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The first time is a violent, vicious memory.
At the core of it, Slade is a cruel man. He has his own philosophies for why he works as a mercenary, but the deepest truth is that he likes it--the rush of stalking a prey and seeing the fear in their eyes as they squeal their last breath. His jobs always leave him with an erection that he pumps with quick, furtive thrusts in dark corner, squirting his seed into a carefully placed cloth to remove any evidence of his presence.
When Slade first sees the kid, he doesn’t think much of the scrawny, mouthy brat that is the supposed protégé of Batman. But soon the kid’s—Dick’s--sheer temerity wins him over. He wants to see him cry, see him break, see that self-righteous tower of morality collapse on itself.
~~~~~~~
Today is already proving to be a good day. Slades inhales deeply and breathes in the fresh, crisp air of early morning.
Beneath him, Dick is quiet and very, very still.
“Don’t you have anything to say or have you already given up?” Slade teases.
Dick doesn’t respond. Slade watches dark eyelashes flutter against the pale curve of his cheek.
He begins thrusting again.
Dick scrabbles against the ground, trying to find some purchase to keep the gravel from scraping his tender front. Dick isn’t very big. In fact, he’s downright small for his age and, in anyone else, perhaps even fragile.
Slade observes this coolly and thrusts harder and deeper.
He’s getting close. He feels the familiar exquisite tingle begin at the base of his cock.
Suddenly, Dick screams and goes wild, twisting around and trying to push at Slade, “Please stop, please Slade, something just broke, please just stop…” he sobs.
“It’ll be okay, kid, don’t you worry, “ Slade croons nonsensically and readjusts his pin.
“Please stop—AGH!” Dick cries out as Slade jabs into him and spills.
When he’s done, he feels a warm wetness and looks down to see a large red smear connecting him with the kid. As he pulls out, Dick flinches but says nothing even as Slade releases his hold on him.
“Looks like you’re gonna need some stitches,” Slade says conversationally as he assesses the pale body. Slimy feces slip from the bloody wound between the small quivering buttocks.
Slade wrinkles his nose, “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”
~~~~~
If Dick ever remembers the more unsettling parts of his time as Slade’s apprentice, he makes no mention of it in their future meetings. But perhaps there is something in the hatred and intensity with which the kid battles at him or pursues him, sometimes to the point of obsession, which his teammates even seem to notice (the nanobots he left in Dick’s body, undetectable even to Cyborg’s equipment, let him check in on the kid every now and then).
Which is okay, in Slade’s eyes. He likes to know that he’s left a piece of himself. After all, his own tendencies towards obsession have always been a part of him ever since he was but a small toddler, beating at his siblings for their mother’s affection.
~~~~~~~
He should have figured that eventually the Bat would interfere.
“Stay away from him.” A silhouette emerges from the blackness of the alley.
“I only do what I’m contracted. Your sidekick is tracking me down, for your information,” Slade remarks.
“I know what you’re doing, so you can stop playing games. This is the end.”
“Again, I can’t control—” a smoke bomb explodes at his feet before he feels lines strangle his torso. A zap electrifies his whole body, and Slade’s vision goes white. His arms come up to block a punch he knows is coming towards his jaw.
“You may be immortal, but there are worse things than death,” Batman’s voice rumbles in his ear. “Stay away from Robin.” And then he’s gone.
Slade casually snaps the lines and rubs his wrists. He chuckles to himself.
So even the great Batman doesn’t know.
~~~~~
The second time isn’t until young Robin has become an overworked, exhausted Nightwing, desperately trying to hold together the ruins of Bludhaven.
It’s disappointingly easy to slip into Dick’s apartment. A small kitchen with unwashed dishes is to the left. In front is the living room with a couch and coffee table littered with papers. To the right is a neatly made bed, white and utilitarian. Dick himself doesn’t even notice Slade at first, as he’s passed out on the couch, in the middle of reviewing case files.
As soon as his foot touches the ground, he hears the zing of a batarang being flung towards his right temple. He catches and palms it.
