Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s late when Dick nearly crashes into the window of his own damn apartment. Crashing, because it’s closed completely, and locked to boot. Twitching, he barely avoids it, and quietly curses as he spends the next minute breaking into his own home . He’s tired and grumpy from patrol, and all he wants is to crawl into bed and sleep, and instead he has to deal with this bullshit.  When he finds which of his brothers did this – for who else would? – he would have vengeance, damn it.

The faint sound of the TV makes it way through, so after irritably kicking his escrima sticks under the bed – because fuck knows he doesn’t need to start a fight in the middle of his apartment – he heads to the living room, ready to curse up a storm, already plotting the desecration of Jason’s bike, of Tim’s coffee, of Damian’s swords. He opens his mouth, about to chew them out, and freezes.

It’s not any of his brothers. 

It’s Slade – Slade, in his full Deathstroke regalia, utterly unconcerned and sprawled with his knees apart on Dick’s sofa like he belongs there, and a shit ton of his weapons spread out on the coffee table. Well, Dick says weapons, but really, it’s just his thrice damned broadsword that stabbed Dick again not even four months ago and the rest, well. The rest are all guns. His eye flickers, and Dick counts at least five, with one of those being in pieces. They’re familiar – the ones he’s seen Slade using. 

Slade’s cleaning the outside of the frame of the gun, an oiled rag in hand and brushing over it in thorough but gentle strokes. It’s weird seeing hands he’s seen break bones with ease, that he knows can deal out so much force, handling something so carefully . It’s hypnotizing, and Dick is struck dumb, eyes glued onto it and tracking every moment. He doesn’t know why, but there’s just something about it that always leaves him utterly incapable of taking his eyes off. 

It’s not the first time he’s been reduced to speechlessness because of this. Every time, there’s a constant fluidity present in Slade’s movements as he expertly manipulates the mechanisms, taking it apart piece by piece only to almost reverently polish it and then put it back together again. It leaves him frozen, breathless, utterly spellbound . It’s perfection, like the execution of a perfectly choreographed dance.

Smooth, beautiful, and also completely capable of killing him in less than a second flat. 

Dick breathes, slow and purposefully measured. For some utterly inexplicable reason, his pants suddenly feel too tight. He watches, captivated, as Slade puts the cloth down with care and without even taking his eyes off the gun, picks a toothbrush – 

Wait. The spell breaks.

Isn’t that – “You fucking asshole,” Dick snaps, irritated. “Isn’t that my toothbrush?” 

“I’ll get you a new one,” Slade answers dismissively, not even stopping as he brushes over the recoil spring. “You should be replacing those every couple of months anyway. You’ve had this for six and a half.”

Dick scowls, but isn’t able to take his eyes off Slade’s fingers. With his profession, he has better things to do than obsessively worry over things like dental hygiene or wonder why Slade’s keeping such an accurate track of it – the answer for that, as always, can be left at the fact that Slade’s just a creep. Honestly, Dick’s more concerned with a mercenary suddenly deciding he absolutely has to clean his guns on his coffee table. 

“You were sloppy, by the way,” Slade adds offhandedly, tilting the shaft of the brush this way and that as Slade very thoroughly cleaned in between the springs, working the bristles between them till they were shining. “I heard you coming in.”

“It’s my damn home,” Dick says, but without any heat. He really should be more irritated at Slade for breaking in, but somehow, too used to it, he isn’t. 

He watches, as Slade sets down the spring and toothbrush and instead picks up the cylinder of the barrel and yet another brush. One with a long, narrow shaft ending in a head of bristles that Slade pumps in and out of the barrel meticulously. It goes in, as far as Slade can push it, and then is dragged out slowly again with his fingers, right to the tip, then back in, faster and faster till it’s a blur of movement.

And his pants are getting tight again. 

Thank fuck the suit is designed well enough to hide inconvenient boners. Dick tries not to think of why it’s a mandatory feature on every suit Bruce makes. “Wh–why’re you here, anyway?” 

Dick frantically hopes Bruce hasn’t gone around to reinstalling his not-so-secret secret cameras yet. Dick has to clean them out once a week, and he did do it yesterday, but even so, he worries. 

This is the type of thing which if Bruce questions he won’t have a satisfactory answer for.

“Come here, kid,” is all Slade says. 

“Slade–” Dick begins to protest, and then–

“ Boy.”

And Dick hates how that one word, said in that tone by that voice with that look, has him moving before he even knows it, hates how it makes tingles break out on his skin, hates how it has his cock jumping up like an excited little schoolgirl. 

He blinks, and he’s there, kneeling on the floor next to Slade’s feet.

Slade arches an eyebrow, eye glittering in amusement. “I didn’t tell you to kneel and suck my cock, boy. Enthusiastic much?”

Dick flushes, warmth spreading like fire across his cheeks and neck. He gets up onto the couch before Slade can pin him down, a pout already on his lips. Slade is mean, and a fucking tease. Dick bets if he sat on the sofa, Slade would have just pushed him off. Studiously, he avoids meeting Slade’s eye, and crosses his arms.

“Clean it,” Slade orders lazily, like Dick’s still fourteen and apprentice and in the room with gears and guns and Slade’s finger on the trigger. “You do remember how to, yes?”

And Dick shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, should do his best to erase any trace of Slade and that time, but then he’s picking up the slider and a q-tip dipped in oil, like he’s never left. He should be ashamed, Dick thinks, but all there is a comfortable warmth spreading through him as they work in companionable silence, cleaning that one gun, slotting next to each other like they’ve always belonged. 

Dick should stop. 

He doesn’t.

Instead, he remembers.

Dick remembers hands warm and heavy guiding his own, so small and tiny in comparison. Eyes watching him like a hawk as he learned to assemble and reassemble tools – tools he was brought up to hate for years – again and again till he could do it in his sleep. Till they were as familiar to him as any flip or move. He remembers the stinging smell of gunpowder, acrid and sour and burnt, clinging to him for hours after he left the room. The way his hands shook and his heart pounded like a rabbit as he worked, Slade’s hands fiddling idly with a gun a constant threat. 

How many times had Slade punished him before he learned to do it right? How many times had Slade rewarded him when he did get it right, with sex that left his legs feeling like jelly and come splattered all over his chest? How many times had Robin wondered what it would be like, if instead–

What’s the matter, apprentice? See something you like–

Dick sets the slider back down, pushing it down like he can push his thoughts down.

Guns are for killing, Slade had told him, as he tried to teach him how to use a gun. He failed, Dick’s still a terrible shot, but he at least remembers that much. Wearily, he sneaks a glance at Slade and catches the man looking at him, hunger in the man’s eye all too visible. 

His breath catches. “Why are you here, Slade?” Dick repeats, quiet but expectant.

And then Slade’s there, a hand tugging at his suit dragging him forward while the other hurriedly flips up the front of his mask–

Lips meet lips, and Dick melts , hands fisting against Slade’s uniform. Mouths open, tongues clash, teeth nip on soft flesh, and all Dick breathes and knows is Slade. He can tell Slade’s been working on the guns for a while, because there's a faint taste of gunpowder still lingering on his lips. Or perhaps he came from a contract, or maybe even from showing off in the shooting range because he’s an ass like that. In the moment, Dick can’t bring himself to care beyond hoping he doesn’t taste too bad. 

Dick really hopes Bruce hadn’t reinstalled the cameras yet. This… would be even more troubling to explain than guns on the coffee table.

He clings to Slade till he’s breathless and then some, chasing Slade’s lips hungrily, lets Slade practically devour him as he does his best to give back as much as he’s getting, only parting when his head’s spinning. 

It doesn’t stop him from complaining. “You’re always here for this. Just for a quick fuck. I’m actually kinda sleepy you kn–”

Slade shuts him with a kiss, again, so like an idiot, Dick closes his eyes and lets himself get distracted, lets Slade pull off his mask because all his clothes will come off anyway. Kisses Slade again and again and again, hands in hair and legs tangling together and just enjoying the uncharacteristic affection being shown. 

Fuck , he adores this. If Slade’s going to be this nice, then Dick can stand to put up with him for the rest of the night. 

Still relaxed, Dick pulls apart from the kiss to catch his breath, lips already bitten red and swollen, and murmurs against Slade’s lips, “No one died, did they?” 

A huff of laughter. “Not yet, no.” 

Dick hums against Slade’s lips, the tone too humorous for him to think much of it, but then Slade’s pulling his hands back, and there’s the clink of metal and a snap. Ah, Dick thinks as he tugs his hands, getting caught on the handcuffs. It’s one of those days where Slade feels like getting kinky. 

Annoying, when Dick is already tired out from patrol and all he really wants is some lazy sex and then bed. He glares, irritated. “Slade–”

“ Hush, boy.”

Dick shuts up, and lets Slade kiss him. Relaxes, again. It’s nice, it’s sweet, slow, and–

–A click , and cold metal against the side of his head–

–Slade breaking their kiss, looking almost regretful, pulling down his mask, now completely Deathstroke–

– and it’s a gun against Dick’s head.

Dick’s eyes are wide, shocked, head spinning as he tries to wrap his mind around what’s happening and instead freezing from head to toe. Guns are for killing. That both Bruce and Slade could agree on, and now... Slade’s pointing one at him. His heart’s racing, his pulse thrumming, all the training and reflexes he’s built as a vigilante screaming at him to do something . 

But he’s rooted there, to that spot, with his dick so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t burst out. Dick wishes his libido understood the simple concept of self preservation, but that’s an utterly lost cause.

“S-slade? W-what?” he breathes, hating how his voice is so soft, shaking, vulnerable.

