Work Text:
When the door opened, Dick welcomed the reprieve from the beating he’d been getting. As people had been telling him for years, running his mouth got him nothing but trouble, but that didn’t stop him from doing it anyway. Maybe cracking jokes about the people who had him strung up from the ceiling, on the tips of his toes to take the weight off his shoulders before he dislocated something wasn't the best plan—but sue him, he had nothing else he could do until he missed his check-in and Jason realized he was in trouble.
He was bleeding sluggishly from a bullet he’d taken in his bicep, and it burned with the weight of his body straining it, but it was easy enough to ignore, his body too focused on the punches and kicks being delivered to his midsection—at least until they knocked him off his toes, sending a searing pain down his arm, making him choke back bile and curses. So, yeah, when the door opened and the group of guys getting off on torturing the famous Nightwing paused for a second, he basked in the lack of new pain, categorizing the aches and pains and definitely broken ribs he’d be nursing for the next month.
That is, he was enjoying the lack of pain, until the person whose heavy footsteps entered the room started talking.
“Well, look at this…a little bird, caught in a snare,” Slade observed, his steps tracing a path into the room until he was standing face-to-face with Dick. He was fully suited, face covered, a cool, steel gray eye sizing him up like a wolf eyeing an injured rabbit. Dick felt fear sizzle in his belly, pooling low, but couldn't completely choke out the hope either. He and Slade were…complicated on a good day, but the mercenary was usually willing to save Dick from his own stupidity, if only because he could extort favors from him later. Dick didn’t complain, because it was something they both enjoyed.
“Deathstroke,” Dick greeted, baring his bloody teeth in a grin that was only a little feral around the edges. “Fancy seeing you here.” Slade’s eye traced down his body, taking in the rips in the Nightwing suit, bloody and bruised skin revealed to the air. His eyes were uncovered, raw skin around them where the mask had been ripped from his face. He’d worry about a room full of goons having seen his face later—as far as he knew, they hadn’t recognized him yet, so it was a problem for Tomorrow Dick.
Head goon, a guy with dark, hard eyes and graying brown hair stepped up next to Slade, “Caught this punk trying to make off with a copy of our hard drive. Been trying to see how much he knows, but he’s a mouthy little thing.”
Slade snorted, “Color me shocked. Nightwing is an expert at being a thorn in the side of anyone he wants to needle.” He looked Dick in the eyes again, and Dick could tell he was smiling, crow’s feet deepening where the mask exposed the smallest strip of skin. It was either very good or very bad. With Slade, a smile could mean Dick was saved or screwed, depending on the man’s mood. The knot of fear curled tighter, traitorous arousal tangling with it. Slade had Pavloved him into being a little turned on by being helpless, and he was feeling extremely helpless with his arms stretched above his head, face exposed to a room of people who wanted him dead. Though the look Slade was shooting him made him feel weakest of all. Dick shot a prayer to the heavens that the mercurial man was having a good day, not wanting him to take his baggage out on Dick’s helpless body.
“Yeah. Had him poking around in our business for long enough, I think,” the goon said. “Say, since you’re here…”
That was the opportunity that Slade had been looking for. He turned back to the man, eyeing his bloodied knuckles, “It won’t be free. I don’t do charity.”
“Never expected that of you. Ten thousand. Double that if you can get him to cry,” the goon offered, and Dick winced. That was a lot of money to offer to beat him up and keep the damage minor. Slade…was considering it, he could tell in the set of his brow.
After a brief moment of silence, he rolled his shoulders, neck cracking. Dick felt true terror pulse through him, which, horribly, didn’t dim the fire in his gut at all. “Deal,” Slade said, turning back to Dick, looking at him with the critical eye of someone who knew how to milk maximum pain with minimal damage. That could be bad, very, very bad for Dick. “Can’t do anything permanent, though,” he added, “Don’t want to bring a horde of bats down on you. Or myself. I have my hands full enough as it is.”
