Work Text:
Dick’s been fucking Slade for ages, literally for years, before they finally get serious. It takes months from that for Dick to admit he loves him, and even longer for Slade to say it back.
It changes things. But Dick’s gotten used to a certain kind of treatment in the meantime.
And all of a sudden, Slade starts treating him like something precious. Which is lovely, truly, but Slade is treating him like he’s fragile. He fucks him all soft and tender, like he didn’t use to throw Dick against the wall or choke him half unconscious or make him come so many times in a row he’d end up crying from overstimulation.
Things are… tame.
…He’s bored.
“C’mon,” Dick whines, as Slade leisurely rolls his hips. “Harder, Slade.”
“You’re impatient today,” Slade says. His smile is small, and genuine, not the lecherous ear-spliting grin he gets when he’s pounding Dick so hard he has to beg Slade to slow down. Slade tucks a strand of Dick’s hair behind his ear.
Dick cants his own hips, squeezing down deliberately so that his pussy clenches tight around Slade’s cock, urging him on with his body if his words aren’t going to do the trick. And once upon a time that move would’ve had Slade snapping, taking back control in just the way Dick likes, but—
But apparently those times are no longer, because Slade just hums with a tinge of amusement and follows Dick’s movement, grinding into him sensually. His warm hands rest gently on Dick’s hips, instead of tugging his body onto his cock and using his hole as he pleases. Slade caresses Dick’s sides, and kisses his neck, and this was meltingly soft the first few times but Dick really, really wants something to add the edge back into sex, or he’s going to go crazy.
Yes, Slade loves him, and Dick loves Slade, and they’re both very pleased with this, but what does a guy have to do to get properly railed again now that they’ve admitted that?
So maybe it’s a low blow, what he does next, but Dick is getting desperate, and Slade’s got one obvious, reliable button.
“C’mon,” Dick goads, with another roll of his hips, “You know I can take it. Midnighter used to fuck me way harder than this.”
A spark of something flashes in Slade’s eye — something burning, angry — and for a moment it seems like the play’s worked. Slade’s hand jumps to Dick’s neck like an instinct, squeezing, gripping it tight and possessive, and Dick leans into the touch, breathless—
Then it loosens, before it so much as leaves a bruise. Slade’s hand strokes down Dick’s chest apologetically. “Sorry,” he says, and he even sounds like he means it. “I just — sorry.”
Don’t apologise, Dick thinks irritably, because what he really, actually wants right now is for Slade to shove him to his knees and make Dick suck him off and for Slade to come all over his face, at the very least — to make him feel the weight of Slade’s obsession, to use him like it’s his right, to do with Dick as he pleases—
Okay, so maybe Dick’s a bit pent up. Just a little. But that momentary lapse is the most of the old Slade he’s got in weeks.
Dick smiles coyly as an idea takes root in his mind. “Don’t be sorry,” he says. “You know I like it.”
He can work with this.
Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Dick drops a few more casual mentions, in and out of the bedroom — “Oh, Kory loved that restaurant” and “I wanted to try this thing Roy and I used to do” and even “I kind of miss having a third sometimes, you know M and Apollo once—”
That one doesn’t get very far, because Slade covers Dick’s mouth with his hand to shut him up. Which, progress! But he also doesn’t speed up, or fuck Dick any harder, or do anything else about it.
So Dick gets a few passing reactions from him, but nothing that he really wants. Always that momentary response, a burst of instinctive possessiveness before Slade reels it in and apologises. And the apologies are genuine, like Slade actually regrets laying a hand on Dick. It’s just so frustrating.
He tells Babs as much, the next time he sees her in the Clocktower, and she arches an eyebrow at him with as much judgement on her face as she can muster.
“And you’ve tried talking to him about this?” she asks skeptically.
“Yes,” Dick insists. He flops dejectedly into his chair. “No matter how I ask it, nothing.”
“Like, outside of when you’re actively having sex, you’ve asked him?” Barbara doesn’t sound any less unimpressed. “Have you explained to him what you want, properly? Had an actual conversation about it?”
