Archive of Our Own

Title: To Conciliate a Tiger
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: DC Comics
Warnings/Categories: Slash. Some light bondage.
Pairing: Deathstroke/Nightwing (Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson)

Stirring his coffee is just making it tepid, but Dick does it anyway. It's a way he can move when he has to be still. Every clink of cutlery at the nearby tables makes him twitch, every raised voice makes him want to jump out of his seat or maybe his skin, every shout or laugh makes him feel like he's about to explode into a thousand bits flying off in a thousand different directions. Taking a deeper breath, Dick refines his focus on his breathing; he puts the spoon down, flattens his palm on the table, and pulls himself together, skin and flesh tight around the jitters. He knows the man across from him can tell how jangled his nerves are, but appearances count, after all.

This is all about appearances.

Slade Wilson stirs another sugar into his own coffee and takes a long unhurried sip. Then he sets his mug down, adjusts his eyepatch, and looks Dick up and down with one frost-blue eye. And smirks, craggy face full of amusement. "You look nervous, kid."

Dick tips just the right degree of carelessness into his shrug. "It's not every day I have coffee with a professional of your... caliber."

Slade laughs at that, a sharp brief bark, not closing his eye. "Really. In your line of work I would have thought you'd be more used to us." Dick doesn't say anything, there being nothing to say, and he doesn't drop his eyes, even though he wants to. Slade's smile is toothy above his short white beard, and a trickle like icemelt runs down Dick's spine. "So, besides this excellent coffee, why are we here?"

Appearances. "I know you're working with a certain group," Dick begins. Slade nods. "If you see me in that context, you need to not know me."

"I don't need anything, Grayson," Slade says, almost warmly.

Dick keeps from clenching his hand on the table into a fist, contenting himself with pressing his thumb against the edge hard enough to hurt. After a moment he makes himself nod. "Yeah. OK. I need for you to not know me, if you see me again."

Slade's smile widens. Dick holds himself still, tamping down the shivers though he can feel them jittering in his bones. "Tell me, why shouldn't I remember such a fine young man?"

"I'm willing to make it worth your while," Dick says, one word after another till they're all out of his mouth. He must be blushing, but he didn't stammer; a guy has to take his victories as he finds them.

"Really." Slade looks like he wants to laugh, but not scornfully. He looks... cheerful. Maybe a little interested. "How? I know you have some spending money at your disposal, but right now I'm not really in need of cash. I can even afford a bit of a vacation."

Dick nods. As if things were that simple for him, these days, ever. "I've got a little free time myself...?"

Slade's eyebrows shoot up, before he laughs, longer this time, throwing his head back. "Oh, Grayson," he says, cuffing Dick's shoulder with bruising friendliness, "you're in the wrong line of work."

Dick can't stop himself from glaring, especially when it just makes Slade smile. "Have we got a deal?"

Pathetic, Dick thinks as soon as he hears himself, and winces even harder when Slade's laugh-lines crinkle. "Oh, I don't know," Slade rumbles, leaning back in his seat. "Just how would we spend our free time together?"

"Uh... h-however you want?" That was a stammer. Dick swallows hard, and again as Slade leans forward.

"I should make you say it," Slade tells him, voice and tone low, big hand tipping towards his face, ice-chip eye holding his gaze. "I should make you tell me in front of this whole diner exactly what you're willing to do for me." Two big, calloused fingertips brush Dick's cheekbone, pressing slightly as they skim down his cheek, leaving his nerves crackling in their wake. "What you're offering to let me do to you."

Slade pinches Dick's cheek hard. "But I'm feeling generous today." He sits back again, and Dick realizes he's been holding his breath, and manages not to gasp. "Hmm. Gotham or New York?"

"New York." That came out really, really desperate.

Slade grins and pulls a business card out of his pocket without looking, his gaze still on Dick. "Meet me in the lobby in twenty-six hours. Don't be late." He flicks the card onto the table; when Dick slides his hand forward to take it, Slade's suddenly halfway across the table, covering Dick's hand with his own. It's a really big hand. "Yeah," Slade breathes hot across Dick's ear, "we've got a deal."

Then he stands up and leaves, whistling.

Dick slumps forward over his lukewarm coffee, shoving his hands into his hair, and carefully does not think.

