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It's never a good thing when they get word that Deathstroke has been spotting around Gotham.
It's even worse when said word is followed very shortly by Slade Wilson showing up at the Wayne family gala.
Everyone's on high alert, hands twitching towards hidden weapons or ones they wish they had. Glances are exchanged, nods to direct roles, subtle hand movements to convey what they're seeing. All of it amounting to a big fat nothing, because this is their home turf in the worst kind of way and there is jack-shit they can do while acting as the hosts for the evening, a million eyes on them.
Maybe it would be different if it were one of the Rogues striding in, or hell, even if Slade had come decked out in full Deathstroke regalia. Then they could be panicked civilians ducking for cover, then reemerge in their costumes to face the threat. Instead, they're stuck in their ties and dress shoes, watching as the most dangerous mercenary alive meanders about the room, taking in the sights like he's any other rich fuck in attendance.
It is exceptionally unsettling for Dick in particular to have Slade be here in this context. The last time he saw the other man, Deathstroke was throwing him bodily across a rooftop to slam into a chimney, doing it with such force that the brick actually cracked under Dick's back. The time before that, there was a sword through Dick's shoulder pinning him to the asphalt. Before that, a beatdown so thorough Dick couldn't walk for days. Before that—
It goes on and on and on. The rest of his family, they've faced Deathstroke, or at the very least read the reports. They know what a massive threat he is. But none of them know him like Dick knows him. None of them know what it truly means to fight him no holds barred while his entire focus is on you and your blood and forcing you beneath him—
So it's just...unsettling, is all. For Dick to watch a man like that stroll around, far too close to so many civilians, to his family, like there's nothing wrong in the world. Like it wasn't just two nights ago that he—
Stop. Breathe. Dick tries to clear his head. He can't lose it right now, he has to keep an eye on Slade, figure out what the fuck he's doing here before someone gets hurt. His family won't keep up with Slade the way he will, they don't have the familiarity. Dick has to keep on top of this or they have no chance.
He focuses back in just in time to watch Slade slip out a side door of the ballroom down a corridor.
He doesn't hesitate to follow, slipping through the crowds, offering people charming smiles and quick apologies when they try to flag him down for a minute. He reaches the door Slade exited out of in probably record time, and steps out into the hall—
And is just barely fast enough to dodge out of the way of the fist that comes flying at his head.
There's a dark, delighted laugh out of the dimness, but Dick doesn't have time to respond or adjust before another hit is coming that he has to evade.
From there, it's all pure muscle memory. The fight moves too fast for Dick to consider his moves, to employ any kind of strategy. It's not like fighting the Rogues where winning is as much a mind game as a physical altercation—there is no time to think in a fight like this, a fight with the person who knows his every move inside and out. And whom he, in turn, knows just as well.
They exchange blows that rattle Dick's bones, quick footwork sending them up and down the hall. He's breathing heavily, limbs trembling with exertion as he fights to hold his own against a man who has been fighting him for years—and relishing each and every fight.
He can see Slade relishing it now. Every flicker of his face in the dim light showcases his grin, feral and wide, his teeth glinting. Dick can't see his eye at the moment but he's sure he knows what it looks like, has seen it a thousand times; hunger, and pride.
Dick has never been Slade's student, but that's never stopped Slade from taking extreme amounts of pleasure from Dick's skills expanding. Hell, considering part of what drives Dick to be so good is to keep up with Slade, maybe he is his student in a way. Not that he'd ever tell him that—or Bruce. Neither of their reactions are things he wants to deal with, or have to face within himself.
A foot slams into Dick's gut, making him double over wheezing. He rolls with the motion immediately, just dodging the hand that made a grab for him and striking out in turn. He hears a grunt of pain from Slade, and then they're off again, trading blows, grappling at getting the upper hand while the other does everything they can to stop them.
Fights, in general, aren't like what you see in the movies. They tend to be fast, brutal things, over in just a few blows. But Dick and Slade—they can go at this forever.