“What are you doing here, Slade? I thought you liked your victims with a bit more fight in them. Oh wait, or maybe you don’t,” Dick lets out a hoarse laugh.
“Don’t sell yourself short like that,” Slade says. “You were so much more than that.”
“You can’t seriously…” Dick starts, “…get out.”
Slade doesn’t respond and instead walks closer to the couch where Dick is already crouched, ready to spring. Knowing Dick, he probably still has several batarangs on hand and is about to aim a series of bolas at him before throwing his bound ass out of the window.
He sidesteps the first bolas and places a well-aimed punch into the kid’s solar plexus.
Dick grunts in pain and twists, aiming a kick towards the back of Slade’s knee.
Slade buckles. Instead of amusement, he feels annoyance well up in him and uses his superspeed to his advantage.
Dick, in his sleep-deprived state, never sees it coming.
He slams Dick into the couch and claws his hand towards Dick’s carotids, pressing hard while Dick squirms desperately underneath his legs. With his other hand he punches fast and hard in kidneys, groin, anywhere to keep Dick off balance with the pain and force of his attacks.
It takes only 30 seconds before Dick blacks out.
He presses his face into Dick’s soft, black hair and breathes in. It smells of oil and rank sweat. Kid probably has been skipping his showers. His erection hardens and he lifts Dick’s limp arm, snuffling and pressing his nose into his armpit, breathing in the stench of body odor.
Slade groans. He’s about to cum, too soon, before there’s been any action. He strips off Dick’s clothes and hefts the lithe, muscular form over his shoulder before plopping him next to the radiator, where he handcuffs Dick’s arms to the iron grate. His legs are bent (and Slade really appreciates how flexible Dick is) backwards until his ankles are behind his head and also cuffed, presenting his asshole and soft cock and balls.
Dick still hasn’t woken, but Slade doesn’t care. He pushes in first with his fingers, stretching until the asshole is loose enough for his liking.
Slade unbuckles his belt, pushes aside his cup and slowly slides in. Slade’s always had prodigious precum production, so there’s hardly any friction. It’s tight, though, and deliciously hot inside Dick’s strong, compact body.
He goes hard and fast. Suddenly, he feels the walls tighten around his cock and he looks down to see white-rimmed eyes gazing back.
“S-Slade, w-what are you--” Dick can barely get any words in as he is shoved backwards with each thrust.
“About time you woke up,” Slade comments. He watches as the pulse on Dick’s throat jumps up and down. “Thought you were gonna miss the whole show.”
“Doesn’t look like anything I would want to watch anyways.”
“You sure about that?” Slade smirks and changes his angle, aiming shallower. He’s rewarded by a jerk as Dick turns his face away to cover the flush that is quickly spreading over his chest to his face. The small, limp cock swells and turns a dusty red.
“I don’t want this Slade. I don’t want this,” Dick gasps repeatedly into his shoulder.
“It doesn’t matter what you want, or haven’t you learned that yet?”
“You’re sick…. the experiments, the healing factor, they did something to your mind. You weren’t always like this.”
“How kind of you to tell teach me about myself, kid,” Slade chuckles and jabs hard. Dick tries to muffle a groan and fails. Precum flows copiously from his cock.
“What would they think about what you’re doing—what would Rose or Joey or Grant think?”
Slade barks a laugh. “They know what I am and no less.”
He leans down and asks slyly, “Here’s a better question: what would the Bat think, seeing his young, wayward son immobilized within 5 minutes of a break-in, with his legs behind his head, getting off to his own rape?”
Dick doesn’t respond. Instead, he shoots Slade a look of intense hatred and disgust.
Slade smiles victoriously. “Well, well, I guess we know—” Dick suddenly twists (Slade pulls his cock out in time; healing factor or not, he’ll be damned before he gets a broken penis), and his arms are reaching towards Slade, who pulls back in time.
Dick flips gracefully to his feet and pauses in a defensive stance.
Right as Slade prepares to engage, Dick stops him, “I’ve already called for reinforcements. You should stop while you’re ahead.”
Well. Turns out the kid has some tricks up his sleeve after all.