What’s visible of Slade’s eye crinkles in a smile, and he says, in a tone strangely conversational for having a gun in his hand, “You’ve gotten sloppy, little bird. On your knees, on the floor.”

Dick stares, mouth dry and hands clammy. “You’re bluffing. It’s not loaded. You won’t sho–”

There’s a minute shift of Slade’s hand, a breeze of air, and a bang.

His heart stops, frozen for a small eternity before it starts beating like crazy, sending blood rushing, and his body’s shaking, but – it doesn’t hurt, anywhere. His ears ring a little, but the gun has a suppressor on. He’s still alive. He’s not hurt, really. He’s not bleeding. No sticky spreading wetness of blood blooms across his suit. His vision’s fine.

He’s fine.

He wasn’t shot. 

Eyes shift, blinking owlishly at the new hole in his sofa. The gun’s loaded. Slade’s holding a fucking loaded gun to his head. That probably shouldn’t make his cock throb so much, but it does.

Slade nudges him with the muzzle. It’s hot against his head. “Get on the floor, Grayson.” It’s a gentle chastisement that kicks him into finally meekly sliding down to the floor, heart still pounding. Not yet, Slade had said. No one had died yet. Was Slade… going to kill him? Had all those kisses been a goodbye? Had Slade gotten a contract on him?

Stupid, stupid, so fucking stupid. 

Dick knew he was fucking Deathstroke. He knew the two of them didn’t let their frenemy-with-benefits relationship get in the way of their work, clashing multiple times and fighting with all they got. If it paid high enough, of course Slade would take the fucking contract, damn it.

He just… he just thought Slade would be better than attacking him in his own home, under the pretext of simply coming over for more sex. It makes something in him ache as he realizes what happened.

Slade is right, he has gotten sloppy. 

“Gonna kill me today?” he asks, voice still quiet, looking Slade squarely in the eye as he tests the restraints. The cuffs are tight. He won’t be able to get out of them just by dislocating his thumbs. 

The man chuckles, low and dark. He shifts his hand, taking off the suppressor as he brings the gun to the front of Dick’s face. Dick recognizes it, it’s the same SIG P226 that Slade had tried so damn hard to get him to learn how to use back when Dick was still an apprentice. How many times had he dreamt about it, about staring down that thick black barrel, about Slade using it on him? 

He shivers. Dick recognizes the implication , too. The suppressor was for Dick’s sake, to prevent permanent hearing damage and to avoid attention, because fuck knows Slade doesn’t need it otherwise. Because it wouldn’t be fun if Dick couldn’t hear all of Slade’s gloating, or if someone walked in on them before he was done with the mission. Now that the suppressor’s off… the next shot will be one to kill .

“Thinking about it,” Slade answers, amused, looming above him. Dick’s always been aware of Slade being bigger than him, and he liked that, liked the thrill of it, but now… on his knees, hands cuffed and gun to his head, he’s hyper aware of the threat Slade is, how much larger he, with his muscles and armor and sheer height. His eye, sizing Dick up like a piece of meat, the faintest impression of a smirk seen through the mask as he hears Dick’s heart pounding like a scared little rabbit. Predator, prey.

Dick feels so very, very, small.

He inhales, trying to gather up the air he needs to speak up, but with gun Slade’s pressing between his eyes, his voice still wavers, “And w–what’s that supposed to – urk!” Dick chokes as the gun’s abruptly pressed against his mouth.

And fuck, it should scare him, and it does, it makes his heart leap to his throat , but as his eyes rise again and meet Slade’s own, all that comes to mind is, fuck it. 

This is Slade. Slade, who he’s fought and known and fucked since he was fourteen, who haunts him every single fucking day even when he’s not there, who’s been his nightmare and given him panic attacks only to turn right around and save him, who has an unhealthy obsession with Dick and keeps trying to get Dick to pick up healthier habits, who knows all his vulnerabilities , who through sheer exposure and time if nothing else he’s grown comfortable with, whom he somehow actually ended up caring about, no matter what he may say out loud. 

It’s Slade, with all his fucking guns and bloody broadsword and the utterly elegant way he weilds them, holding a gun in Dick’s mouth.

And Dick is weak for him. Somewhere along the way, he’d grown to trust him.

So Dick may possibly have the absolute worst taste in lovers and in kinks, but hey, if he’s probably going to die anyway, he might as well die doing what he loved, right? 

All he hopes is that Bruce didn’t put in any cameras, because if he’s asked to explain this, he’ll swim out to sea to drown. But actually, fuck Bruce too, for being a controlling asshole who’s shitty parenting still failed to instill the importance of not falling for assholes like Slade.

So yeah, fuck it all.

And that’s why, when the gun touches his mouth, Dick opens wide and closes his lips right around it, relishing the way Slade utterly freezes at that. His lips twitch, but he still can’t quite bring himself to look directly at Slade, instead focusing on the gun.

It’s still warm from the shot, and thinking of that, how Slade shot a bullet less than half a foot from his face, how he could still do so now, has Dick’s heart quickening, but damned if he knows if it’s with fear or lust. 

“Boy,” Slade breathes, a note of warning is his voice, but Dick, caught on that reckless precipice between death and quite possibly the best sex of his life, does not stop. He cannot stop. His tongue peeks out from under his lips, tasting the burnt gunpowder still there, the sharp taste of the metal, and lathers the muzzle end generously. He takes it in deeper into his mouth, hollows his cheeks and sucks, the wet sucking noise echoing in the empty flat. 

Slade outright growls , but considering he doesn’t move the gun, Dick takes it as victory, peeking up at the man through the strands of his hair. There’s something wild in Slade’s eye, and it only sharpens as Dick takes the gun deeper still as he sucks, till it hits the back of his throat, then, as he deliberately keeps Slade’s gaze, he tilts his head back to expose his throat and gives the lewdest moan he can muster.

And then Slade’s digging it in, like he’s trying to get it down Dick’s throat, but this is hard inflexible metal and not pliable flesh – all it does is make Dick choke, panic as he remembers it’s an instrument of death in his mouth, and tries to scramble back only for Slade to move a boot right over his hard cock and press–

Dick gasps, mouth opening wide, and keens.

Slade keeps it there for a second more then shifts the gun back so that he’s not choking, but so that it’s still in Dick’s mouth. “If you stop,” he says, his voice utterly calm, lifting off his foot. Too calm. “I will shoot you.”

Reasonable enough, for Slade, anyway until he decided to pick up his fucking broadsword.

Which has pierced Dick’s body no less than three times minimum, nicked him much, much, more, and nearly decapitated him about, oh, infinity.

Dick loudly protests, all muffled into unintelligible gibberish by the gun, only to squeak as Slade’s finger in the trigger guard twitches.

“Don’t. Stop.”

He gives Slade the most scathing glare he can manage, but it’s not like he has a choice. So Dick continues, determined to showering the gun with enough affection and love to make Slade’s cock burst in jealousy. His plan hits a snag, though, as Slade lifts the sword and gently presses the point of it over his Adam’s apple, over the start of his costume. 

Between the sword at his neck and the gun down his throat, Dick can’t help it, he lets out a pitiful whimper. Fuck, he’s confused. Does Slade want to decapitate him? Shoot him? Stab him? Just scare him to death? Or everything? Did Slade not decide before he showed up? Was that why it was taking so fucking long?

Figures Slade wouldn’t be able decide on a favourite way to kill his favourite person. Dick knows he is, because Slade wouldn’t have let him live all the way to adulthood otherwise.

The sword drags down, sharp, slicing through his uniform with slightest of pressure, and Dick can’t help but make a disgruntled noise. Because what the fuck. It can stop bullets but not Slade’s sword apparently, what the fuck is it made out of and can Dick have it, and also, becuase he needs that uniform.

“You don’t need that uniform,” Slade says flippantly. “Nudity suits you better.”

If Dick’s mouth wasn’t gagged with a gun and his hands cuffed behind his back he’d set Slade’s uniform on fire and then see how Slade feels about it. But they are, so all Dick can do is flush red, embarrassed and more than a little horny. 

Now that he finally knows what the sword is for, Dick can stop panicking and go back to giving the gun in his mouth a blowjob. Slade’s holding it still again, letting him control the pace, so Dick leans back, laying little kisses over the muzzle. His eyes lands on how utterly slicked the gun is with his spit, and he flushes red again, all the way to his ears. Fuck. He can’t believe he’s acting like such a slut for guns.

Granted, it’s Slade’s gun, but even so.

Doesn't stop him from licking a strip down the underside of the barrel, tongue waltzing from the trigger guard to a slight flick with the tip to Slade’s finger – which thankfully does not twitch – to all the way down to the muzzle, which he gives another kiss. An open mouthed kiss, where Dick playfully flicks his tongue against the opening before pushing it into the barrel as far as he could reach, curving his tongue to do so. 

Not that far, regrettably, though considering a quick glance through hooded eyes shows Slade’s eye darkened with lust and his muscles tensed in the way it does when he’s holding himself back, he doubts Slade has any complaints. There’s a low pool of heated embarrassment in his belly, in Slade seeing him like this – but if not Slade, then who else? 

Who else could Dick ever bare himself open to, like this?

He did wish Slade would pay attention to the rest of his body though. He hisses as Slade’s sword draws a line down his chest, giving Slade a scathing look. Oi, if you’re cutting someone’s clothes off with an extremely sharp pointy object, you can’t get distracting by a fucking blowjob! His uniform is in tatters around him, pieces on the floor. His chest and abdomen are entirely bare, strips remaining around his arms. It still clings to his body stubbornly, in a patchwork mess that’s more raunchy than something concealing.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Slade reminds, voice husky. Deliberately, he draws yet another line down his chest. 