Dick tried not to let his relief show, but he wasn’t able to entirely mask the way he relaxed when he heard Slade mention a horde of bats. That was a code, for when they couldn’t speak freely and Dick was in trouble. Thank god, it meant Slade would help him out.
“Of course,” the goon agreed. “We were just going to rough him up a little and dump him after we made sure we confiscated everything he took. Boss was talking about giving him to someone who would pay a lot of money to see a caged bird, but his wife isn’t a fan of any sort of human trafficking.” The goon laughed, like something was funny, “Even if the person you’re gonna sell wants to put us all underneath the prison anyway.” Some of the collection of other idiots who’d congregated in the room to watch Nightwing bleed laughed at that.
“Are you guys planning on talking about me like I’m not here for the whole time, or do I get a say in this?” Dick asked, unable to stop himself. And, really, now that he knew he’d be getting out alive and intact, his innate mortal terror was gone. He almost felt himself relaxing into that hazy, soft state he sometimes got in when he and Slade indulged in their mutual attraction. He tried to stop it, because, really, he was strung up in a room of strangers and Slade, that wasn’t the time or place to go all sweet and agreeable, but it was difficult to resist the pull.
One of Slade’s gloved hands grasped at Dick’s jaw, digging into the hinges until his lips parted, blood escaping the corner of his mouth from a cut on the inside of his cheek. “You’ll speak when spoken to, bird, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” He made a considering noise, and his hand gentled slightly, tracing his jaw almost like a lover would, “Though I’d hate to silence that pretty song of yours—It’d be a shame, you sound beautiful when you’re in pain.”
One of the man’s large hands traced down Dick’s side, and he couldn’t hold in the whimper of pain when he deliberately pressed on one of his broken ribs. Slade paused, running his fingers in slow circles over the cracked bones, applying pressure just to watch Dick pant, pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue was visible. It hurt a sharp, deep ache in his chest, made worse if he tried to twist away or breathe through the pain. It was completely inexorable, like most things about Slade were. Fuck, Dick felt like a freak for feeling the pulse of arousal in his cunt at the way Slade continued to map out the bruises and cuts on his body, tracing and pressing and hurting him so good. This was what he loved, Slade’s ability to effortlessly remove his mind from his body. He was floating, grounded only by the pain, a delicious sensation against the empty backdrop of his mind.
Distantly, he heard someone mutter, “God, he’s really got the kid out of it—guess that’s why people hire professionals.” There was a noise of agreement, and briefly, Dick remembered that he and Slade weren’t the only people in the room, that he was surrounded by strangers, face exposed, strung up by his wrists, injured and helpless. He shivered as Slade’s hands squeezed his hips, drawing him back to the man, eyes focusing from their sightless, glassy stare to fix on him.
There was a noise, and it took him a second to realize it was Slade, leaning in to speak to him, “Don’t worry, sweet thing,” he reassured, “I’m going to take good care of you.” Dick could only keen as Slade’s hands ran back up his sides, squeezing his ribcage and tearing a pained yell from him. Tears pricked at Dick’s eyes, entirely involuntary, but the thought of Slade getting double to see him cry was far from his mind. They spilled over, running down his face, creating trails through the blood from his early head wound. Slade made a deeply satisfied noise, like something you’d hear coming from a big cat and not a person. “Good, that’s good,” he praised. Then, louder: “Well, there’s your tears. Not so difficult to pull apart a pretty little thing like this if you know what you’re doing.”
The goon looked impressed, but there was something else in the gleam of his eyes, something hungry. “You look like you know your way around this kind of thing,” he said, and the implications were anything but respectable.
Slade lifted his shoulder in a ‘what can you do?’ motion, “Comes with the territory. Sometimes the way to break someone isn’t only physical pain. Fear and humiliation come easier to most people, makes ‘em easier to break that way.” He eyed Dick again, and Dick looked back, eyes hazy, tears running silently down his face like he couldn't stop them. He was out of it, fuzzy and slow to react, feeling like he and Slade were the only two people in the room. “And speakin’ of…for twenty grand, I had better give you a nice show.”