Twenty five hours, fifty four minutes, and twelve seconds later, Dick walks into the lobby of a lush little hotel. Pacing would probably attract attention, to say nothing of walking on his hands, so Dick settles himself into a chair near the door and watches the foot-traffic through the window. New York was a good city for him, when he was with the Teen Titans; it's like Gotham but with more jobs and more hope, maybe, even if just as many problems. Dick wonders if he'll end up facing off against one of its protectors before he's done with all this, and when such short skirts came back into fashion.

The crowds surge along the sidewalk, cars honk in the street. It's too early and busy for a mugging, so Dick half-heartedly hopes for a purse-snatching or a pickpocket to give him an excuse to jump out there. Then he remembers that 'Crutches' is probably not that good of a Samaritan, and his hands clench on the arms of the chair.

Three minutes and ten seconds later, Dick can feel himself being watched like a buzzing in his skin, but he keeps looking out at the crowd. Shoppers with big bags, kids and their parents, businessmen in three-piece suits, businesswomen in pumps. People going about their lives, unaware of those plotting to wreck or end those lives. If he can help it, they'll stay that way.

Two minutes and eight seconds later, a shadow falls over Dick, and he concentrates on keeping his pulse steady, but it jumps when he looks up. "Wilson."

"Grayson." Like many capes, Slade looks more dangerous in civvies, the muscle and menace highlighted by being half-hidden. His sweater and slacks could have come from Bruce's closet, and Dick reminds his brain once again not to go there. Slade's smile is entirely different, anyway, and he reaches down to grab Dick's wrist and haul him up. Dick lets him. "You're early."

"You told me not to be late." Dick should probably smile, but Slade is smiling enough for both of them, and how tall is the man again? Six-four? Dick reminds himself that he's not a kid anymore, and that it's too late to wonder what he's gotten himself into.

Slade just grins. "You follow orders. Good to know."

Dick's not going to let himself shiver. Really. "Come on, kid," Slade says, taking Dick's elbow, "you really need to see the view from my room."

Dick nods dumbly, and Slade cocks an eyebrow at him as they walk across the lobby. He should banter, or smile, or look a little more cheerful than a small raincloud, but right now his mouth is dried out and stuck shut, and all he wants is a drink that burns and a dark corner away from his life.

Instead, he's in an elevator with a deadly mercenary, a man who's tried to take down the Titans and fought beside them, a man who's currently grinning at Dick like the proverbial cat with the proverbial bird. Which is kind of fitting. The thought props one side of Dick's mouth up, and Slade nods and starts to whistle along with the elevator music.

The room isn't big, but it is nicely furnished, with a thick carpet and a bedstead of real wood. "Hit the bar if you like," Slade says, kicking off his boots and heading into the bathroom. Dick glances at it as he takes off his shoes and socks, but takes the opportunity to sweep the room, digging his toes into the carpet in search of bugs. He finds a still camera wedged into one corner and a video camera tucked behind a picture frame; the latter is round and palm-sized, very similar in design to Batman's.

Dick swallows against the lump in his throat, disables the camera, and puts it back.

By the time Slade comes out again, Dick is standing by the window as if he's waited there the whole time, hands on the sill. "You're right, the view is gorgeous." Not that Dick is really looking at it. The way New York shines in the afternoon just makes him homesick for a city with a darker gleam.

"Find the camera?" Slade rummages in the bar. Four clinks probably means two glasses, and sure enough, Slade presses a glass into Dick's hand and stands behind him, just close enough to be noticeable. To be distracting. To loom.

"Both of them." Dick swirls the glass as he looks. Vodka. When he knocks it back its chill burn is exactly what he wanted, smoothing down some of the jitters. Slade moves a little closer, big and solid and dangerous behind Dick, and if he just leaned back...

It's not that he's not sure if he wants to. It's that he's not sure how he feels about how much he wants to.

He needs another drink, at least. "Any vodka left?"

Slade's laughter ruffles his hair. "You need to develop better tastes, kid. Here, try this." He holds up his own glass, and Dick can smell scotch, but when he reaches for it Slade catches his wrist and holds the glass to his mouth.

So Dick shrugs, and sips.