Ah. Death by exsanguination via a thousand cuts. How nice, Dick would say sarcastically if his mouth hadn’t been otherwise occupied. Slade pushes it forward incessantly, and Dick’s back at it, mouth spread wide and tongue flicking along the grooves at the side. 

It’s big, and the worst is that it doesn’t bend at all in Dick’s mouth, no matter how he suckles and coaxes it. It doesn’t fit in Dick’s mouth, not the way Slade’s cock does. It’s unyielding and harsh and cruel, demanding that Dick shape himself to it without any compromise. Dick tries, but he can barely take it to the back of his throat.

He winces as he feels a particularly sharp cut, shifting back reflexively only to be frozen still with a growl. 

“Did I fucking tell you to move?” Slade demands, sword moving back up to in front Dick’s neck.

Dick doesn’t know how Slade expects him to answer with his mouth occupied. Slade looks like he expects a response though, so he just swallows and tilts forward, taking in the barrel till there’s a bead of blood at his neck pooling at the tip of the sword. He holds Slade’s gaze for one long second, working his mouth around the gun, then moves back, bobbing up and down on it. 

Slade smiles. “Good boy,” he says, and it sends down a warm flush of pride down Dick’s spine and straight to his cock. 

Slade must notice, because the next thing he’s doing is cutting a strip away right over Dick’s crotch. 

His heart leaps, and Dick desperately lurches forward, taking down the barrel till he’s gagging on it in an effort to distract Slade. Dick chokes, but Slade doesn’t stop, his smile widening into a smirk as Dick’s cock practically springs out of it’s confinement.

It is, of course, entirely far too hard. 

“Look at you,” Slade says, amusement sharp in his eye as he nudges Dick’s erection with the flat of his sword. “Bet if I shot you now you’d cum like a whore, wouldn’t you?”

He can’t help it – Dick whines sharply at that, his cock throbbing in anticipation. He’d die, sure, but what better way could there be?

Slade lifts his sword, and for a heart stopping moment Dick flinches thinking he’s about to bring it down on him – or his cock – but Slade simply sheaths it. The now free hand lands on his head, instead, and Dick shivers as he feels Slade’s fingers curl and grip his hair, choking again as Slade digs the barrel down into his throat. Teeth scrape across metal, sending vibrations all the way up to his skull.

His head is tilted up, till he’s looking up at the man with wide eyes.

It pushes in, insistent, and he feels that so familiar tang of blood as the front sight scrapes his palate. He gags, coughing, blood stained drool dripping down the edges of his lips, and his eyes blur from the lack of air. And instead of trying to twist out the grip, Dick instead opens his mouth as far as he can and leans forward, desperately chasing the metal like the whore Slade says he is. Millimeter by millimeter, he pushes till his bottom lip hits the trigger guard. 

He blinks, disbelieving.

He did it. He took the entire barrel into his mouth.

Dick stills, swollen and wet lips closing around the gun, obscenely stretched. His throat convulses as he tries to swallow and desperately shoves down his gag reflex. He holds it there, teary eyes meeting Slade’s.

“Pretty bird,” Slade murmurs, holding him in place. “You’ve been wanting this badly , haven’t you?”

All Dick can do is whine, pleading, as his head spins from the lack of air. His eyes widen, letting tears fall freely because he knows Slade likes that look on him. He wonders if he’ll die like this, from choking on a gun. He hopes not, that’d be fucking stupid. If he’s going to get killed with a gun, Slade should at least shoot him.

Slade’s grip tightens on his hair, and then he’s dragging it out of his mouth. Dick barely has the time to sputter out a cough before Slade’s pushing it in again, again and again. He chokes at least a couple more times before he finally manages to find a rhythm between breathing. It’s fast, and all Dick can think about is Slade’s finger on the trigger.

Had Slade even turned on the safety after that shot? Is a freaking loaded gun, with the fucking safety off, in his mouth right now? At the quick and rough pace Slade is setting, it wouldn’t be unlikely for Slade’s finger to tighten, accidentally or not, and then Dick would have a bullet in his mouth.

He moans, loud but muffled by the muzzle. Out of fear, not lust.

...who is he even kidding, he’s so aroused by it that it’s a wonder his cock hasn’t exploded already . 

“ Fuck,” Slade hisses, and then the gun’s out of his mouth and Slade’s ripping off the back of his suit entirely, all the way down his ass. 

“Watch it!” Dick snaps, relieved to be finally able to talk again, but before he can say anything else, he’s being thrown across his coffee table, cleaning supplies and gun parts scattering. Dick barely avoids breaking his nose, but blood from his cuts stain the table. 

Metal, cold and unforgiving, digs into the small of his back. Is that another gun? “Slade–”

“No backtalking,” Slade chides, and then – fuck, there’s something, solid and hot and slick poking between the cheeks of his ass, right over his rim. It’s the gun that was just in his mouth.

His heart thumps and tightens painfully. Oh fuck, Dick thinks dazedly. Slade wants to – he’s going to fuck him with it. With a gun Dick knows is loaded, and fuck knows if Slade ever even turned the safety on. He doesn’t even bother asking – he knows Slade too well to expect an answer.

His dick is painfully hard, weeping and coated in precome.

“Slade–”

“ Shh.”

“Slade – I haven’t – not recently –”

“No one? Not at all?”

With a hiss, suddenly fed up with Slade’s teasing, Dick snarls, “For fucks sake you possessive bastard, I haven’t any dicks up my ass for four fucking months since you stabbed me, haven’t had anything up my ass over over a month, so either use lube or just shoot me already!”

There’s a sudden silence, and it occurs to Dick that perhaps antagonizing the person with the gun isn’t the best idea. He’s going to shoot me and fuck my corpse, Dick thinks, the fear not at helped by the sudden disappearance of the weight of the guns. His cock twitches.

There’s a swoosh of air, and then Dick’s yelling out in pain as Slade pistol whips his ass. That’s gonna leave a nasty bruise. His ass throbs, and there’s a sharp sting letting Dick know he’s been at least a little scraped.

“The next time you talk like that, it’ll be your balls getting beat like that,” Slade says, far too pleasantly.

Dick squeaks, quickly squeezing his legs shut. 

“And besides, you’d look good bleeding out your ass,” Slade adds, voice thoughtful, like he’s already planning on it. He pushes it again, bumping the muzzle against the Dick’s rim.

Dick swallows back a whimper, his hole clenching reflexively even as his cock twitches. As horrifyingly wonderful as that idea sounds, he likes being able to walk. And he can’t fucking imagine how he’s explain those injuries to a hospital, because fuck knows he’d be too ashamed to go to Burce. “Slade, please.” 

For a few terrifying moments, there’s the insistent push against his asshole, but Slade sighs and pulls it away. “Suppose it won’t even be able to enter without,” Slade concedes finally, grumbling. Then he leans over, gun trailing across Dick’s spine and leaving a trail of spit, and grabs the bottle of gun oil beside Dick’s head. 

In the quiet, Dick spends a few moments regretting all the life choices that lead him too this moment. What is he even doing? Did it even matter? Fuck. His heart twinges, twisting in on itself painfully. The muzzle digs into his back, bringing him out of his thoughts, and Dick takes a moment to just breathe, inhaling sharply .

If he survives this, not only his apartment but he himself will smell like gunpowder for ages .

Dick hears the quiet splosh as something’s dipped into the oil, and then it’s pressing against his rim. He tenses. It’s leather – Slade didn’t even bother to take his gloves off. He pushes roughly, and Dick tries to relax like he has so many times before, but it’s still tight, especially when considering that Slade’s already thick finger is engloved. It burns, but Slade pushes through and it’s buried to the knuckle in no time.

Dick groans, fingers clenching into a fist as he feels his walls being pushed apart. 

“You really are tight,” Slade muses thoughtfully, pumping his finger in and out. 

No shit. It’s been a while since Dick has had time to himself, and it’s left him woefully unprepared for Slade’s usual shenanigans, much less this.

The gun shifts to between his thighs, pushing up against his ass till the muzzle is pushed into that soft patch of skin behind his balls. 

Dick freezes , again. 

Slade needs to stop giving him a heart attack, what the fuck . 

“I wouldn’t lose anything, if I shot you here,” Slade says, voice insufferably smug. “You’d look even better, I think, with nothing. No balls, no cock to give the illusion you’re good for anything but fucking.” 

Dick makes an unintelligible noise, something like, “ Hhhgggnnn ,” that only increases as Slade presses the muzzle deeper into his skin. 

Slade smiles. “You have no idea how tempting the idea is for me, so be a good little boy and behave, hm?”

“Yes!” Dick chokes out, as Slade slips another finger inside and scissors them while slowly rubbing the gun between his cheeks. “Yes yes yes.” Everytime, it hits the back of his balls. Fuck. Fuck. His heart is palpitating till it feels like a drum beating, but it’s not with fear. Slade has him by the balls, could shoot him, and Dick’s body is trembling with lust. 

“Be a good boy and push your thighs together,” Slade says lazily, and Dick obeys, gasping as his ass tightens around Slade’s fingers as a result.

The gun’s still slick from his saliva, sliding with ease between his thighs and under his ass, unrelentingly pushing his balls forward each time with no mercy, and Dick can’t help but whine, thighs trembling as the gun fucks his thighs.

He shouldn’t be so turned on by this. But no matter how he tries, to focus on the burn in his ass, to focus on how rough it is, it doesn’t work . It’s rough, true, but Slade knows his body all too well and works him all too well, and the gun ensures Dick can’t squirm too much. In what seems like no time at all, Slade has played Dick’s body like a fiddle, and he’s rocking back with small pants, helpless to do anything but what Slade wants.