Slade leaps to the window and waves, “It was nice seeing ya. Maybe we could get dinner first next time.”
~~~~~~~
He doesn’t see much of Nightwing or Dick after that. His implanted nanobots removed long ago, Slade goes to check on the apartment the next day and find it utterly bare, as if no one had ever lived there. Richard Grayson, the well-meaning, socially conscious son of billionaire Bruce Wayne ups and disappears from his police officer job, citing a medical leave of absence. While there are whispers of the vigilante Nightwing patrolling the city and interfering with crime, no one ever sees more than a shadow of a figure.
And if the Bat and his team of Robins and former-Robins spoil his jobs a little more, if he happens upon a Titan or two more frequently than he used to, then who is Slade to say that it isn’t just a bit of paranoia? Perhaps deep down, Slade is remorseful and is searching for his own retribution.
But in the long scheme of things, nothing happens.
~~~~~~~
In the end, Nightwing comes to him.
“What’s bothering you there, little bird?” Slade looks pointedly at the blue-fingered warrior.
Nightwing, fully suited up, dashes at him and aims a right hook at Slade’s temple. Slade, caught off-guard, evades just in time only to have a knee uppercut his jaw. His teeth clack together and slice off the tip of his tongue in a burst of sharp pain. He leaps away and irritably spits away the blood that is rapidly filling his mouth. God knows he hates tongue wounds with a passion.
“They were kids, Slade! They were children!” Nightwing angrily gnashes his teeth. “All of them, you used them all like that!”
“Like what? You mean how I used you?” Slade offers a bloody smile. “Jealous that you weren’t the only apprentice I had?”
“You’re a sick, fucking bastard.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you were my favorite.”
“Where are the bodies, Slade? Their parents are still looking for them even after all these years,” Nightwing stalks closer. “Are there any still alive?”
Actually, there is. A frail, teen girl he rarely feeds so she could maintain the thin, boyish figure that he likes. He’s always preferred males to an extent.
“Why don’t you come closer and find out?”
Nightwing takes no time to accept his invitation and bounds forward rapidly. His grace has only grown with the years as his fighting skills were further honed. Slade dodges left and right, distantly admiring how beautifully the kid has grown. The Bat did good in making this one.
The kid grunts almost imperceptibly in frustration at Slade’s refusal to completely engage. When he was younger, Robin probably would have aggressively challenged him, but older, more experienced (patient) Nightwing instead redirects Slade’s dodges into a corner where he can’t escape as easily.
“There is one,” Slade blurts, right as a fist sails past his ear. He throws up a chip, and a hologram of the girl appears in midair. Nightwing freezes and stares in deep thought.
The girl is about seventeen, but under the white shift, her body has been kept small and prepubertal after years of neglect and malnutrition. She wanders purposelessly in isolation chamber, occasionally feeling the edges of the wall, at other times breaking into weeping fits so strong they wrack her whole body.
The hologram switches off, and the chip emits a small explosion, sending tiny shrapnel in all directions. Slade shields his eyes.
A pair of fists grab his suit and slam him back against the wall.
“Where is she, Slade?” Nightwing growls. Murderous eyes gaze stonily at him behind the white lenses.
“Anywhere I want her to be,” he responds airily. “In whatever clothes I want here, in whatever state I want her.”
Hands reach around his neck and begin to strangle him. The funny thing is, Slade muses, that while the Bats have a no-kill policy, they never got around to writing the no-torture policy, especially when it comes to undying humans.
He brings his hand down and chops at Nightwing’s neck. Nightwing springs back, releasing Slade, who falls and coughs to the side.
“I can give her to you. But I’ll need a replacement.”
“You don’t need anything,” Nightwing spits.
Slade laughs. “You really think that I keep these children for my own pleasure? When I could go anywhere and take what I need without having to worry about feeding and keeping some stinking kid alive?”
Nightwing says nothing, so Slade continues.
“The heart of Trigon needs a host to keep it satiated or it will regenerate into Trigon’s original demonic form. I’ve been trying for years to destroy it, but it has the capacity to regenerate fully within a quintillionth of a second. It’s also quite choosy about its host. For some reason, it likes them young and healthy on all mental, emotional, and physical aspects, so that means taking them from a loving family that will grieve and look for them. A real shame,” Slade clicks his tongue.