He reached up, past Dick’s range of vision, and he was pulled further up onto his toes before abruptly dropping. His legs couldn't take his weight after so long in a stress position, and he fell forward, folding down onto his knees with a crack of bone that was loud on the cement floor. His hands, still bound, settled in his lap, trying his best not to aggravate the gunshot wound. He mostly succeeded and, pleased, his head lolled back so he could look up at Slade from the shadow of his bangs.
Slade loomed above him, an imposing, broad figure. He was still masked, and Dick was a little nervous—he could read Slade pretty well, but not as much when most of his face was concealed. Most of Slade’s tells were in the twitch of his mouth and the way his jaw worked. Still, this was hardly the first time Slade had kept his mask on for something like this.
He settled more comfortably, his ribs screaming as he tried to find a position that didn’t make him want to shout. He felt too big for his skin at the moment, prickly and oversensitive, like he’d touched a livewire. If they were alone, he’d want something to do, something to take his mind off the feeling of being in the wrong body, away from the sensation of being in tight, restrictive clothing. With an audience, though, he didn’t know what to do—if they found out Slade and he had clearly been intimate before, he was screwed, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself, not when he was already feeling so frayed.
Slade’s hand landed in his hair, grabbing and twisting, forcing his body to arch, ribs crackling, a breathy ‘ah!’ escaping his lips. The man turned his head this way and that, observing. “Poor thing, that head wound’s a bit worse than it looks, ain’t it?” Dick had no idea what he was talking about. His head felt fine, even if it was stuffed with cotton at the moment. Slade’s hand went to his thigh holster, then, and Dick tracked the motion with glassy eyes.
It was his left holster, the one he rarely used, and the gun that he pulled out had Dick realizing why. It was his highly customized Desert Eagle, in black and orange just like his armor, ridiculous and oversized and Dick couldn't help the slightly hysterical giggle that escaped his throat. The fear was pooling in his stomach again, and he felt fucking drenched in his own slick, cock throbbing insistently as he eyed the way Slade handled the gun with practiced ease. The large handgun almost looked like it was a normal size in one of Slade’s huge paws, but Dick wasn’t fooled. He opened his mouth to ask for the smaller gun, at least, but what came out instead was: “Nice Desert Eagle. Compensating for anything?”
In retrospect, getting pistol-whipped was the likely outcome of saying something like that to Slade in a room full of people. It was light enough that Dick was pretty sure his cheekbone wasn't broken, but hard enough that it had smashed against his teeth, filling his mouth with blood where the skin of his mouth had cut on the enamel. The pain was almost secondary to an intense feeling of euphoria. He rolled his neck, basking in the ache, blood dripping from his open, panting mouth, mixing with spit he couldn’t be bothered to care about.
“Speaking out of turn again, boy,” Slade warned. “Next time it won’t be a love tap.” God, but Dick almost spoke out again just to feel that cold fucking metal smash his cheekbone, send him sprawling. He knew Slade would do it. “Be good for me, Nightwing, and this’ll be easier for all of us.”
One of the goons laughed, “I don’t think anyone here wants the easy option.” There were noises of agreement. Dick shifted, trying to slide his knees together to offset how vulnerable he felt, but one of Slade’s booted feet slid between his legs, pressing forward and forward until the metal toe was pressed against his hot sex. Dick blew out an agonized breath, doing his level best not to give an entire room of people the perfect view of Nightwing grinding against Deathstroke the fucking Terminator’s boot. The twitch of Slade’s eye told him that he was already very much aware of the predicament Dick had found himself in. He could probably smell it with his stupid metahuman senses. Slade stared down at him, bringing the gun up so that it was level with Dick’s forehead.