Slade’s fingers leave, and suddenly, Dick’s clenching around nothing. He pushes back reflexively, chasing the pleasure, but then, even the guns gone from between his thighs. He doesn’t have time to wonder though, before he feels a splash against his lower back, trailing to his crack and then to his rim. Dick cranes his head, and sees Slade lubing up the gun with oil, slicked fingers sliding over smooth black surface, coating it generously. 

Oh, Dick thinks as his heart speeds up. It’s time. Time to get fucked. With a gun. That’s loaded. 

A ray of sanity strikes him, but all it does is make his hands tug helplessly on the cuffs, fear rising. “The safety,” he blurts out, half-panicked. “It’s on, right?”

Slade smirks down at him. “Is it?” he says musingly. “I wonder.”

“Slade!” Dick hisses as the man pushes a hand down on his back, keeping him down. The gun pushes against his rim, and his breath catches, his rim quivers in anticipation. “Don’t–”

“Shut up, boy,” Slade says, and with a shove, it’s in.

Dick means to yell at Slade, he really does, but comes out his mouth instead is a low, “ Hhggnn.” Fuck, the metal doesn’t yield at all despite the clench of his rim, and that makes it feel like so much bigger than it is, and it’s already wide enough . And it’s barely in, fuck.

“There we go,” Slade says, sounding pleased, keeping pressure on it, letting it sink in millimeter by millimeter. Dick’s just trying to breathe. Even with the stretching Slade’s done and the lube, it’s still not an easy slide, and Dick feels every bit of the stretch. 

Slade pulls it back, and Dick whimpers as he feels his walls tighten around it. Slade’s pushing it back soon enough, however. He works steadily, with shallow thrusts that keep getting deeper and deeper, and it takes all Dick can do to muffle the sounds that want to escape him. It’s so much. Fuck, it’s so much.

“You should see yourself,” Slade says, sounding utterly composed, and fuck, how he hates it. There Dick is, almost naked and falling apart on a gun, and Slade doesn’t have the decency to sound the least bit bothered. “Do you know? Your rim’s quivering. LIke a virgin, about to be broken in for the first time.”

“Shut – ah!” Dick gasps as Slade slaps his ass, right over the newly formed bruise.

“You never did know when to shut up,” Slade sighs, as if regretful, and then gives a particularly rough thrust that has the barrel sliding in all the way to the trigger guard and Dick sliding forward on the table.

Dick gasps again, loudly, toes curling as he feels how deep it is. The stretch burns, but though he squeezes, reflexively trying to push it out, Slade’s hand keeps it there and the metal refuses to bend. He struggles, but a hand on his neck drags him back into place. “Please, Slade–”

“Don’t worry, boy,” Slade murmurs, a press of his thumb against Dick’s rapid pulse and his hand tightens, choking off Dick’s words. “I’ll give you everything you need.”

Shuddering, Dick loosens up, helplessly rocking back into the gun. And then Slade’s angling it just right, so it hits his prostate and –

“ Ah,” Dick says, dazed, as pleasure bursts up his spine. His toes curl, and he whines. His head thumps against the wood of the coffee table, exposing more of his neck to Slade. The hand on it brushes the sides of his throat almost comfortingly, like it’s trying to soothe him, before it tightens again. His toes curl, and all he can do it pant out little breaths of air as the muzzle unfailingly hits his prostate over and over again. “Ah, ah, ah.”

“You like that, boy?” Slade’s voice murmurs serenely, even as his thrusts pick up. “Like being fucked by my gun? You’ll come on it, too, won’t you? Like a needy little bitch? I won’t even need to touch your cock.”

“Please,” Dick begs with what little air he can take, squirming helplessly, but Slade always, always, finds his way to Dick’s prostate anyway. “Please please please – Slade–”

Slade’s fingers squeeze tighter, and now he can’t breathe at all. “What would Daddy Bats have to say if he saw you now, boy? What would they all think, if they found you with come splattered all over your chest, dead from a bullet up your ass, hm?”

He’s not sure what does it – the gun, the unrelenting pressure of his prostate, the lack of air making him dizzy from the choking, the reminder that Bruce could be watching through secret cameras right now, or the very real threat of Slade shooting a loaded gun up his to kill him, or just everything – but he comes, splattering all over the floor and coffee table, vision whiting out.

When he comes to, it’s only a few seconds later, and it’s to Slade yanking the gun out of his ass. There’s a breeze of air, and Dick doesn’t even have a second to appreciate being empty before heated, hard flesh is pushing in. There’s a slight burn to it that lets Dick know that Slade hadn’t bothered to use any oil. He whines, inner walls still throbbing and sensitive from his orgasm.

“ Ah – Slade – don’t – too soon –” Dick’s protests fall on deaf ears, utterly disregarded as Slade actually grabs his hips instead and lifts him up and dumps him over the arm of the sofa, legs dangling. Just the perfect height for Slade to fuck, and luckily also more comfortable for Dick. It’s a shitty sofa, and Dick can’t count the number of times Slade has grumbled about it, nagging Dick to get it replaced, but it’s infinitely better than banging his head against the coffee table and fearing his dick will get squished against the edge. 

No, he’s just repeatedly getting his face squished against foam with every punishing thrust instead, smearing blood from his cuts into it, because his hands are still cuffed and Slade doesn’t hold back at all. 

His eyes are watering again, from the sensitivity, every brush of Slade’s cock magnified. It’s too much, he can’t help but try to wiggle away crawling forward on the sofa. A sharp slap lands on his ass, and Dick yelps as the edge of it hits his bruise. 

“Fucking – stay – still!” Slade growls, a grip on his hips dragging him back.

“It’s too much – Slade – please–” Dick pleas are shut up with another slap, this time on the other cheek. 

Dick shuts up, bites the sofa, and tries not make too much noise or move too much as he lets Slade fuck him into the cushions. Slade keeps hitting him whenever he thinks he’s moving too much, and the sound of it rings throughout the room, accompanied by the creak of the sofa. Fucking hell, Dick’s glad he splurged and decided to get the apartment soundproofed. He didn’t know how he’d ever look his neighbors in the eye otherwise. 

But damn, all he can think of as he’s getting pounded is how different Slade’s cock is compared to the guns. Hot, warm, pulsing , deeper and deeper with a strength that makes him wonder if it’s trying to come out the other end. Dick used to think his insides were getting rearranged everytime Slade fucked him no matter how perfectly Slade seemed to fit, but now he’s realizing Slade’s had to bend too, to fit with him. But the gun… the gun was absolutely unrelenting, unforgiving, just taking and taking and coming with an inch of taking his life.

“Shit,” Dick breathes against the couch, feeling his cock twitch again.

Slade thrusts, one last time, and then he stills, warmth of the cum blooming in him. He pulls out, and Dick silently resolves never to mention to Slade that he’d been thinking of Slade’s guns when Slade had his cock up Dick’s ass. He’d never live it down, mostly because Slade would have shot him full of lead.

He feels a little of the come trickle out, only to be pushed back in by Slade’s fingers.

“Clench,” Slade says offhandedly, sounding composed again, and gives Dick’s ass another slap. Not very hard – just a little chastisement. Dick wishes he wouldn’t – despite the lightness of it, it lands on his already bruised skin and stings. 

He clenches, hole aching.

“We’re not done, yet,” Slade continues. “I don’t want a single drop dripping out.” 

Dick blinks, and then Slade’s dragging him down on his knees in front of the couch, a cushion falling with him. At least this time he gets to lean against something, he consoles himself.

And then he has another gun in front of him, because how could Dick ever think one would be enough for Deathstroke? He doesn’t even doubt that it’s loaded.

Slade puts it under his throat, moving it up and under his chin and forcing Dick to look up into Slade’s eye. There’s a light pressure against Dick’s throat, and though he knows that Slade said they weren’t done, like this, he can’t help but wonder. He swallows, feeling the gun move with his throat. 

His pulse quickens, a reflex response to having such a dangerous object so close to such a vulnerable area. He doesn’t speak, just watches Slade watch him, eye appraising him as if deciding how long Dick has to live.

“You’ve got enough come and oil in you already,” Slade remarks. “This time, I think you’ll do fine without lube.”

Fuck. He’s gonna die.

Slade laughs as he sees Dick’s panicked expression. “Don’t worry, I can be kind.” He raises the gun to Dick’s mouth, and Dick wonders if his kindness involves shooting him so that he’s in so much pain that he can’t complain about the pain in his ass. “You’ve got a minute to wetten this up.”

Dick… might not die.

He lunges forward immediately, not wasting time, gagging as he takes it down as far as he can in his mouth. But fuck, it’s even bigger this time, and Dick belatedly notices the Picatinny rail on the gun. It’s a fucking Desert Eagle. With the grooved edges like tiny hills on the top and bottom. The thought of that in him has him making a desperate, half-strangled noise.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Slade taunts cruelly. “Need help getting it all in?” He’s craning Dick’s head back by his hair again, tilting just so till it’s at the best angle for Slade to shove something down his throat, which he does so with relish.

Dick gags, sputtering, head spinning as he swears he feel it go down his throat –

– he swallows–

Who needs to breathe, anyway? If that gun shoots he’ll die sooner than he would from lack of air so as far as he’s concerned, breathing is secondary . His tongue dances – here and there – over the grooves and sides and every centimetre he can reach – 

Dick’s movements are frantic, sucking the gun like his life depends on it – and it does – but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t quite reach the trigger guard. It’s not his fault, the gun’s simply longer, but that won’t stop Slade from sticking the whole thing up his ass so Dick needs to do it, so he pushes and pushes till his eyes blur , and then–

“Times up, little bird.” And Slade’s pulling the gun out.