Smoke and peat and a more complex burn than the vodka, and during it all Slade's hand around his wrist, Slade's thumb on his pulse, Slade's arm around him holding the glass to his mouth. Slade tips the glass further, and Dick takes another cold-hot-smooth swallow before he remembers that he's dealing with one of the most dangerous people he's met in a life full of dangerous people, so maybe he's had enough to drink. He sets his own glass on the windowsill and reaches up to push Slade's hand away; Slade pushes the glass to the side, pressing it cold against Dick's face as he catches Dick's chin in two big fingers and turns his head.

"Come on, kid," Slade says in a deep, strangely familiar voice that makes Dick shudder, and kisses him.

Maybe it's the liquor burning through his brain, but Dick sags back against Slade, his lips parting. Slade tastes like scotch and heat, his beard is raspy soft on Dick's chin, and he kisses more gently than Dick was expecting from that voice. He lets go just long enough to put the glass down; his hand is big and rough and cool when he cups Dick's cheek again, rubbing Dick's trapped wrist with his thumb as he holds him and kisses him.

When Slade breaks the kiss Dick has to swallow a gasp, and Slade's smile is amused, almost fond. "Want more scotch?"

Dick shakes his floating head. "No. Thanks."

"Sure? You still seem nervous."

Fuck you, Dick thinks, and lets himself say, "I'm not a virgin, you know."

"You look as scared as one." Slade definitely looks like he's about to laugh. Furiously, Dick pushes up to kiss him again, hard, and this time Slade kisses just as hard in return, mashing Dick's bottom lip into a bruise, pushing Dick's head back against his shoulder. Hauling Dick by his wrist and shoulder, Slade spins them and tosses Dick onto the bed.

Dick twists dizzily as Slade plants his hands on the bed, and catches himself scooting back. The way Slade moves, the way he grins, is one more indication of the predator Dick's dealing with; he takes a deep breath and reminds himself he's not a rabbit.

Even when Slade moves over him, big and muscled and daunting, backing him up against the headboard. "Come on, Grayson, I won't hurt you."

Heh. "You won't?" Dick says, remembering the mad scramble to save Amy Rohrbach's life, and finds a grin of his own.

"Nah, it wouldn't be as much fun." Slade grabs Dick's shirt and undershirt in one hand and pulls them up and off him. With the other he grabs Dick's hair and pulls him in for another hard kiss, rougher than the last. Dick's dangerous too, right? He growls and bites Slade's lip, and Slade rumbles a deep purr and bites him back, grip tightening on his hair till his scalp burns to match his lips.

Slade lets go and pulls away, leaving Dick flushed and hot and sprawled across the bed as he calmly sits back on his heels. With half a mind to leap at the man, Dick pushes himself up on his elbows, opens his eyes and---

Dick's on his feet before he even resolves the flash in Slade's hand into a knife. The door's just a handspring away, but Slade's other hand is clamped round his ankle, and he looks up at Dick mildly. "Sit down," he says calmly. "Didn't I say I won't hurt you?"

Dick opens his mouth, closes it and sits. Slade lets him go, picks up his shirt and shakes the undershirt out of it, then cuts it in half.

"Hey!" Dick almost reaches forward, but thinks better of it. The knife is sharp, and the shirt's already a loss. "That was a perfectly good polo shirt!"

"Nice quality," Slade says, cutting each half up the side seam. "But I don't think it's your color." He tucks the knife into a perfectly obvious sheath that Dick kicks himself for not spotting before, and brushes a few threads off his pants.

Then Slade lunges.

Maybe Dick had more to drink than he'd thought. Or maybe he's just stupid. He does twist away enough that Slade has to catch him by the back of his jeans and haul him back onto the bed, and there's a brief scuffle before Slade gets Dick's wrist tied to one of the bars of the headboard and pins the other to the pillows. "Now, kid," Slade says reasonably, their noses an inch apart, "I know you can get out of this. But as a favor to me, and because you look good like this, you're not going to, right?"

Dick writhes, but Slade's got him pinned and grins at his struggles, and the way his body -- just his body, he tells himself-- is heating up at being held down is not helping. "You didn't tell me you wanted to tie me up," Dick protests, trying to pull his leg out from under Slade's knee.

"You didn't ask." Slade kisses his nose. "Gonna behave?"