The size difference between them, with Dick resting on his legs and Slade’s impressive height, meant that there was a significant distance between the muzzle of the gun and Dick’s skin. Not liking that, he grabbed Dick with the other hand, hauling him up by his hair until he was resting his body along the hard line of Slade’s leg. Like that, he had, perfect, agonizing pressure against his aching cunt, and his hips bucked forward with a cry that he could maybe have pulled off as pained, had it not been for the breathy keen at the end.
“Fuck, he’s getting off on this.”
“Didn’t know Nightwing was such a freak.”
Dick tried to haul himself back, but Slade had an iron grip on his hair, keeping him trapped with his right hand while the left dragged the muzzle of the handgun down the side of his face. It was cool against his flushed skin, a contrast against the hot line of Slade’s leg against his body. The gun traced a path downwards, until it was resting under his chin. Dick strained his neck to look up at Slade, who was staring down at him with animal intensity.
The safety clicked off.
Dick’s heart rabbited in his chest, so loud it was all he could hear, aside from the sound of his possible death echoing in his ears. Slade—he wouldn’t, he’d said their phrase, and besides that, Slade liked him alive, told him so every time they ended up tangled in the sheets together after a fight. But when Slade said: “Beg me not to.” Well, something in Dick truly believed he might be bartering for his life. It didn’t dampen his arousal at all. Too many close encounters with death during his formative years, some at the very hands of the man in front of him, had left their mark, meant that danger aroused him as much as it terrified him.
“Please,” he said, voice weak. “Deathstroke— Slade, don't shoot me.” He summoned his courage, nuzzling into Slade’s belly, smelling gun oil and metal and musk. “I’m better alive, you know that. No fun to be had with a corpse.”
Slade laughed, delighted and surprised. “I don’t know, Nightwing, you’ve been a problem child for a long time. Maybe you need a firmer hand.” Slade clicked his tongue like he was thinking, “Or somethin’ to occupy that mouth of yours.”
The gun traced a path over Dick’s chin to his bloody lips, the muzzle running in circles over the fullness of them. Dick didn’t have to do much imagining to guess what he wanted. It was something they’d brought up before as a ‘maybe,’ but never had a chance to act out. Dick would prefer to not be exploring this kink in front of a bunch of strangers, but, hey, his dick seemed to be fully on board with the idea. He smiled up at Slade the way he knew the older man liked, his eyes wide and innocent-looking, then pressed a kiss to the muzzle of the gun, tongue flicking out to swipe around the barrel, dipping in. It tasted metallic, unsurprisingly, the chemical sweetness of gun oil on his tongue as he kissed down the slide, keeping eye contact as he did so, nuzzling against it like it was Slade’s cock instead of his stupid oversized gun.
He dragged his tongue up the side of the slide, back to the muzzle, and parted his lips obediently when Slade pressed the gun against them with more force. The first inch slid in, Dick protecting his teeth with his lips, and the smooth metal weighing down his tongue was hotter than he’d thought it would be. It was so different from a cock, or even another toy, completely unyielding. Dick couldn’t help but grind forward, rock his hips against Slade’s leg. He moaned against the unforgiving metal, sliding forward to take more of it. The long slide hit the back of his throat before he hit the trigger guard, and he gagged, pulling back and heaving for a second.
“Damn, he’s hungry for it,” a rough voice murmured from the corner of the room, and Dick burned with sudden embarrassment, spit shining, mixed with blood on his lips and chin.
Someone else spoke up: “Think he’d let Deathstroke fuck him with that gun?”
Dick’s eyes widened, shooting to Slade’s, which was already fixed on him. He took the gun into his mouth again, sliding back down, tilting his body at the perfect angle to take more of the unforgiving metal, warm and wet with animal heat.
“Would you let me fuck you with this, Nightwing?” Slade teased, the heavy emphasis on let implying everything about the willingness of the situation. The gun slid deeper, and Dick’s bottom lip hit the trigger guard. It was hell to relax his throat around the blocky shape, the Picatinny rail along the top of the slide bumping up against his teeth, irritating his gag reflex. Dick bobbed his head on the gun, fucking it into the back of his throat, when it slid out from between his lips, it was coated in blood and spit, the muzzle again resting against his lips.