Well, no, because if Dick has to explain why he wants Slade to treat him like a thing he owns again — one that he uses, instead of one he keeps away on a high shelf like a breakable ornament — he’s going to have to shrivel up and crawl in a hole to die. That’s not a part of his psyche he particularly feels like turning over to see the light of day, thanks. He scowls in response.
Babs sighs. “Look, trust me I get not wanting to be treated like you’re made of glass, Dick, but you do have to talk about these things to get anywhere with it.”
“Did you talk to Dinah about it?” Dick retorts sullenly. “Or did you just do something unhinged enough to convince her otherwise?”
Barbara goes a little pink, so hah. Hypocrite.
“…I may have blackmailed Ollie a little bit into helping me,” she admits. “But this isn’t about me!”
“No, it’s about me.” Dick huffs out a breath. “So if you don’t have an actual solution beyond ‘talking to him about it’—”
“—Which is off the table, I suppose, whatever,” Babs sighs again, more dramatically than Dick thinks the situation really warrants. “Fine, fine. I can get something set up. Give me a couple days. You’ll owe me big for this one, though.”
The ‘something’ turns out to be an absolute trainwreck of a mission featuring no less than three separate cursed artifacts, a foiled heist that somehow intersects with Slade’s latest security contract, an emergency call-in to Constantine to prevent a literal hell-portal opening up in the middle of the Batcave, and a near miss where Constantine was almost dragged inside said hell-portal. Disaster is only prevented by Dick’s timely firing of a grapple line and Slade hauling them both to safety.
So when it’s all over, Dick feels justified in flopping to the ground in the middle of the cave, spreading his limbs out like a starfish as he catches his breath. Phew. Close one.
“Nice catch, love,” Constantine says.
Dick lifts his head up to look at him. He squints at the blurry outline, the trenchcoat making Constantine look like a beige blob. With a few smears that might be demon guts, or might just be black spots in Dick’s vision. Exhaustion is making his head too fuzzy to tell the difference.
“No problem,” he says slowly. There’s something to Constantine’s tone, but Dick’s too exhausted to bother picking it out.
“You wanna let me thank you properly for it sometime?”
Dick’s brain stutters for a full five seconds before catching up. What — oh. He blushes, suddenly flustered and not quite sure what to do with it. He replays Constantine’s behaviour throughout the mission in his mind, and yeah — now that he’s not more focused on the hell-portal at hand than anything Constantine was doing — he can see it. Constantine’s been flirting with him. Subtly, sure, but in retrospect, unmistakeably.
Oh, wait. Did Babs put him up to this?
Right, okay. Showtime. He’s way too close to delirious to make this convincing, though.
“Oh, I’m flattered,” Dick says, simpering, and he must be laying it on more than a little thick judging by the curl of amusement in Constantine’s lip. But there’s a warning rumble coming from Slade, so at least it’s working. “But I’m taken, actually.”
Constantine shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he says. “Well, this is where I take my leave, then. I’m not sticking ‘round for clean up.”
He beats a somewhat hasty retreat. Which might be about avoiding the demon-guts clean up, as he proclaims, but it’s more likely he’s avoiding Slade, considering he looks like he’s about to go nuclear. Smart man.
“What was that about?” Tim wonders aloud.
Dick gets his wobbly limbs back under him and waves Tim off. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
And then Slade, having apparently reached some kind of breaking point, clamps a firm hand on Dick’s upper arm to drag him away. Dick goes with it, not that he has any strength to resist anyway, tossing a hasty “Debrief later!” to Bruce over his shoulder as they leave.
A curl of excitement is coiling around in his chest. Slade’s grip is gonna leave one hell of a bruise.
And Slade doesn’t let go until they get back home, and he fucks Dick against the wall of their apartment that night so hard he sees stars, so. Mission success.
It doesn’t last. Slade gets it out of his system, and then he’s back to soft and tender with a new, guilty look on his face, one that gets worse whenever he catches sight of the marks he left on Dick’s skin. Dick kind of wants to scream, or tear his hair out. He definitely wants Slade to fuck his brains out, and give him some new marks to look at instead while he’s at it.