He pauses.
“Oh and I should also mention. My scans picked up an interesting integration with the heart of Trigon: seems like a dormant part of your friend Raven has been melded into the organ.”
He tosses a chip at Nightwing, who catches it handily.
“She could be revived, if you can dissociate Raven from Trigon’s heart.”
Nightwing looks at him, stricken.
Slade takes the opportunity to sweep Nightwing’s feet from underneath him, and then pounces. Right as Nightwing begins to flip in midair, Slade slams a syringe into Nightwing’s thigh and rapidly injects the paralytic.
Nightwing screams as he tumbles onto the ground. Slade grimaces. He knows the poison personally; it has the unfortunate side effect of producing searing, visceral pain, even days after the paralytic wears off.
He watches Nightwing convulse and sob on the ground for several minutes as the paralytic takes effect. Finally, Nightwing is limp, with even his eyes struggling to blink.
“Please,” Nightwing slurs, “no.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be all over soon,” Slade reassures him. He begins pulling off the suit to the tune of Dick’s no’s and please’s. At one point Dick tries to cry for help, so Slade stuffs a sock into his mouth.
“There, all better.” Slade rearranges Dick’s limbs to the way he likes them and then begins working him open. Dick moans brokenly in disgust.
Slade is so hard it hurts. He releases his throbbing erection and gives a couple of pulls to take the edge off. When Dick begins to quiver beneath his hands, Slade’s cock feels like it’s going to explode. The tip is a slimy mess of sticky precum, which is also dripping in long, sticky strands onto Dick below.
“I know I promised dinner last time, but I honestly think it’s beyond both of our scheduling capacities,” he jokes lightly. He takes aim and thrusts in.
The feeling of immediate burning warmth amidst soft plushness is heavenly. It’s the best sex Slade has ever had in his life.
Dick, as usual, is silent with gaze averted.
Slade pumps in and out leisurely. He wants to make this last. After all, who knows when he’ll see the elusive Nightwing next?
A deep blush colors the pale chest and crawls up towards Dick’s face, which is still covered in shadow. Slade smiles. A thought strikes him, and he reangles his thrusts towards Dick’s front.
The soft cock, which had been jiggling atop the balls in the nest of black pubic hair begins to rise and stiffen. Dick lets out a muffled sob.
Amazing, he could get hard even with the poison. “I’ll make you feel real good, little bird,” Slade promises. He thrusts with greater intent for his partner’s pleasure.
It takes a long time. Slade’s not sure. Thirty, forty minutes? The little bird’s cock cycles between limp and hard several times, so, Slade, determined, jabs fast and hard against the prostate.
White cum starts to sluggishly drool out of Dick’s semihard cock, which flops against his belly with each thrust. It’s a soft, extended orgasm, especially with the paralytic, a bubbling fountain of non-consensual pleasure.
Dick continues to slowly come for several minutes. A pool of semen accumulates in his navel. The anal contractions against Slade’s cock are weak and rhythmic due to the poison, nothing like the forceful clamping with nonparalyzed partners.
Slade’s own orgasm hits him hard by surprise. Each spasm is almost painful in its intensity, and he sees sparks in the corner of his eyes. It lasts for what seems like forever before he feels his thundering heart come down from its peak. As he pulls out, semen dribbles from the wet, hot hole.
“Was it real?” Dick whispers after he removes the gag. “Was any of it real?”
Slade tucks himself back in. He looks at the pale, debauched form of Dick Grayson and idly muses about the ramifications of another villain happening upon a wrecked Nightwing.
A surge of anger and possessiveness races through his veins.
He puts Nightwing’s suit back onto Dick’s lithe, compliant body, while Dick lays in resigned silence. Then, he wraps his arms around Dick’s back and knees into a bridal hold and begins walking into the night. It's a dark, cloudy night with no moon and no stars to light the way.
After a while, Dick asks, “Where are we going?”
“Home,” Slade replies.