Dick really thought about it, if he’d let Slade stick the unwieldy shape of the Desert Eagle in the admittedly tight clutches of his cunt. Even as wet as he was, it would be a struggle to take something not designed for penetration, the blunt muzzle promising an ache he wouldn’t be able to easily shake off. He felt another pulse of wetness drip from his core at the thought, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to experience that for the first time with a gaggle of strangers as witnesses. His bound arms had braced themselves on Slade’s thigh, fingers curled around one of the straps of his leg holsters. Now, he tapped three times at the inside of Slade’s thigh, a little code for no when he couldn't talk during one of their sessions.
Slade tilted his head, staring down at Dick, eye unreadable. “Mebbe later,” he said, finally, accent thick, and Dick relaxed against his leg again, hips rocking to stimulate his aching cock. Were his and Slade’s suits more breathable, he was sure that his slick would be drenching both of them. “I don’t feel much like delayed gratification, and though I’m sure it would be incredibly beautiful to watch you writhe and moan on something that could kill you with the pull of a trigger, I feel like getting a taste of that, m’self.”
Dick startled—for all that he’d been glad that he wasn’t going to fuck a gun that day, he hadn’t considered what Slade might take instead. He wasn’t a man who accepted the first terms of negotiation. His fuzzy head warred with the twin urges to beg the man not to fuck him in front of a group of jeering strangers and to beg him to do exactly that—fill up the aching emptiness that had been steadily building in his core since Slade had entered the fucking room. He knew what his presence did to Dick, he was teasing for the fun of it, surely.
He opened his mouth to beg him to stop, but all that came out was “Please,” his throat sore and voice crackling with abuse. “ Please, ” he repeated, pawing at Slade’s thigh, trying to force the word don’t out of his lips, but it wouldn’t come. He was rutting against Slade’s leg, so hot the man could probably feel it through both of their layers of armor.
“Poor little songbird,” Slade mocked, and grabbed Dick by the back of the neck, hauling him upright and dragging him over to the table that was set against the wall in the interrogation room. “Runnin’ out of words?” he asked, lifting Dick like he weighed nothing and slamming him down on his back on the table. Dick resolutely kept his eyes on the ceiling, trying not to notice the goons creeping closer to them to get a better view.
Without taking his eyes off Dick, Slade pointed his gun at their audience, “Get any closer and you’ll be getting the personal tour of my gun as well.” And Dick was glad for it. It was bad enough that they were in the room, watching him, but if they were close enough for him to really notice them? Feel their heat? Dick might sooner die of embarrassment, loaded handgun be damned.
Dick’s legs were pulled up, tightly shut, and he startled again when Slade set the gun down next to his hip, big hands smoothing down his sides to his knees and prying them apart. Dick let him after the smallest fight, feeling the force of Slade’s imposing musculature against his bones. On a better day, he’d make more of an effort, but he was tired and sore and hazy and wanting, so when Slade applied pressure, he went willingly, legs falling open, nearly flat on the table, and tried to ignore the restrained moan from someone in the room when they were met with the seemingly endless limits of his flexibility.
Slade made a pleased noise, rumbling in his chest, “Good boy. Now, stay still for me while I work. Wouldn’t want to give you more cuts to stitch…” Dick barely had time to ponder that before he felt the long line of a combat knife against his inner thigh, tracing a path up his leg until it met his covered sex. Dick bit his lip to hold in a moan. He knew that knife. It could cut skin like butter, slide through the material of his costume easily. It made him burn with the knowledge that the tip of that blade—one that had spilled so much blood—was currently running circles over the hidden shape of his cock, deadly sharp but softly applied by expert hands.
Dick couldn’t see exactly what Slade was doing while he was flat on his back, but he could see the man staring intently down at him, and managed to keep still when his free hand grasped at the material of the Nightwing suit over Dick’s pubic bone, the knife tracing a path up before the noise of cut fabric reached his ears. Slade cut just enough space to fit his fingers in the space, then set the knife aside to tear the crotch of the suit open. Dick blushed, closing his eyes as he heard Slade’s intake of breath as he caught sight of what was underneath the kevlar.