Can go at it forever—doesn't mean that always happens. Case in point, the way Slade gets his hand around Dick's throat before Dick can dodge and slams his head against the wall, hard enough to send sparks across his vision and turn his limbs to jelly.
When Dick drags his thoughts back into something resembling coherency, he finds himself pinned to the wall by Slade's massive bulk. The hand is still around his throat, thumb gently caressing his pulse point, while Slade's other hand is on his hip, wrapping nearly halfway around his waist from how big it is. His chess is pressed to Dick's, his legs between Dick's own keeping them spread apart, everything about him enveloping Dick's space like he belongs there. Like he owns it.
(There are times when Dick isn't sure that's inaccurate. After everything, after how intimately they know each other, after all the times Slade has taken him to pieces—how can that not come with a touch of ownership?
He'd die before admitting that, but. It doesn't make it untrue.)
"Hey there, kid," Slade says, his voice rumbling through Dick's chest. When he looks up, he can see that familiar smirk and that blue eye boring into him, dark and hungry, looking at Dick like he's a meal he's starving for. It makes Dick shiver against his will, but then, a lot of the things he does with Slade he does without his own permission. Why should he stop now?
"Slade," Dick says. His brain feels too slow; how hard did Slade hit his head against the wall? His limbs won't cooperate the way he wants them to. Everything is too slow.
"You're getting better," Slade says, pride clear in his voice. "Every damn time, you get better. A sight to see, kid, that's for sure."
His hand tightens slightly around Dick's throat, making Dick gasp for air. Slade leans in and presses their lips together, licking into his open mouth, swallowing his breath down like it always belonged to Slade. He ignores Dick's sound of protest, ignores the way Dick wiggles in complaint. He holds Dick perfectly still and takes his fill, just like every time he wins their fights.
At least this time, Dick isn't bleeding. Or at least, he's pretty sure he's not. At least not openly.
Slade kisses him like he has all the time in the world, deep and powerful. His hand on Dick's hip yanks his shirt out of his pants and then slips under, gliding across his skin. It makes Dick gasp for air he can't quite reach, Slade's hand on his throat a brand he can't escape. His other hand is just as hot, mapping out Dick's skin for himself while he has Dick pinned in place.
Not just his skin though—his scars. Slade's callused fingers stroke the lines of Dick's scars, old and new. He traces marks left by the Joker, Two-Face, Blockbuster, Talon. But most of all he traces the marks left by him.
Slade has been fighting Dick since before Dick was Nightwing, and they've come to arms against each other too many times to count. Dick hasn't bothered to keep track of which scars come specifically from Slade, but Slade knows them all, and he offers Dick similar clarity with his touch. He presses at the scars cut by his blade, digs his nails into them, strokes them again and again with a touch like fire. And then, when he apparently tires of simply touching, he instead releases Dick suddenly and drops to his knees to get his mouth on them instead.
Dick is lightheaded, gasping for air. His head thumps back against the wall as he tries to form some sort of coherent thought, of plan, but everything is too scattered to focus on anything except for the sensation of Slade's tongue on his scars—on the scars this very man left on his body.
"Stunning," Slade growls, biting at Dick's hips, his hands digging bruises into Dick's skin from the way he's pinning him to the wall.
Dick kicks him, digging his knee up into Slade's chin, and Slade mutters out a curse before dragging Dick to the ground. They wrestle, throwing fists and knees, snarling in each others' faces more like wild animals than people. It doesn't take Slade long to have the upper hand again, what with Dick's brain still feeling like mush, but Dick takes satisfaction out of the bloody lip he gives him. As long as bloody anythings stay on Slade, that is.
A hand tangles painfully in Dick's hair, dragging a whine out of him. His face is shoved into the carpet while Slade's other hand yanks at Dick's belt, forcing it—and then his button and zipper—open.
Dick gasps out something that might be No or Stop or Don't if he had the air or brainpower to do it, but it fizzles away into nothingness instead, leaving Slade free reign to do what he wants to Dick, just like always.