Or he can twist free, leave, and take his chances with a Deathstroke who doesn't owe him anything. "Fine." Dick goes limp, and Slade kisses him as he ties his other hand to the headboard. Dick tries not to return the kiss for perhaps five seconds, if that long, before he gives in, tilts his chin up, and goes for it. Slade is broad and heavy and warm atop him, the sweater scratchy-soft on his skin, and the beard's just enough of a reminder of who he's really with and what the stakes really are to keep higher brain functions from switching off entirely.

Even if when Dick tugs at the chunks of shirt binding him to the headboard they feel like big hard hands, even when Slade runs big hard hands down his arms and his sides, even though Slade presses his head into the mattress and kisses him till he's lightheaded from lack of air.

Even when Slade's the one who gasps this time when he breaks the kiss. "All right, kid," he breathes, hot over Dick's damp mouth, "now we can really start to have some fun."

"C'mon, please?" Dick tugs at his tied hands, making it showy. Slade, sitting on the side of the bed, just smirks and watches as Dick begs and twists in a circle of lamplight. "Please untie me?" It's harder not to smile now, and Dick's had to remind himself more than once what the point of this is. His body thinks the point is that he's come twice already, and the cut-up shirt is soft enough to be comfortable around his wrists, and isn't this nice? The diminishing part of Dick's mind that actually functions reminds him that he's going to be sore not too long from now, and being two up isn't really fair, and maybe Slade's planning to hold it against him.

For now all Slade does is to put a hand on Dick's stomach. When he splays his fingers it's a little disconcerting how much real estate they cover; Dick can't help but remember how that fist felt slamming into his gut, and the memory doesn't make him one tiny bit less turned on. "Why should I, kid? You look just fine the way you are."

"Well, so I can touch you?" Slade's old enough to be-- he's a lot older than Dick, but you wouldn't know it to look at those muscles under firm, tanned skin, dusted with crisp white hair and laced with pale scars. Slade doesn't have as many scars as, well, some people Dick's known, but he has his share, and some of them look fascinating.

He certainly seems to like Dick's scars, for whatever that's worth. He spent way too much time stroking the new one on Dick's thigh, while Dick bit his lip and shook and struggled against memories; Slade's smile was almost sympathetic as he slid his hand up Dick's leg, before he made Dick's eyes cross in a good way.

Now Slade finds the long scar on Dick's hip and traces it idly, up and down and around. "What if I just want to touch you?"

That's fine, that's better than fine, except… "That's really flattering, you may have noticed I don't mind--" Slade laughs, digging his fingers in a little, and the skin all around the scar prickles-- "but I'm not really used to staying still this long."

"Maybe you should try it more often." Someone knocks at the door, calling "Room Service!", and Slade pats Dick and gets up. While he goes to retrieve a bathrobe, Dick drags one of the sheets up with his toes. He doesn't think he can be seen from the door, but he can't be sure Slade hasn't ordered a cart or something, and he's really thoroughly naked right now.

He also twists his hands experimentally. If he scooted up and picked a shoulder to not-quite-dislocate, he could probably get free before Slade noticed.

"Right on time," Slade tells the bellhop; from the sound of the kid's cracked, "thank you, sir!" he tips well. As soon as the door shuts, before he's even turned around, Slade says "Ah, ah, ah, stop that."

"Stop what?" says Dick, bright and cheery, as his heartbeat trips and thumps. He's got his right hand halfway down. Maybe if he tugs--

"I could make that tighter," Slade's tone is conversational as he returns with a covered tray and a bottle of wine. Dick blinks up at him innocently as he can, folding his fingers over to hide what he's been doing.

"Nice try, Grayson." Slade puts the tray on his lap and reaches over one-handed to yank Dick's hand back into place. "Do you want to keep feeling in your fingers?" As he sits back he brushes the sheet off Dick again.

"Okay, okay, you win." Dick tries to appear businesslike, or at least as serious as he can look naked but for a cut up shirt around his wrists.

Slade looks as amused as if Dick's pouting. Maybe he is. "I always do."

It would probably be impolitic to say "almost," but Dick does roll his eyes as well as his shoulders. "When did you order in?"

"Before you arrived." He hefts the wine. "You like chardonnay, right?"