Before—this—Dick had been planning to track down Slade for a little rooftop tryst. He’d dressed for the occasion. Now, he could only thank god he’d gone with lacy blue panties instead of orange ones. That probably would have been enough to tip off even the most dense of the goons watching them.
“What’s this?” Slade asked rhetorically, voice deep with arousal, “Was our delicate little bird planning on getting lucky tonight?” His hand landed hot as a brand over Dick’s lace-covered cunt. “ Fuck, sweetheart, you’re soaking. Does getting raped in front of a bunch of strangers do it for you? You’re just perfect, Nightwing.” Dick couldn’t hold in the moan, nor the way his hips bucked into the palm pressed against his cock. Now that he was exposed, he felt his copious slick cooling in the air. He refused to open his eyes and look at Slade, scared of what he might be able to see in his eye. The hand disappeared but was back before he could miss it, coming down on his pussy in a hard spank. Dick yelped, back arching at the sudden sting and rush of arousal. “Open your eyes and answer the question, boy. Does the thought of this sweet little cunt getting violated make you this wet?”
Dick forced his eyes open, looking up at Slade, who loomed over him, single eye creased with pleasure. He gathered his mind, pulling the pieces of him that wanted to float off into the air together and forced out: “Yes.”
“Yes, what? Tell me what you like. And use your manners, or we’ll be here all night.”
Brow furrowed, because even when Dick was wild with arousal Slade was still an arrogant asshole, he repeated, “Yes, I like being touched when I don’t want it. I got wet thinking of you raping me.” Dick paused a moment for dramatic effect, then added: “Sir.”
Slade growled, yanking Dick down until his ass was almost off the table, grinding forward and oh , when had he had time to open the catches on his suit? Any cognizant thought went out the window when Dick felt the hard line of Slade’s cock grind over his clothed cunt. He rocked his hips into the slow thrusts, feeling the lace catch on Slade’s velvet-steel length, rubbing it over his clit until he was mewling with the sensation. The other people might as well have been gone, for all that Dick noticed them, too caught up in the too-much slide of their rough grinding.
Dick forced his head up so he could see, and shuddered out a moan when he watched Slade’s cock, flushed and weeping at the tip, rock forward, long and girthy and ending just below his belly button. Fuck, he wanted it. He wanted it so bad. He needed—
“Shhh, little bird, hush. I’ll give you what you need.”
And then—then, there were Slade’s fingers, hooking in his panties, drawing them to the side, and Slade’s cock, the ruddy tip sliding through his slick folds, parting him—
He fell back, cracking his head on the table, but that was okay, because it was basically the only part of him still on the table that wasn’t being held down by Slade as he forced his way inside. It hurt. Slade was not a small man, in any sense of the term, and his cock was no exception. He was thick and hard and usually Dick needed some fingers to loosen him up if he wanted it to go smoothly. But this, this was heaven, holy shit, it ached, deep in his core, his insides fighting to make space where there was none. A whine left his lips, growing to a shriek when Slade didn’t pause after the head of his glans popped into his tight cunt, but just kept going and going and going. It was an inexorable slide, and when he met resistance, he just pressed harder, knowing Dick’s body well enough to be confident that it would mold around the shape of him.
Dick panted, alternating between open-mouthed, shaky breaths and biting his lip bloody—god, it felt like he was being stabbed, but it was amazing. The stretch was always his favorite part, feeling like he was on the wrong side of too much and taking it anyway. Slade always delivered, especially when it had been a little while since they’d fucked.
“Fuck,” Slade bit out, pulling back until only the tip was inside before fucking himself back in, deeper than before. “Almost makes all the times you’ve gotten in my way worth it, sweetheart. I knew this hole would be tight, with ‘n ass like that,” his palm crack down on the meat of Dick’s ass at the end of the statement, drawing attention to the way Dick had drawn his knees back up to bracket Slade’s sides, doing little to convince the people in the room that he wasn’t gagging for it.