Dick stares helplessly at it, mouth open wide, like his mouth is a black hole that can suck the gun back in with the sheer hunger of it. The gun shines, a star spinning further and further away, connected only by a string of saliva to Dick’s lower lip, stretching and stretching obscenely before it ultimately falls to the floor. 

Slade eyes Dick’s work. “Disappointing,” he drawls, looking at Dick in such disgust that Dick’s eyes automatically flit to the gun, waiting for it to shoot, heart thumping. 

But there’s only a sigh, and Dick’s being thrown face down on the couch again. 

He shifts, and Slade’s there, the gun cocked and pressed roughly into his hole. He gasps at the stretch, spine arching and toes curling and already abused entrance rebelling against the repeated intrusions. It burns, more than the first gun, more than Slade’s cock, like it’s been shoved in entirely dry. Had his frantic efforts even made a difference? And when the edges catch on the rim, fuck, his eyes roll back and lets out a loud moan.

“Whore,” Slade says, scoffing. He twists the gun, and Dick keens sharply, rocking back as the edges practically scrape down his walls.

Why is he so fucking hard.

“A h – Slade – please – please – I can’t –” 

Slade growls, and suddenly the gun stills in him, Slade’s shadow moving over him terrifyingly, and then something’s getting shoved into his mouth between his teeth. For a second, as his tongue meets cold metal, he thinks it’s yet another gun, but as his eyes flick downward, he notices the two smooth ends. It’s the suppressor, caught horizontally between his teeth and keeping his mouth open, and Slade’s already securing the ends around his head with the rag for the gun oil.

“Perhaps now you’ll learn how to shut up, hm?” And then Slade’s back in position, digging in that accursed gun deeper and deeper.

And it’s just so much. His body’s trembling and sweat slicked, flushed with heat and arousal and all the makeshift gag does is make his words unintelligible, the suppressor does nothing at all to suppress the lewd moans and desperate whimpers and loud pleas that leaves his mouth. He bites down on it as Slade cruelly pumps the gun in and out with no regard for his comfort in an effort not to make so much noise, but it doesn’t work . He keens as Slade hits prostate, back arching and legs kicking out futilely. Drool collects in his mouth as he’s unable to close it, dripping out of his lips and onto the couch.

Sensation overwhelms him, as the gun hits deep, bruising his insides all over again. It stings, and Dick hisses in pain. He’s started bleeding back there, probably, and all that does is make him rut his cock into the sofa because it just feels so good.

“There you go,” Slade purrs, twisting the gun this way and that. “You took all of it.”

Dick sobs a little, because, fuck, it’s so much, too much, too deep touching places that should have never been touched, too wide, stretching him out till it’s a wonder his hips haven’t broken, and too sensitive, feeling every groove and bump like they’re spikes tearing at his walls, too deadly, every push reminding him how easily he could die – till everything build and compounds and multiplies until it turns into something that’s just good.

“Ah – ah – Sa – Saeh – ah! ”

Even now, he can’t stop himself from crying out for Slade, even as he wiggles and squirms, unsure if he’s trying to run away or run to him.

A sigh. “How many fucking times will I have to tell you fucking stay still?”

A second later, Slade’s picking up another gun again. 

Dick’s eyes widen – he recognizes this gun. The slick, shining design. The Cabot 1911. He’s seen Slade not only use it, he’s seen Slade kill someone with it, on an occasion they were supposed to be working together. Slade has shot them, when there had been less than a meter of space between them. Had their blood splatter all over his suit. Remembers trying futilely to save their life when they were already dead. Slade nonchalantly wiping off the blood that had gotten on his gun on Dick’s hair. Fuck. 

It digs into the sensitive skin between his shoulders and his neck, and Dick whimpers, trying to stay still even as the gun in his ass continues to thrust into him.

Click. 

His heartbeat picks up, fluttering like a hummingbird. Had Slade just turned the safety off?

“Since you seem to be having so much trouble staying still, boy, would you like me to help you?” 

“Nuh – ah – nuh – don– ”

“Perhaps if i shoot you here–” Slade drags it up to the back of his neck “–you’d stay still, finally?”

Dick whines helplessly.

Click. The gun trails down, cold and unforgiving against Dick’s heated skin, following the bumps of his spine. “Or maybe here?”

He can’t help it, a shudder goes through his body, his cock throbbing even as his brain screams at him.

Click. It slowly circles a spot at his side. “Here?” Slade says thoughtfully. “It would take you hours to bleed out, but it would keep you still.”

The image flashes in his mind, Dick bleeding and broken and Slade just using him over and over again as he always does and Dick has to bite the suppressor hard to avoid letting out a moan.

Click. It’s following the grooves between his ribs now, muzzle pointed over his lungs. “Or perhaps I’ll leave you gasping for breath, as you drown on your own blood on dry land.”

Is the safety on, or off? Dick can’t look behind him, but he’s going mad with the thought, his cock practically vibrating.

Click. It flutters to the left, bumping over his spine, drifting till it comes to a stop over where his heart should be. “Here? Perhaps not, you’d die too soon.”

Like that’ll stop Slade from taking what he wants, Dick thinks, chest aching with how hard his heart is beating against it.

Click. It travels, meandering up and over his shoulder. “Here?” It dips down, over the curve of his biceps to his elbow. “ Here?” Down, down, over his hands, leaving Dick shivering and trembling in its wake. “Or here? You’d never be able to hold your escrima sticks again – wouldn’t even be able to do something as simple as buttoning up your own shirt.”

Dick remembers Slade killing with this gun. It’s drilled into his brain – this is an instrument of death – Slade can and will use it against him if he feels like it, and Dick will die then. 

It still takes everything he has to remember the order is to not move and that he can’t rut himself to orgasm against the sofa like he wants to.

Click. “Or should I shoot here?” Slade muses as he digs it into his lower back, over his spine and above the crack of his ass. “You’d be paralyzed – no more flips, no more flying, no more walking – you’d never be able to run away ever again. That would be perfect, wouldn’t it?”

Fuckfuck fuck. Dick eyes are wet with tears, as incomprehensible babbles fall from his lips.  Slade holds it against there for a terrifyingly long time, all while Dick’s heart tries to beat its way out of his ribcage.

“Hm?” Slade says suddenly, a thumb wiping over the corner of his rim. “You’re bleeding,” he says, but didn’t stop thrusting the Desert Eagle in and out.

No shit. What was Slade expecting, saying that? Was he suddenly going to realize what an asshole he was and stop? Was he going to be nice?

“You’re bleeding, and yet still so tight. Perhaps I should simply shoot you inside you here, hm?”

...yeah, Dick didn’t know how he had ever thought Slade of being a halfway-decent human being either.

“You’d be so slick,” Slade muses, hand speeding up it thrusts, right against Dick’s prostate.

Dick shakes his head, trembling, babbling protests that go unheard. He’s hard. Fuck, He’s so hard, and there’s a growing pool of precome under him, the undeniable proof that he likes it. 

“I’d shoot you right here, put a bullet up your ass, and you’d bleed so fucking much,” Slade says, cruelly twisting as he pumps it in and out, and Dick can’t help but sob because it’s like his ass is being drilled into. Too much. It’s too much. “You’d look so good in red, boy, all that blood gushing out. I’d fuck you after, nice and hard, and you’d be so wet for me, wouldn’t you?”

“ Please,” Dick begs through the gag, uncaring if Slade understood him or not. “Slade, please.”

He doesn’t know what he’s begging for – for Slade to stop or for him not to. All he knows is that he’s unbearably aroused and needs to come damn it.

“Course, you might pass out from the blood loss, but since you’re a fucking slut, I bet you’d like the gun going off in you, hm? I bet you’re little cock would still be so hard you’d come before finally fucking dying, wouldn’t you?” Slade’s voice is harsher now, rough as he digs both guns into him, one at his back and the other in his ass. “It would be fucking beautiful.”

Dick’s mewling, sobbing, on the edge of coming. He doesn’t know if he’s aroused or utterly terrified or both – all he knows is that he’s shaking, trembling, heart pounding so hard it might explode. Just a little more – 

“You know what,” Slade murmurs, and the pressure at his back lifts, “I think I will shoot, boy.”

Dick barely has time to register the words, adrenaline pulsing through his whole body as both his heart and mind screams–

– a harsh shove of the gun against his prostate–

–pleasure bursts–

BANG!

His cock, always the blubbering, brainless idiot, quite happily comes as Dick collapses bonelessly onto the sofa, brain blanking out.

Slade – Slade just –  Slade just shot him. Oh fuck, Slade shot him.

Slade’s laughing softly, all while he’s shaking, crying, – because Slade shot him –

And then a ray of common sense slaps him in the face and shakes him by the shoulders and quite reasonably points out he wouldn’t be able to hear any of that if Slade actually shot since his eardrums would be shot to hell. His stomach’s wet, but mostly with come and some blood from the cuts , not with blood gushing out from a new hole. And that while his ass hurts, it’s not exploding with pain like it would have if a bullet had exploded there. Slade – didn’t shoot him?

But he heard it.

The confusion must show on his face, because with another bout of chuckles, Slade tells him, “Look left.”

Dick looks, sniffling as he looks through blurred eyes and sees another punched out hole on his sofa.

“It was a blank anyway,” Slade adds offhandedly, pulling out the gun.

Slade… tricked him. 

Dick doesn’t know if it’s the relief that rushes through him, the mental and physical wringer he’s just been put through, the exhaustion finally catching up with him, the burning humiliation at being such a mess, the frustration of having to deal for years of Slade being an utter asshole, or the sheer loss he feels in his empty hole, but he can’t help but cry harder through the gag.