Slade's hand around his cock makes him gasp and arch, a bolt of lightning running through him like there's anywhere to go. Slade gropes him not with the intent to pleasure, but possessively, like he's simply refamiliarizing himself with something that belongs to him. It makes arousal pool in Dick's gut very much against his will, and he writhes in place as that broad, callused palm jerks him off.
He must grow bored of that, because eventually he releases Dick's cock to instead force Dick's legs apart, moving forward to kneel between them. Dick tries to surge upward, but the hand in his hair only slams him back down, a smirk on Slade's face as he keeps Dick still for whatever he wants.
"Poor little hero," he coos as he undoes his pants, pulling his own cock out and stroking it as he kneels over Dick, Dick's legs spread wide to accommodate his bulk. He leans even closer, grinding Dick's cheek into the carpet by his grip, forcing Dick's gaze down like a helpless pinned bird. Made small, in the way only Slade can ever make him.
There's a squelching noise like gel through a tube, the sound of skin against skin, and then something hot and wet and blunt is pressing against Dick's ass.
There's not enough air in the world to prepare him as slowly, inch by inch, Slade forces his cock inside of him. It's slick with lube, but that's not nearly enough to offset how large Slade is and how little Dick was ready for this. Slade's cock carves him open, splitting his ass to make room for himself without care or consideration. Dick flails and whines and tosses his head and it does absolutely nothing to stop Slade as he pushes inside of him bit by bit.
It is...exceptionally hot. It shouldn't be, but it is. It has Dick's entire body singing with arousal, sweat slicking his forehead and he pants hard against the floor, held perfectly in place and made to take it while Slade forces his cock inside.
"There we are," Slade says when he finally stops moving, when all of his cock is pressed deep inside of Dick. "Always take it so well, don't you, boy?"
He doesn't wait for a response. He pulls out and then snaps his hips, fucking roughly back in, as deep as he can go. Dick wheezes, limbs jerking, but has no time to adjust as Slade does it again and again, beginning to fuck hard. He surrounds Dick, inside and out, face mere inches away as they share the same heavy breath. His blue eye is burning, captivating. Dick can see nothing but him, feel nothing but him, do nothing but exist and let Slade fuck him.
"Slade," Dick manages, and it makes Slade groan, his hips moving harder, jerking Dick back and forth on the ground. His thrusts get even faster, his breathing picking up. His hand once again wraps around Dick's cock, jerking him off roughly as he fucks in and out of his ass. His face is right above Dick's, expression locked in and burning through him.
Their lips are just barely touching when Slade takes them both over the edge, coming inside of Dick while forcing Dick's release over his hand.
Dick's pulse is pounding in his ears, their heavy breathing filling the air. He feels dizzy and in pain and nauseous and—kind of fantastic, really, in a way he can't possibly describe to anyone other than the man currently pinning him to the ground, one hand cupping Dick's hip right over the scar he was biting earlier.
They share the same air in silence, for a few moments.
Then Dick says, "What are you doing in Gotham?"
Slade grins, sharp and amused. "Right now, you," he says, and his grin only gets wider when Dick manages an eye roll. He doesn't actually answer the question, and Dick wasn't really expecting him to. Slade's never been the sharing sort, especially not when it comes to jobs. Not unless he's in the mood for Dick to chase him. But then, he already got that tonight, didn't he? Dick followed, just as he always does.
He'd hate himself for that weakness, if Slade weren't afflicted with the very same problem.
"We need to move," Dick grunts. "Get off of me, Slade. We need to go."
Slade smirks. His lips brush Dick's own as he says, "Don't worry, other things are keeping your family occupied at the moment. And I'm not quite done with you tonight yet."
He rolls his hips as if to prove that. His cock is already starting to get hard again—Jesus Christ, fucking metahumans. No matter how many times this ends up happening it never stops being absolutely insane.
(...That's not the only part of all this that's insane, but there's only so much self-awareness Dick can handle at a time.)
"Just relax, little bird," Slade says, tone darkening and making shivers climb up Dick's spine. "I'll let you go when I've had my fill. Maybe."
Dick might argue that statement if a hand didn't close around his throat, denying him air and voice as Slade takes what he wants, just like so many times before.