Dick could only keen in response, fingers scrabbling at Slade’s arm that was braced on the table at his side. The man’s other hand was digging deep purple bruises into Dick’s waist, keeping him from wriggling away from the stimulation. His poor cunt ran out of room before Slade ran out of cock, unfortunately, and the way that Dick squealed would probably be haunting the dreams of everyone in the room as Slade snapped his hips forward meanly, slamming against his cervix like it was his fucking job.
Dick bit his lip, trying to keep quiet, but Slade wouldn’t let him—setting a punishing pace as he shook off Dick’s bound hands, his gloved fingers prying open the hero’s jaw to shove them inside and press his jaw down. His heavy breaths and pained, blissful cries were loud in the room, even over the slick, heavy slaps of their bodies meeting. Fuck, at this point, Dick’s ass and inner thighs were going to be bruised from the force of Slade’s hips. He drooled on Slade’s fingers happily, not even trying to fight the pressure on his tongue, though it made him want to gag. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams, like Slade had reached into him and pulled out his insides, slick and stretching like taffy, but then the man’s hand on his hip tilted Dick’s pelvis up just the slightest bit, and the angle went from merciless to dangerous.
He couldn’t hold back the way his body writhed and shook on the table, cunt pulsing as Slade took that fistful of his insides and pulled —orgasm hitting him like a truck. He was crying, sobbing, really, shaking like a leaf as his pussy milked Slade like he would die if the man didn’t cum in him. Slade, cruel as he was, didn’t, because he had the stamina of a goddamn bull; so while Dick was trembling, oversensitive and half-melted, Slade was nowhere near done.
“ Goddamn, you really know how to put on a show, don’t you, little bird?” Slade asked, barely out of breath despite the immense force behind the plow of his hips. Dick could feel Slade bruising his spongey insides, pulverizing him until he was surprised he wasn’t a puddle on the fucking table.
Dick reached up, grasped at Slade’s wrist to pull his hand from Dick’s mouth. Slade let him, and seemed inordinately pleased with himself when Dick immediately started babbling. “Too much, it’s too much!” Tears poured down his face, and Dick knew he must look like a mess, bloody and bruised and streaked with tears and spit. He begged, though he knew it probably wouldn’t help his case—Slade could be heartless when he had to be, “Please, just a break. Just stop for a second. Feels—ah! AH— feels so good it hurts !”
Slade wrenched his mask up, hooking it over his nose. His lips were curled in a pleased snarl, “Tell me you fuckin’ love it, darlin’. Tell me what you’d do for this cock.”
“Fuck! Oh, oh fuck, ” Dick moaned, his body managing to be numb and hypersensitive at the same time. It was like every nerve ending in his body was on fire, everything from his fingertips to his toes to the roots of his fucking hair felt like they ached with perfect, overwhelming pleasure. “I love it!” he forced out. “Oh god, I love it—I’d do anything for it!”
Slade leaned down over him, forcing their bodies to press together. The angle had Dick’s cock slamming into Slade’s pubic bone with every thrust, and he arched at the stimulation to his ignored clit, feeling wetness gush from his cunt at the renewed stimulation. “Then cum again, Nightwing” Slade ordered. “I want this little cunt to fuckin' milk me.”
They were eye-to-eye, and Dick looked at the focused, feral set of the man’s lips, teeth bared like he was going to sink them into his flesh. He tossed his head back, bearing his neck in silent acquiescence. “I can’t,” he whined. His body was on fire, but his pussy felt numb, self-preservation keeping him from feeling his body get rubbed like it was an exposed nerve. “Please, please, I can’t.”