Blessedly, Slade sticks a finger inside him, swirling it around in the mess inside him, and he calms a little, but all too soon, it’s gone. 

He whines loudly, distressed, but then Slade’s picking him up, cradling him between his arms, and Dick desperately leans into him, wrapping his legs around Slade. At this point he doesn’t care if Slade’s still planning on shooting him, he just needs to touch him.

Slade settles with Dick sitting on his legs with them slightly apart, so the filth dripping from Dick’s ass falls down onto the sofa. A hand goes to the back of his head, undoing the knot and prying the suppressor out of his mouth. “Suck, boy,” Slade orders as he replaces it with his dirtied finger.

Obediently, Dick follows, latching onto it with a quiet desperation. There’s the coppery tang of blood, the bitterness of cum, the tang of the oil, and beneath that, the acrid taste of gunpowder and the leather of Slade’s glove. 

But it’s not enough. 

Dick tugs restlessly on his cuffs, making a half distressed, half desperate sound. He wants to hold Slade. Wrap his arms around him, bury his face in his neck, have Slade touch him with his hands , not his gloves, wants Slade to take off his stupid mask and kiss him again. He knows he shouldn’t, that hoping for these things from Slade is an exercise in disappointment, but he wants. His entire body and heart aches with the need for it.

He wants to touch and be touched .

He just...

...he wants.

Slade tugs out his finger, and though Dick tries to lurch forward, Slade keeps him pinned with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Slade,” he begs through teary eyes, feeling like he’s about to explode. He tries to pull his hands forward again, hands straining painfully against his cuffs. He doesn’t know what to say. To make Slade understand.

Slade pulls off his mask, blue eye looking into Dick’s own. “I’ve got you,” Slade promises, and then his hand is over Dick’s – over his cuffs – and he’s free.

Immediately, Dick tears off the remnants of his suit hanging onto his arm, noticing with relief Slade doing the same with his gloves. He practically hurls his arms around Slade, burying his face in the man’s neck, shuddering as he takes in a deep breath, trying to mould himself to him.

Hands settle around his back, stroking down his spine, like he’s a pet to be soothed. Dick can’t find it in himself to be least bit offended. He just snuggles closer, trying to get his hiccuping sobs under control. Most times, Dick can make his crying pretty – weaponize it. This isn’t one of these times. It’s dirty, messy, loud, and Dick doesn’t want Slade to see him this way.

A finger dips down, encircling his hole, and automatically, Dick pushes down. With a soft chuckle, Slade takes it out before it’s even an inch in, making Dick distressingly aware of how empty he is. He doesn’t like that. Not now. He lets out a pitiful whine.

“It’s alright,” Slade says. “I’ve got something to fill you up.”

Dick thinks he’s talking about his cock at first – he can feel Slade’s arousal – but it’s something smaller, more cylindrical, colder… and more metallic. One after another, more and more.

...It was a bullet, wasn’t it. Slade was putting fucking bullets up his ass. He sniffles, but it’s still something. He’s not empty anymore. He just hopes Slade doesn’t decide to light a match and stick it inside. 

He breathes, trying to get his frantic breaths under control instead, grounding himself with his hold on Slade and Slade’s hold on him, each breath bringing in the smell of leather and oil and that floralish scent of that shampoo Slade prefers. And slowly, his shaking, trembling body, becomes more limp, exhaustion lining it. His eyes don’t quite resemble a waterfall anymore, though they remain wet and watery, and there’s a growing heaviness in his ass as the bullets pile up.  

Even so, he thinks he’ll be okay – and then Slade decides to lift him up. He makes a protesting noise, but Slade hushes him.

“ Shhh, pretty bird.” And then Slade’s pushing into him, into his ass that’s already so full, and he has to bury his face down onto Slade’s shoulder to stifle a scream. It feels like his ass has expanded past capacity, like it’ll burst and explode any moment, and still, Slade pushes on.

For fuck’s sake, when will Slade be done with him? He’s tired, damn it.

...and Slade still hasn’t used any lube. 

Dick slams his eyes tightly shut as his oversensitized walls scream in protest, eyelashes wet with tears once more. He clings, tightly, to Slade as much as he can, as he lets the man bounce him on his cock. Slade’s grip on his bruised ass sends up flares of pain every time, but even that sensation’s dulled in comparison to each time Dick is brought down. The bullets inside him shift and poke different parts of his walls, sometimes his prostate, sometimes not, and Dick can’t help but squirm, but all that does is create friction against his cock, rubbing it against Slade’s suit. 

“You can come one more time for me, can’t you?” Slade murmurs. 

Dick twists helplessly. “I can’t – again –”

“Can’t you, boy?” Slade repeats firmly, as he brings Dick down on his cock with a little more force.

With a shudder, Dick answers meekly, “Y–yes. S-slade – Slade – please –”

“Good boy,” Slade says approvingly, pressing a kiss to Dick’s neck and then wrapping a hand around his cock. Dick cries out at the sudden touch, unable to help himself. But Slade’s hand is warm and firm around his cock, coaxing it to full hardness in no time, and soon enough, Dick is helplessly rutting into it, feeling Slade cock slide into and out of his ass each time, feeling the bullets bounce around off his walls each time.

His legs begin to burn, shaking with the effort, but Slade hasn’t come yet so he has to keep moving, keep rising and falling. “Keep moving,” Slade barks harshly, as Dick comes to stop when the burn gets too much. “Did I fucking tell you to stop?” Dick cries, and with herculean effort, moves despite the screaming of his thighs. Every time he falters, tries to rest, hesitates, Slade gives a harsh tug upwards on his cock, quite literally forcing him up by pulling on it or risk losing an important part of his anatomy.

“Please – ah – please –” He sobs, but Slade is merciless, pushing and pushing till he got what he wanted.

Eventually, Slade comes with a grunt, coating the bullets inside with his release, and Dick’s finally able to stop. Slade then spends the next few seconds jerking Dick’s to the edge. White spurts, and Slade doesn’t stop pumping, coaxing out every drop he can milk from it. Dick can’t even protest, can’t even say anything at all except let out pained, pleading little whines in between his sobs. Slade ignores it, not relenting in his efforts till Dick’s reduced to a mess, shivering and crying quietly on Slade’s cock and in his hands, unable to do anything but cling.

A hand lands on his hair, petting it, soothing him when it’s finally over, when Slade decides to stop, calming him down again. 

It’s nice, a stark contrast to before. 

Dick could get used to it.

But then there’s a shift, and Dick’s seeing silver metal in the corner of his eyes. Resigned, he notes what it is – another gun. A Smith and Wesson 500, if he’s remembering Slade’s lessons right.

It makes Dick’s heartbeat stutter, but at this point, he’s tired. Let Slade kill him if he wants – Dick got the sex he wanted, and now all he wants is sleep.

...but fuck, it’s big. Longer than any of the other guns Slade used on him.

“Don’t think you’ll be able to take it all today,” Slade muses, as he finally lifts Dick off his cock only to immediately replace it with the barrel. “But we’ll see how it goes. Leave you plugged up tight with it. Keep all those bullets and my come all inside you, nice and warm. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

There’s a dull thrum of horror at that, but all Dick can think of is how that would feel – having something that big stuffed into his already stuffed whole. Full. 

Slade pushes it in without any real force, and it only goes up to a few inches with all the bullets in the way. It’s oiled again – he didn’t even notice when Slade did it – but Dick’s breath still hitches as he feels it push its way in and push aside the bullets. Fuck, it feels like someone’s trying shove a baseball bat up his ass. “That’s enough, I think–”

Dick pushes down, mouth parting in a cry as his insides protest vehemently. He should not be doing this. He’s at his limit. But Slade always pushes him past his limits anyway. Dick can do it to himself, too.

Slade stops, mouth parting a little as his eyes flick down, and stares.

Leveraging his knees, Dick pushes and pushes, sweat dripping off his trembling body. He gasps, feeling it slip inside more, feeling like he had a whole foot of it shoved inside him instead of just an inch or two. He whimpers, but it’s still not the whole barrel yet. He needs more. He needs to take it, take all of it. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, eyes closed and body tensed. He has to do it. He can do it. He wants to be good. He pushes himself up with his grip on Slade’s shoulders, gun hanging out of his ass like it’s a tail, then lets go and slams himself down.  

His mouth opens, trying to scream but it’s like all the air has been knocked out of him. 

Fuck, he’s so full. 

He trembles, head drooping with exhaustion as he slumps bonelessly onto Slade’s body, breathing shallowly. With a wince, he shifts – he can’t even bend properly. It hurts, but it hurts so good, too good. Fucking hell his stomach feels bloated, heavy and burdened with something that make him shudder.

A hand, warm and calloused, lands over his stomach. Slade’s. It caresses at first, soft little touches and pets, and then it presses . Dick can’t help but let out a pained noise as the bullets shift inside him. 

A hand strokes the back of his neck.

“Good boy,” Slade tells him. “Didn’t expect you to pull that off, but you did. Good job.” 

And then Dick’s crying again, from relief. He didn’t disappoint Slade.

He has no idea how long he stays there, no idea why Slade’s bothering to stick around, but eventually, his tears come to a stop. Not because he’s done crying, but because he’s simply too tired and exhausted to do so anymore.

“You with me, kid?” Slade murmurs, still petting his back.

Dick contemplates not answering, wondering if Slade will stay if he stays quiet. “Yeah,” he answers hoarsely. He winces, again as that small movement has his backside shrieking again. “Slade – the gun–”

“All the bullets for it are already in you,” Slade interrupts. “This one’s not loaded.”