"Sure, but I should probably stick to water for the moment." Slade just pours a glass of clear, crisp-scented wine and holds it halfway between them, and Dick knows exactly what Slade is doing. He'd do it himself, if their places were reversed.

Shit. When did he start thinking like a supervillain?

"Thirsty?" Slade asks, swirling the glass a little, smiling a little above it. Dick's mouth is even dryer than his throat, but he shakes his head. "It's a lovely vintage." Slade drains about half the glass and sets it down on the table beside the bed. "I know you're hungry. You've gotten skinny since my Bludhaven trip."

"Lean and mean, I was thinking." Dick grins a little.

Slade smirks and uncovers the tray. "Figured I'd feed you, anyway. Keep your strength up." That's really a lot of sushi, of several different kinds, salmon and eel and tuna and shrimp.

Salmon is Babs' favorite; suddenly Dick remembers going out with her and Tim in Bludhaven, to the surprisingly decent sushi joint he found between a block of Italian restaurants and a department store. He thinks of Tim's smile and Babs's laughter and the edamame they tossed at each other, and his eyes hurt so much he has to press them shut. There's nothing he can do about the tight ache in his chest.

"Hey!" Slade's voice is sharp with annoyance. "Wake up, will you?" Bracing against the astringent order, Dick gets his game face back up and his eyes open again, turning the sluggishness of his smile into laziness.

Slade smiles back, and drags the back of his hand across Dick's cheek, his knuckles rough with scars and hard use. "Nah. Maybe I should let you close your eyes, kid, if you want to. Let you imagine who you want." Slade's voice drops, spreading into a different kind of menace, and Dick's heart contracts around a splinter of ice as he recognizes it, or rather whose it's supposed to be. "Maybe you'd rather listen to Batman talk to you, eh?"

"Stop it," Dick snaps, as much Nightwing as he can. Slade just pets his hair. "Don't bring him into this."

"Why not?" Slade rasps his knuckles down Dick's neck, strokes his broad fingertips over Dick's collarbones. "Whatever will get you to just let go already, kid." His voice is so close, so wrong, Dick can't take it.

So he bares his teeth. "You know, Joey told me once--"

"Don't." Joey Wilson told Dick quite a few things, really, before they lost him. Dick is saved from having to choose one by the fact that he can't breathe with Slade's hand clenched tight round his throat. Slade's eye is narrowed to a sliver of blue, but Dick can still see the shadow in it, not that he can see much of anything else as his vision contracts, as his head starts to sink and float at the same time.

Slade really could choke him with one hand, or snap his neck, and the thought fills Dick with a kind of crazy, gleeful freedom. He doesn't struggle and doesn't stop smiling, and Slade curses under his breath, something Dick can't even hear with the roaring in his ears, and lets him go.

Gasping is never dignified, but Dick can at least turn his face into his arm till he stops coughing. When he looks up again Slade looks a little less angry and perhaps a little impressed. "Maybe--" Dick coughs a little more and starts over. "Maybe we both have people we'd rather not talk about." Slade glares harder, and Dick stares back. He didn't think he had any adrenaline left to flood his system.

Then Slade laughs, and pats his cheek just this side of a slap. "Good one. You've got a point, kid." He pokes Dick once, hard, over his heart. "Don't make it again."

Dick smiles up at Slade with as much pure sex as he can. Sex is simple. "I don't think there's anything wrong with this being just the two of us." He wriggles a little to resettle himself in bed and watches Slade's gaze catch on the way his arms are pulled over his head.

"You don't lack self-confidence, that's for sure. But you're too damn skinny." Slade shakes his head, sits back, and takes a piece off the tray. "You can use chopsticks, right?"

"Of---" Slade tucks the sushi into Dick's mouth, and Dick makes a small surprised noise around it, then consciously relaxes and chews. It's tuna, and it's really, really good, rich and meaty inside perfectly toothsome rice. Good enough to make Dick want to close his eyes and moan, so he does, and listens to Slade's deep chuckle. "Mmm, this is tasty. Thanks."

"Good to know. I'm more of a meat and potatoes type myself, but I know you kids like this sort of thing."

Dick looks up. He could eat all of it, but... "Are you going to feed me that whole platter? Because I really can use chopsticks, you know."

"It's OK. In Japan, this stuff is finger food, anyway." Slade dips another piece into soy sauce.