But Slade won’t. Because he’s an asshole. And he loves Dick, or whatever. Like that’s an excuse.
“Fine,” Babs sighs, when Dick shows up to the Clocktower again with a kicked-puppy look in his eyes less than three days after. “Let’s try it again.”
Slade lets Dick tag along with him to blow up a Checkmate splinter base, which for him is practically the equivalent of asking Dick on a date. They trip the alarms and secure the spies as they all confusedly evacuate, then plant the explosives and blow it sky high without anyone getting so much as a scratch. Slade’s such a romantic.
It makes Dick feel a little bad about his hidden intentions for the mission. But it’s for a good cause, so he refuses to dwell on it.
“I’ve called Tiger in,” Barbara tells him over his comm’s secure channel. “Don’t mess this up.”
Predictably, Slade’s not overly pleased by Spyral’s arrival. But their agents are effective, and they have helicopters, and Dick’s not sure what else Slade was planning on doing with a couple dozen ex-Checkmate spies striking out on their own. Whoever contracted Slade in the first place probably just expected him to kill them, after all, even if they didn’t put it in writing. And Slade might’ve spared them for Dick’s sake, but it’s not like he’s come up with any alternate plans for them.
“Thanks Tiger, for coming,” Dick says, while Slade glowers in the background.
Slade’s none too eager to interact with any of the Spyral agents, which makes sense given the number of wanted lists he’s sitting at the top of. For their part, the Spyral team do their best to pretend he isn’t there in favour of rounding up the fish they can actually reel in.
Sensible of them. Tiger’s really whipped them into shape.
“Spyral’s got a vested interest in the spy business,” Tiger says with a casual shrug. “Couldn’t leave you to clean this up, either.”
Dick smirks. “Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you need me to tell you, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”
His voice is layered with intent, and Dick’s breath catches in anticipation. Tiger shifts closer to him, getting in his space. It’s not subtle. He lays a hand on Dick’s shoulder, leaning in close enough that they’re sharing breath, and that’s not subtle, either. Dick’s heartrate quickens, excitement at the looming danger making his skin tingle, and when he sees Slade move from the corner of his eye, it goes even faster.
Tiger doesn’t even get a chance to say whatever line he’s got prepared.
“Nope,” says Slade, physically stepping in between them to smack Tiger’s hand away. His voice is hard-edged and steely. “Back off.”
Tiger bristles, never one to enjoy backing down. But he’s no fool, and he knows exactly what kind of threat Slade poses, how tenuous the moral leash of Dick’s good opinion actually is on him. Tiger raises both hands and takes a step back. “Easy, Wilson,” he placates.
Even without his expression visible, Slade exudes menace . “Back. Off.”
Tiger doesn’t need to be told a third time. He backs off. Dick grins.
He doesn’t know how Babs is arranging these, but he definitely needs to send her chocolates, or something. Or just convince Dinah to swing by for a weekend, with Oliver in tow if she absolutely must.
Like with Constantine, Slade drags Dick away with a possessive hand on his arm. They don’t even make it home this time. Slade bends him over in the bushes not a hundred feet away from the agents and fucks him until he can’t remember how to walk, and he has to be carried back to their motorbike in Slade’s arms.
And like with Constantine, it doesn’t last.
“The problem is they’re not going far enough,” Dick tells Babs dejectedly. “Tiger and Constantine can hold their own, but it’s not like they have a healing factor. They’re not doing enough to piss Slade off. Too worried about what he’ll do to get back at them.”
“Yes. That is the problem,” Babs says, giving him a look. He huffs, and folds his arms. “It’s not that this is a particularly extreme level of avoiding a difficult conversation, even for a bat, or anything.”
“Babs.”
“No, it’s the choice of flirting partners that’s the problem. Not your harebrained scheme to make Deathstroke the Terminator jealous.”
“Babs.”
“You seriously owe me. I’m keeping track,” Babs says. She throws up her hands in defeat. “Okay! Metahumans it is, and for the love of all things holy make it stick this time. These aren’t easy to set up, you know. You’re so lucky I’m fond of you.”
