehouse, and he smiles. He’s always liked odds like these.
Nightwing has 2 men and 20 seconds left when everything falls apart.
One of the men pulls a sidearm that neither he nor Spoiler had noticed. Nightwing dodges on reflex, getting just far enough out of the path to ensure the bullet will clip his limbs rather than hit his chest. Instead of searing pain, he’s met with a purple cloud. Fucking Ivy.
“Slade please, you’re gonna kill me.” Dick distantly thinks he’s slurring his words. He knows Slade will understand. “The pollen, you gotta let me come, Slade. Please, it hurts so bad.”
Dick only registers that he’s crying when he feels a tongue tracing up his cheek. He turns to catch it, to taste the salt of his own tears off of Slade’s lips. The man groans into his mouth, fingers pressing finally deeper inside of Dick.
“Pretty bird,” Slade moans. And then the fingers are retreating and Dick is crying even harder.
Nightwing dimly registers the twin gunshots through the haze the pollen is settling over his mind. It’s entirely inappropriate, but a giggle bubbles up in his chest. They really did sign their own death warrants several times over.
Slade is visibly panicking, maskless as he reaches Nightwing’s side. “What did they hit you with?”
He giggles again; Slade is cute when he’s worried. His hands feel wonderful against Nightwing’s suit as he rifles through his pockets. He’s not sure what the man is searching for, but he hopes Slade never finds it.
“Robin, report.”
The old command hits him like ice water, clarity returning through the pollen’s haze.
“Ivy’s pollen. Must be a new blend, feels a bit like being tipsy on top of the usual effects. Don’t have an antidote to this strain, but hers are safe to ride out.”
“You positive?”
“Yeah, my siblings would’ve told me if she’d cooked up something lethal since I was last in Gotham. Just gotta get home before it hits in full.”
Slade steps back, replacing his mask as he does. Nightwing whines at the loss of hands against his body. “Slade, please.”
Deathstroke simply sighs, disapproval clear even through the modulator. “Failure to promptly identify and report exposure to a potential toxin. Use of civilian names in the field. You’re not behaving very well today, are you?”
Nightwing stills, old habits resurfacing. “No, sir.”
“Better run, little bird,” is all the warning Deathstroke gives before he pounces, hands grasping empty air where Nightwing stood only a moment prior.
They race through the alleys and over the rooftops. Deathstroke may be enhanced, but this is Nightwing’s city. He won’t be caught until he’s good and ready.
He feels the pollen burn through his veins as he swings between buildings, shivering at the cool rush of air over his skin and suit. He’s hard in his cup now. If Deathstroke catches him, he doesn’t think he’ll have the strength not to let the man fuck him on the nearest rooftop. In an alleyway where anyone could walk by and watch their city’s virtuous protector unravel under Deathstroke’s blood-stained hands. The thought shouldn’t be so appealing, but he nearly misses his next jump at the all-consuming pulse of want it evokes.
He slams the window of his apartment shut and locks it, breathing hard. He beat Deathstroke here, won their game. So why does it feel like he lost?
Dick takes off his mask and heads for his bedroom. He can feel his cock pulsing with every beat of his heart, head fuzzy without the cool night air to ground him. Slade will come by on his own terms; he should take the edge off until then.
For the second time today, Dick opens a door to find Deathstroke the Terminator waiting behind it.
Dick spins to dart away on instinct, still wired from their chase. He’s caught with an arm around the waist, holding him still as Deathstroke crowds against his back. He’s taken the cup out of his suit, and Dick can feel that he’s just as affected as he himself is.
“Did you really think you could run from me, pretty bird?”
Dick struggles in his grasp, thrashing every way he can. He wants the man’s hands on him—wants Deathstroke to strip him down and fuck him until he can’t remember his own name—but he wouldn’t be a Bat if he knew how to submit without a fight.
He slips an arm free, knocking Deathstroke’s mask off and bruising his cheek. He thinks he feels the bone crack under his elbow, but he knows it’s already healed by the time he’s pinned against the wall.
Slade leans in to breathe into Dick’s ear, his voice softer than it’s been all day. “Tell me to stop.”
Dick bares his teeth over his shoulder, his smile purely Nightwing as he spits out “Fuck you.”
Slade thrusts into him in one smooth motion, and Dick is shaking apart at the seams before their hips are even flush. The fire under his skin burns even brighter, and it hurts like nothing else he’s known, but he’s too lost in a haze of fullness and pleasure and Slade to care.
Slade slices the suit off of him, not bothering to disarm and unzip it even though he knows how. Dick scratches and bites as he’s carried to his bed. There’s blood in his teeth and fingernails, and he’s so hard he’s dizzy with it. It’s difficult to tell what’s the pollen’s influence and what’s just him. Slade brings all his darkest impulses to the surface, bears them like a badge of honor. Dick knows how affecting the man finds it. Being the one to reduce Nightwing to this. And Dick needs it. Needs someone he can’t break, someone too pathologically stubborn to be pushed away. And right now, he needs Slade inside of him like he needs air to breathe.
He tries to get a hand down between them, to give himself some relief, but Slade takes and pins both his hands like it’s nothing. “You’ll come when I let you, little bird. And after tonight, I think you need to beg for it.”
By the time Slade is done tormenting him—finally fucking into him with a strength and control that no other partner has ever been able to match—Dick can barely tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Every touch to his cock aches. He can barely breathe through the drag of Slade in and out of him. It’s agony and bliss, and he never wants it to end. He thinks, distantly, that he’ll have to thank Ivy next time he sees her. Then Slade angles his hips for a particularly hard thrust, and he stops thinking much of anything at all.
“Stay?” Slade freezes at the anxious hope in Dick’s voice. He’s never asked; Slade’s never offered. They both know why he can’t. “It’s protocol. With the pollen,” Dick continues, and suddenly Slade realizes what a gift this contract has given him. He may even kill the traffickers quickly in thanks.
“Well if it’s protocol.” He slides back into the bed behind Dick, neither giving voice to the fragile thing between them.
Stay. Just this once. No one will question it. Even if we can never have it again, let us have tonight.
Slade knows it will break Dick’s heart when he wakes up to an empty bed, nearly as much as it will break his own to leave in the early hours of the morning while his bird is fast asleep. But for now, he buries his face in Dick’s hair, memorizes the way the kid’s heartbeat and breaths ease in sleep, and lets them have this moment.