“Oh,” Dick says numbly, slumping again into Slade, exhausted. He doesn’t bother to tell Slade to take it out – he knows Slade won’t. “You ruined the sofa,” he mumbles, for a lack of better things to say.

“I’ll get you a new one,” Slade replies easily.

They settle into silence again, Dick wanting to stretch out this moment for as long as possible.

After a moment, Slade says neutrally, “You cried a lot, today.”

Dick blinks, slow and tired. His hands tighten around Slade. He’s silent, for a while. Slade doesn’t push him.

“I thought you killed me,” he confesses, overcome with a sudden urge to blurt out words he’d usually know better than to say. “And I wasn’t angry at all. Just – just sad. Because that meant you were leaving. That you didn’t want me . ” The words are fumbled, rushed and broken, and it feels like it’s too small to encapsulate just what he means. 

Slade understands, though. “Huh,” Slade says simply, thoughtfully, in response to what feels the most dangerous confession in his life. “You know I’ll never be done with you.” the words are oddly stilted, like Slade’s trying to say something he wasn’t even aware needed to be said.

He thinks of how Slade, how he chases and chases, always leaving but always swinging back just like a pendulum for years on end. How Slade’s held his life in the palm of his hands so many times, and Dick’s still here. The Cabot 1911, a gun Slade’s used to kill, that Slade knows he remembers, an instrument of death that Slade used instead to give him quite possibly the best orgasm of his life. 

He thinks of Slade, and how he’s still here, holding onto Dick. “Yeah,” Dick answers. “I know.”

Slade hands are warm and comforting, heavy and grounding. They trace patterns in his skin, and Dick closes his eyes and sinks gratefully into unconsciousness.

–/–

The morning after, Dick wakes up in bed and blearily eyes the ceiling. His ass aches, uncomfortably full. He regrets. Mourns, for he truly makes the worst decisions. On the other hand, that was quite possibly the best sex he had in his entire life, and will serve as excellent masturbation material when he’s lonely. 

The bed’s empty on the other side. Dick tries not to think about it.

There’s also a glass of water and painkillers, which Dick gratefully downs. His cuts are bandaged too, and going by how his body doesn’t feel like a sticky mess, and actually even smells nice –nice being Slade particular brand of soap – Slade probably gave him a sponge bath too, before he left. 

How nice of him. 

Dick wishes he took out the bullets too. 

He hobbles to his closet to pick up a pair of clothes, raising an eyebrow at the new sets of clothes. Slade’s. He must have decided to keep some spares around if they had sex and his got ruined. It’s a lot, though. He hesitates. After a moment, he picks his own pants, but one of Slade’s shirts. “It’s not like he’ll be around to make fun of me for wearing his stuff anyway,” Dick mutters under his breath.

Next, he hobbles to the bathroom to freshen up, and glances quizzically at sudden new toiletries. Strange. Is Slade planning on dropping by more? He shrugs, then picks up the new Superman themed toothbrush, since it’s obviously his. After he finishes, he then begins to hobble his way to the kitchen. He curses, stopping before he can even get there, and contemplates that perhaps, he should first clear out his ass.

But he’s hungry. 

Sex with Slade always leaves him hungry. Grumbling, he keeps hobbling, then stops and stares at the sofa.

It’s new. And looks… surprisingly comfortable. Dick has to admit, in comparison to that, his old sofa was an ugly son of a bitch. But it was his son of a bitch, damn it, and now he’s wondering if all of the sex last night was an elaborate plan to get rid the sofa without Dick complaining too much. There’s a nice fluffy rug too, in front of it, and Dick resists the urge to dig his toes into it.

But for fuck’s sake, did Slade really tie a bunch of guns – different ones from last night at that, meaning more guns – together and then stick a bunch of black roses – enough to make a gigantic bouquet – into the muzzle? What the fuck? Is that supposed to be a makeshift vase? 

Slowly, Dick’s growing more paranoid. 

He’s always let Slade decide the tone of their visits, whether Slade will be a kinky sexy asshole that pulls off shit like sex with guns , or a lazy fucker that collapses on Dick with his cock still inside, or just a rough bastard that doesn’t give a shit about whether Dick comes or not and leaves as soon as he comes. Dick doesn’t even complain when he wakes up in the middle of the night to Slade fucking him!

But this is ridiculous – who does Slade think he is, interior designing Dick’s apartment like it’s his own?!

Dick has half a mind to call Slade up and demand he remove his stupid decorative ideas right now.

Slade pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Oh good, you’re up,” he says nonchalantly, dressed in white t-shirt and loose pants. “Come and have breakfast.”

Dick nearly jumps out of skin. “What the fuck,” he says dumbly, eyes darting from the sofa, to the vase, to Slade. Why is Slade still here?

“Do you like the flowers?” Slade asks. “The florist suggested them.”

A dull ache begins to throb in his temple. “Slade,” he asks flatly, about a hundred and ten percent done with Slade’s shit, “Why the hell would you give me flowers that symbolize death?”

Slade frowns. “That can’t be right,” he says. “Are you sure?”

“I got interested in flower pressing for like all of a month or so when I was twelve, but yes, I’m sure,” Dick answers drily, leaning on the wall.

“That’s not what the florist said,” Slade insists.

“And what, exactly, was it that you asked for?” Dick asks.

“Something that would say, ‘Your life is mine’,” Slade answers promptly.

Dick imagines Slade, tall and imposing as he is and with his intense resting bitch face, walking into a flower shop and demanding something like that. The florist, shaking and fearful, quite possibly believing Slade’s an axe murderer about to send a death threat to his latest victim. Yeah, he can see how Slade’s request might possibly be misinterpreted in that case. The poor florist. He tells Slade as much, trying to suppress a chuckle if only because it’ll make his stomach hurt.

Slade frowns, eye hardening.

“You’re not killing the florist,” Dick says with exasperation.

Slade glares. Like a cat, one that just had it’s toy taken away. Dick very carefully doesn’t call him adorable.

“Just get in the kitchen,” Slade says irritably. “Your kitchen was disappointingly empty. I had to go out and get groceries.” He turns around to head back into the kitchen.

What.

Slade even went grocery shopping for him? This was getting ridiculous.

“Slade, wait,” Dick calls out.

With a put out sigh, Slade turns. “Yes?”

Dick hesitates, heartbeat picking up. Slade notices, quirking up an eyebrow in response.

“You stayed,” Dick says carefully, thinking of Slade’s things in his closet and toiletries in his bathroom. The sofa, the roses. “You don’t usually stay. Is this going to become a habit?” Was having breakfast and watching TV together going to be a thing? Was mutual grocery shopping going to be a thing? Were flowers going to be a thing? Were they a thing? Did they have a thing? Did Slade think they had a thing?

Fuck, was sticking a gun to his head and up his ass and threatening his life Slade’s fucked up way of staking a more permanent claim on Dick’s life? 

“Yes.” 

And before Dick can say another word, he’s gone inside.

With a growl, Dick follows, ready to give Slade a piece of his mind – “Hey!” he yelps instead as he’s suddenly lifted up and bent over the kitchen table.

“Yes?” Slade says casually, like he’s completely innocent of pulling down Dick’s pants that very moment. 

“ Slade,” Dick hisses angrily. “I’m hungry, fuck me later.”

“Are you even capable of eating with these still in you?” Slade asks, tapping the gun still stuck up Dick’s ass. Of course, he puts a lot more force into it than a normal person, eliciting a shiver from Dick as the vibrations work their way up.

“You’re just horny from seeing me in your shirt,” Dick accuses, quickly regaining his mental facilities. 

“And you’re horny just from being reminded there’s a gun up your ass,” Slade retorts, nudging Dick’s erection, always the tattletale. Why did his body betray him like this?

Dick sputters. “You can’t kinshame, you asshole! You fucked me when I was fourteen. You’re the reason I have a gun kink.”

“Then I better take responsibility and make sure you come from this, hmm?” Slade points out reasonably. “I don’t know why you’re complaining.”

Dick would like to protest, he really would, but then Slade’s tugging at the gun and in no time at all, he’s melting into a puddle of goo beneath Slade’s fingers.

“Not – playing – fair,” Dick protests a while later, as Slade dribbles in oil around the rim to make the slide smoother as he pumps the gun in and out. Slade said he would get the bullets out, and now he’s just using it as an excuse to fuck Dick with a gun again. 

Slade laughs. “You must still half asleep if you think I would, for one moment, ever play fair.” 

Dick whimpers, clenching onto the edge of the table. It creaks with the force of the thrusts, but remains steady. Dick doesn’t know how the hell he had managed to sleep with that monstrous thing inside him – oh, that’s right, he had been too fucked out to care – but now he’s aware of just how much it is. Even with the whole night to get used to it, it still feels like too much, like he’s caught at the edge of a precipice, hanging off about to fall.

He comes, eventually, and spends a few moments simply laying there panting after Slade finally, finally takes the gun out.

“Can I get bullets out now?”  Dick hisses.

Slade swats him. “They’re called cartridges. You know that.”

Nobody cares, Dick thinks dully, looking utterly unimpressed. “Sure. Whatever.”

Slade sighs. “Let me loosen you up a bit more.”

It sounds like a reasonable idea, so Dick agrees. That was a mistake, in hindsight.

It’s fine at first, Slade pouring more oil over his rim, into his ass. The oil’s a little warm, heated, and feels pretty comfortable, so Dick actually enjoys the feeling. Fingers dip in, two entering at first, and with a little more oil and coaxing, it becomes three. Dick relaxes, shifts till his head is resting on his arms. It’s nice and slow and lazy, and Dick contemplates catching a nap.