“Thank you. You’re the best,” Dick says with a grin, and gives her a two-finger salute.
“I know.”
Babs doesn’t bother finding a plausible excuse, the next time. Dick checks in halfway into a rescue op with Slade — a single hostage, rich parents, ticked off business rival and a compound full of guards — and suddenly things are in motion on Operation: Get Dick Properly Laid Again.
“Got it. Tell Slade I’m sending you two some back-up,” she says. “Say there’s extra guys in the building, or something, I don’t know. You’ll come up with something.”
Slade’s going to see right through it, whatever he comes up with. The two of them could absolutely handle this alone, and what’s more, the hostage is in extremely minimal danger: they know for a fact the rival’s ordered no harm to come to him.
“Who are you sending?” he asks.
“Midnighter. Didn’t even have to offer him anything. He took the chance to piss Slade off for free.”
Yeah, that tracks.
Dick can feel the fury emanating off of Slade when Midnighter steps through a Door with a smarmy grin on his face and starts laying into the guards with them. But they’re already mid-fight at that point, and Slade’s not one to throw a mission for something like personal dislike. He’s too much of a professional for that.
And Midnighter is certainly gonna make dropping off both the trussed up guards to the police station and the rescued hostage to his father much, much easier than it would have been on their own, so he can’t really complain, either. Though he’s probably still going to, knowing him.
“Good to see ya, Dick!” Midnighter crows, slamming a fist into a solar plexus with gusto. “Can’t say the same for you, Wilson. Dunno how Dick puts up with you.”
Slade knocks another guard into a wall with a lot more force than necessary.
Nothing cracks, though. Slade’s still stopping shy of grievous injury. That’s a relief — if Dick’s scheming gets anyone hurt, he’d have to call it off, and drown himself in guilt about it.
Anyone other than him, that is. He’s a little jealous of the guard, truth be told. That looked like it hurt.
“Apollo’s missed you, y’know,” Midnighter continues. Uncaring of the brewing stormcloud not a couple dozen feet from him. Dick was right; getting a meta on this was the way to go. He gives himself a mental pat on the back.
“Aw,” he replies. “But did you miss me?”
“Only every damn day, Dickie, what can I say? But the eyeful you’re giving me now more than makes up for it.”
Dick flushes and nearly fumbles his leap, wobbling the landing but still getting in a blow with his escrima sticks across the guard’s head. Slade’s growl rings delightfully in his ears. Oh, this is going well this time.
This guard’s the last one down: the rest are in various states of lying on the ground or leaning up against the walls, groaning in pain and unwilling or unable to rejoin the fight. Dick suspects they’re not being paid particularly much, and it’s certainly not ‘go up against Deathstroke’ money, that’s for sure.
It's quick work to get them tied up and free the hostage, and Midnighter charitably opens some Doors to get everyone where they need to go. An efficiently completed mission, and definitely not one that needed Nightwing, Deathstroke, and Midnighter on it, when even one of them could’ve done it alone.
Slade knows it, because he’s stalked off to a corner to glower about it while they sort through sending everyone off, and he’s refusing to look at either of them. Dick winces a little internally. Okay, that’s less ideal. He really hopes this works for good this time, because he’s gotta be reaching the limit of what Slade will tolerate from him.
He’ll make it work, this time.
“Need an exit?” Midnighter asks them, once everyone’s on their way.
Dick shakes his head. “We’ve got to get our ride back home anyway. But thanks, M.”
“Anytime. And hey,” Midnighter steps closer, and Dick’s pulse jumps. “Apollo really has been missing you, y’know, and not just for your exquisite company.” Midnighter grins, salacious and like he’s having the time of his life. Dick can feel his face turning red. “So if you ever feel like another wild night with us…”
Slade’s eye is boring into his back. He can feel it in the way the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end. Dick lets himself hesitate just a beat longer than he usually would, then another for good measure, just to let it really sink in.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he says at last. “I’m good.”
“Well, you know where to find us if this loser’s not giving you what you need,” Midnighter says with a shrug. “Open invite, Dickie.”