“You can,” Slade said, like he knew Dick’s body better than he did. And, well, maybe he was right, because when he leaned forward and buried his teeth into the juncture of Dick’s shoulder and neck where the suit had torn, he felt it—a yawning pit opened up beneath him. He was in freefall, legs locking around Slade to keep him thrusting at that deep, grinding rhythm, bound arms thrown around Slade’s neck, the world’s clingiest kidnapping victim. That time when he came it was silent, too overwhelmed to even make a noise. Despite that, he felt like he’d screamed his throat raw, muscles spasming like he was having a seizure and not an orgasm.
Slade huffed against the skin of his neck, and Dick felt his tongue swirling around the imprints of his teeth he’d left behind, hips snapping forward as much as they could with Dick’s ankles locked at his lower back. He lifted his head just enough to catch Dick’s eye, and Dick couldn’t hold back anymore—he pressed forward and met the man in an open-mouthed kiss, slick with spit and blood and tasting of iron. It was more tongue than anything else, but the sweet way Slade’s teeth grazed over his raw, bleeding lower lip was enough to have Dick whimpering, and if the surprised noise Slade made was any indication, his orgasm caught him off guard, stuttering thrusts going arrhythmic and savoring as he pumped his load into Dick’s swollen, aching cunt.
Dick moaned, feeling the twitch of Slade’s cock as he filled Dick up, collapsing back onto the table, arms still hooked around Slade’s neck by his bound hands. Slade panted in the silence for a moment—and Dick made the mistake of relaxing, boneless and brain completely liquified.
Slade shifted, and Dick ignored it.
Then, gunfire.
Five rapid pops, so loud and unexpected that he clenched around Slade’s cock, feeling the man jerk at the stimulation. Dick rolled his head to the side, breaking the kiss with Slade to look at where the goons had been.
Had been, because now they were all on the floor, dead. They’d barely had time to draw their weapons before it was over. He unhooked his hands from Slade’s neck, still too limp and relaxed to be truly angry: “I’m sure that wasn’t necessary.”
Slade snorted, like Dick had told a joke and not like he’d implied that a quintuple homicide wasn’t necessary. When he pulled back, his preferred handgun—not the Desert Eagle—was in his left hand. Dick had no idea when he’d grabbed it from the right holster. Apparently, the goons hadn’t seen him do it either.
“You really think I was gonna let a room full of idiots live after they’d seen this, darlin’?” Slade asked, like Dick was stupid. When Dick set his brow, frowning, Slade smiled indulging, “I suppose you wanted to let them live? Knowin’ they’d seen your naked face—seen what you look like when you’re in ecstasy?”
“Well, who’s fault is that?” Dick accused, the sweet haze that had fallen over him receding. The aches and pains of the beating and Slade’s loving attention were becoming impossible to ignore, along with the throbbing in his skull.
Slade shrugged, a very smug smile on his face. “I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to show off how well I can make my favorite bird sing, even if they wouldn’t live to tell anyone.” He pushed himself back upright, pulling out of Dick with a soft grunt and a wet noise. “Fuck, you look delicious, sweetheart,” he said, his drawl coming out the way it always did post-sex.
Dick frowned, and managed to keep the expression on his face while Slade worked his hands free, rubbing sensation back into his fingers, “No sweet talk, I’m mad at you.” It lasted all of a minute, though, as Slade pulled a pack of wipes from what must have been a personal pocket dimension in his suit. He wiped down Dick’s face first, getting rid of the blood and tears and spit before he moved down to the sensitive, rubbed raw skin of Dick’s cunt. He hissed as the cool wipe cleaned him up, and Slade‘s free hand caressed his thigh, grounding him.
“Did so good. My perfect boy,” Slade praised, and the last of Dick’s anger melted away.
At least, for a second, as his eyes caught on the Desert Eagle, still abandoned at his hip. “And what the fuck, Slade? Gunplay with the safety off ?” he cuffed the man on the shoulder.
Slade laughed, “Darlin’ that gun hasn’t been loaded for months. Been waitin’ for the right moment to try it out on you. Knew you’d look so pretty with your lips wrapped ‘round the slide.”
“I can’t fucking stand you.”