Slade adds his pinky, and now Dick’s really feeling the stretch, soft pants starting to leave his mouth. It burns a little, but Slade’s used enough lube that it feels stretched in that good way. The fingers dig in, twisting this way and that, pushing their way in all the way up the knuckle, and while it’s intense, it’s still fine. The looser he is, the easier it’ll be to push out the bullets, right? 

Then there’s suddenly another poking it’s way in, and Dick tenses. “Slade–“ 

“Hmm?”

Dick starts to prop himself up on his arms. “You better not be planning on–“Slade pushes him down with his free hand, and Dick curses. 

“Relax,” Slade says, voice tinged with amusement as his fingers form a cone. “Or would you prefer it hurts?”

“Asshole,” Dick growls. “Why are you like th– aaAH!” Dick shrieked as Slade decided to shove it in all at one forceful thrust. “Slade!” He trembles, gasping. The guns, they had all been long, but this is just thick. Wide. Filling.

Slade gives shallow thrusts, slow little movements. “Watch your language,” Slade chides, sounding entirely too gleeful as he proceeds to root around in Dick’s insides. “I’m doing this to help you, boy, so calm down.”

Dick groans, and with a defeated grumble, stops trying to get up. 

That fucking hand.

If this is the type of shit Slade will keep pulling him into, Dick’s going to go utterly mad. 

Apparently satisfied with the slickness of his wrist, Slade opens up his hand inside, twists it, grabs a couple of bullets before closing again. “ Relax, kid,” Slade repeats, and as Dick obeys, Slade slowly pulls his hand out, stretching to keep it open and let the bullets fall out. 

“ Shit,” Dick hisses again, feeling the stretch of the rim. He clasps his hands tightly onto the sides of the table again, nails digging into wood.

“That was only three,” Slade murmurs as he puts his fist back in. “We’ve got a long, long way to go.”

Slade repeats the process, again and again, all while Dick feels like at this point Slade could flip him inside out with how stretched he is. He whimpers, skin still sensitive, but Slade is steady and relentless in his efforts, pulling out bullet after bullet after bullet. 

Dick’s hard again, and it’s not like Slade’s even trying particularly to arouse him – it’s just the stretch. It’s so much. Fuck, he comes he doesn’t come from this. That would just be embarrassing.

After a while, Slade starts to get impatient, and tugs out a fistful of bullets, not bothering with niceties, knuckles catching and brushing against his rim. “Fuck!” Dick shouts, back arching. 

“You’re fine.” Slade rolls his eyes, and almost punches his way in again. 

“ Fuck,” Dick repeats emphatically, but quieter.

Slade moves faster now, now that he’s seen that his body can take it, but there are fewer bullets now too. Almost gone. Slade pushes in his arm, as far as he can manage, each time managing to push in a little more, searching for the bullets and pulling them out.

Dick’s a writhing, moaning mess, of course. Teary eyes, whimpers and pleas fall from his lips like he’s overflowing with them, his entire body shaking as Slade holds him in place.

At one point, Slade has to bend and flex his arm around a curve, and Dick screams as he quite literally rearranges his insides. 

Slade chuckles, finds the last bullet, and pulls it out. 

Dick knows better than to assume he’ll stop. He’s right. 

Slade pushes in, this time setting a hard and fast pace.

“Slade – Slade – fuckfuck fuck – please–“ Dick’s babbling, on the edge of tears, as Slade punches his prostate with unfailing accuracy, pushing and pushing till Dick falls and finally comes.

He’s left gasping and gaping and limp like boneless jelly, and Slade goes to wash his hands off after giving his ass another slap. 

Dick thinks he couldn’t get off the table if he tried, even as he swears he feels a breeze inside his hole.

“You should really take a look at your ass,” Slade says as he comes back, amused.

Dick mumbles back something that might be “Fuck you,” or “Kill me”. It’s hard to tell with the mush his brain has been reduced to. 

“It’s gaping, you know,” Slade continues, disregarding whatever Dick said. “Utterly wrecked. I’ve seen whores with their ass in a better state than yours is in. So puffy. Red. Ruined.”

With a grunt, Dick pushes himself off the table. “Where the fuck are my pants?” 

Slade blinks at him as he sets plates on the table, like he has no idea what Dick’s talking about. “What pants?” 

Dick scowls. “Slade!”

“You won’t need pants,” Slade informs him blithely, sitting down and undoing his own, revealing his erect cock, because of course Slade wouldn’t wear underwear. “Bet your asshole’s feeling quite empty, isn’t it? Why don’t you come over here and be a good little cockwarmer and fill that up?”

“I’m not–“ Dick flushes, realising that he is, in fact, feeling achingly empty.

Slade arches an eyebrow. “Yes?” he drawls.

With a glower, Dick limps over to him, and sets himself down on Slade’s cock. “Not a word,” he hisses, embarrassed as his body almost instantly relaxes, but too comfortable to leave.

Slade smirks, and then proceeds feeds Dick breakfast.

–/–

“I can’t believe you’re making me clean them up,” Dick complains from where he’s sitting cross legged between Slade’s feet, head leaning against the sofa. The rug is quite comfortable – and Dick has the sinking suspicion Slade intends for him to spend a lot more time on it – but there’s an ache in his empty hole that just won’t leave. 

Slade looks down at him from where he’s sitting on the sofa, knees spread apart and touching DIck’s shoulders. “You got them dirty,” he says drily. “They need to be cleaned, and while I appreciate you keeping my bullets warm for me like a good little bitch, I don’t intend to waste bullets.”

“They’re your guns,” Dick retorts, “You should be helping out, asshole.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “Well if you’re going to be a brat…” Slade sticks his hand in between the foam cushions, and pulls out a small pistol. 

Dick’s eyes widens. “Have you been hiding guns all over my apartment?” he demands, growing alarmed. What the fuck is he going to do if Bruce finds them when he inevitably drops by to hide his not-so-secret cameras?

Slade just smirks, and deliberately, in front of his eyes, loads the gun, cartridge by cartridge.

“Slade,” Dick starts, heart beat picking up. “Don’t you dare.” And yet, he doesn’t even try to run.

“Clean up your mess, boy, and I might decide to be nice enough to plug you back up with this,” Slade drawls, nudging the muzzle against his neck.

Dick swallows thickly, feeling his empty hole clench in anticipation. Wordlessly, with a pout, he turns to the coffee table, where all the guns and bullets are laid out and starts.

“Good boy,” Slade says, and pats his head. 

The movements are ingrained into muscle memory, soothing in their familiarity, and eventually, Dick is lulled into a relaxed state, leaning back as he works. A hand idly cards through his hair, comforting, while Slade watches the television. 

It’s nice, and Dick thinks maybe things will turn out okay after all.

–/–

That very evening, the doorbell rings just as Dick finished washing his hair. Grimacing, Dick quickly towels it off – he had to wash it twice today because Slade just had to come all over his head – and wobbles his way to the front door. Sheesh, that man. Dick didn’t understand why he suddenly decided he had to jerk off in the middle watching TV, it wasn’t even porn on the channel! Just veep, and Dick had been enjoying it too until Slade suddenly took out his dick and spattered fluid all over his hair. 

Then proceeded to go on watching the show like nothing happened, and didn’t let Dick up to clean himself off until after he finished cleaning Slade’s guns. He washed it once then, then had to wash it again because the phantom sensation of crusty hair still lingered and it sucked . 

He shudders, feeling an ache go through his ass. 

It’s the gun. Slade stuffed it up his ass, after coming in him like three fucking times. It doesn’t do a perfect job of keeping all of Slade’s come locked inside him, most of it probably going down the muzzle and collecting inside the barrel – yet another mess for Dick to clean up – but Slade had told him to leave it in until he came back from grocery shopping, or else . 

Dick sighs. Dealing with Slade is always such a pain. 

“Hello?” Dick calls out, but there’s no answer. He looks through the peephole, but no one’s there. Tensing, Dick opens the door cautiously, eyes darting around to spot a threat, but it’s empty except for a package. Dick eyes it suspiciously, then relaxes as he spots the Wayne logo. He brings it in, wincing again as pain shoots up his spine when he bends to pick it up. Ugh. 

He first gives a cursory check to make sure it’s not a trap, and then, using a penknife Slade had carelessly left out, he opens it up on the coffee table, not quite sure what to expect from Bruce. 

It’s a brand new Nightwing suit. 

It’s nice.

Very nice.

But.

There’s just one problem.

…Dick hadn’t asked Bruce for a new uniform yet.

With a sinking feeling, Dick realizes Bruce must have known his suit was ruined. He must have known how it happened. He must have reinstalled the cameras already. That meant… Bruce saw everything. Yesterday. Today.

Dick stares out blankly with dead eyes. He has the sudden urge to throw himself off a cliff, or perhaps into a volcano, or go for a vacation in the Arctic in a swimsuit. 

He realizes, belatedly, Slade should be back by now. He isn’t. Dick’s willing to bet that Bruce has probably gone to confront Slade. So they’re probably going to fight. And Dick knows how that fight’s going to end.

Either he won’t be able to enjoy mind blowing sex with guns anymore, or he won’t get shiny new uniforms for all the ones Slade ruins anymore.

Which means Dick, still hobbling, has to mediate between them. His head throbs with an oncoming headache. And there’s another problem. If he foregoes the plug, Slade will notice and be pissed. If he doesn’t, Bruce will notice and be pissed. He groans, buries his face in his arms and mutters darkly, with emphasis, “ Fuck my life.”

...or maybe he should just text them both a sexy pic and tell them if they hurry, instead of fighting they could have a threesome instead?