He opens a Door in midair, and slaps Dick’s ass on his way through it. The clap! rings in the room. Dick jumps, and flushes even deeper red, and lets a breathy moan escape him. It’s only slightly put on — Midnighter hits hard.
And Dick’s always liked that. He hears Slade’s teeth grind together as he bites down a snarl.
Slade’s fuming is deadly silent for the entirety of the trip back home, and Dick worries, a little, that he might have stepped over the line this time.
“Bedroom,” Slade growls, as soon as they get inside the apartment. “Now. And then we’re going to talk.”
Dick’s grin splits his face wide. That’s more like it.
Dick’s on cloud nine. He’s three orgasms in and he can’t feel his toes and Slade is pounding him into the mattress like he’s trying to break the bed.
“I know what you’re doing,” Slade growls into his ear. His weight is heavy on Dick’s back, keeping him pinned in place so he can’t squirm away. The pressure is doing wonderful things to Dick’s brain. Mainly turning it to liquid. Glorious, delirious liquid.
“Then why isn’t it — hng — working?” Dick pants. “This… all you — ngh, got?”
“Oh, you want more?” Slade snaps his hips forward in a punishing thrust. Dick moans, clutching the cotton of the sheets tight in his fists. He never wants to be anywhere else. “You think you can take more? You think you deserve more?”
“Please,” Dick tries to scoff, but it comes out as something closer to a plea. “Don’t — ah — break your h-hip, old man — f-fuck!”
“I’ll show you old, you little brat,” Slade snarls, and he flips Dick over and bends him in half and fucks into him with a force that makes Dick wail.
Slade’s carving him open, filling him up, bottoming out with repeated slamming thrusts that rattle Dick’s skull and make him choke and whimper and howl. It’s amazing. He could stay like this forever and never get tired of it.
“You’re mine,” Slade growls. “You belong to me. They don’t get to touch you, they don’t get to talk to you. ”
And Dick knows, he knows exactly how unhealthy it is, but fuck if it isn’t exactly what he wants to hear.
“Then prove it,” Dick gasps, “Fucking – prove it, Slade—” and then Slade’s mouth is on the meat of his shoulder and his teeth are sinking in hard enough to draw blood.
Dick yells, and thrashes, and the pain is going straight to the pooling pleasure below his naval. Fuck, he thought he was spent for the night, but he might just have another one in the tank.
Slade kisses him, hot and fierce, and Dick can taste his blood in Slade’s mouth. Slade sucks on his tongue and nips at his lip and it’s every bit as rough and possessive as Dick needs it to be. Dick’s knees are bent up by his ears and Slade squeezes his thighs hard enough that the bruises are gonna last and drives his cock deep into Dick’s pussy over and over again.
He’s going to be feeling the results of this for days. He’s never felt more owned. Used and possessed and just — fuck, he feels loved, in a way that’s so fiercely and forcefully Slade, honest and raw and so intense he might burst with it.
“I love you,” Dick gasps out, and Slade fully stops fucking him for a moment before resuming with a wretched groan and double the force. “Fuck, Slade, I’m yours, I love you, I love you—”
Slade comes with a sound that’s almost a whimper, heat flooding into Dick’s cunt as he spills his load deep inside of him. He kisses Dick stupid, and his clever hands find Dick’s clit and then Dick is keening, arching up under Slade’s touch, and with a tremulous moan he comes again, too.
Slade holds him through it, clutching him tight as tremors of pleasure wrack his body, oversensitive nerves fraying and coming alight. He’s full and he can feel the marks of bites and bruises all over his body, the come leaking out of his hole as Slade pulls out, and the bliss is like a warm blanket that totally envelops him.
That’s what he’s been after.
In the afterglow, Dick rests with his head on Slade’s chest, arms wrapped around him and holding him close.
“Slade?” he asks, a little tentative. “You know I was just trying to make you jealous, right? Promise me you won’t go after anyone because of this?”
Slade’s grip on him tightens, then he huffs a laugh and kisses Dick’s hair. “No promises, little bird.”