Dick raises an eyebrow, the way he would a hand, if the ones he has weren't tied down at the moment. "I, uh, you don't really have to."

"I don't have to do anything, Grayson." Slade feeds Dick the next piece; it's a white-fleshed fish this time, snapper maybe. Then he pats Dick's cheek.

Dick's had weirder meals, really. On the surface level, this is actually kind of fun. He lies here and looks good and gets fed really good sushi, Slade sips wine and watches him eat with an amused, tilted smirk, and it could all be a lot worse. He'd been prepared to work a lot harder to look like he was having fun, and not really expecting to actually have some.

Still. Slade is being strangely kind to him, even counting the bruises setting on his throat, and he's watching Dick with a rather narrow eye above his smile. This doesn't feel simple, underneath, and Dick has enough stuff to figure out already as he advances Crutches' career.

So, he goes for simplicity. He starts nipping at Slade's fingers, and grins as invitingly as he can; Slade grins back and sets the tray aside. This time when he wordlessly offers the bottle Dick nods, and the wine tastes crisp and refreshing, and unadulterated. Old habits are useful, after all. Once he trusts it Dick drains the glass.

"That put some color in your cheeks." Slade sounds as satisfied as Dick feels.

"How about anywhere else?" It can't hurt to arch a bit. Slade's eye gleams as he straddles Dick, big coarse-haired thighs on either side of his hips, big hands on his chest and arms. His robe falls open around them; as large as it has to be to fit him, it's almost like a blanket of soft cloth brushing Dick's sides, and... and Dick isn't going to let it remind him of anything, no matter how much each light brush makes his skin crackle.

Instead he tilts his chin up as he smiles, and Slade shifts a little over him, and all that scarred muscle makes Dick's palms itch with wanting to touch. "Let's see," Slade rumbles, dragging one hand down Dick's chest, stroking hard everywhere that isn't a pressure point. Slade slides his other hand up over Dick's throat, making him shudder with both memory and anticipation; he cups Dick's cheek firmly, brushing his lips with his thumb, harder on each pass.

When Slade shrugs off the robe, rocking a little, Dick can feel that he's hard. Slade's been hard at various points in the evening, but so far he's paid more attention to bringing Dick off. Maybe he finally wants something. Dick runs his tongue around the rough thumbtip pressing on his lip, and watches Slade's smile unfurl.

Slade strokes Dick behind his sac, a teasingly light brush of callouses, and Dick lets his lips part even as he shakes his head. "I, ah, I don't think I can come again, but you---"

"I've got faith in you, kid." Slade strokes just a little harder. "In fact, I've always admired your stamina, you know that?"

OK, no. Dick laughs, a little breathlessly. Maybe he is getting hard again. "I think you've got me, you know. Dinner, bondage, the whole works. You don't have to whisper sweet nothings as well."

"Seriously," Slade tells him jovially, cupping Dick's balls in one big hand, pushing the fingers of the other into his hair, "I've always admired your professionalism."

Dick's face heats up, the flush already flaring down his chest. He would squirm, but Slade is holding him firmly now by his hair and with a tightening hand. "Really, you don't have to."

Slade rumbles, almost laughing, as he leans down. "Your moves." He licks Dick's ear, his tongue hot and caressing, his body pressing Dick down like a solid wall.

"God. Please." Dick pulls against the grip on his hair; Slade's response is to chuckle and speed up, and he's hardening on each raspy-tingly stroke. "Really, stop."

"Your skill." Slade bites his ear, driving a moaned, "No..." out of Dick. "Your dedication," Slade purrs, tugging his hair.

Beneath him, Dick twists and arches and can't get away. "Please, stop, please just fuck me."

Slade freezes. "What was that?"

Dick can hear himself whimpering. But the compliments have stopped. "Please. Fuck me."

"I thought you'd never ask." Slade's grin gleams like his eye as he tilts Dick's head, just before he kisses him roughly enough to make his lips buzz, and Dick whimpers into the kiss with relief and arousal. When Slade lets his hair go to reach for the nightstand, Dick twists against him, wrapping his legs around Slade's waist almost before he can get the condom on. "Crazy kid," Slade mutters into his hair, digging the fingers of one hand into Dick's hip and slicking himself with the other; Dick just groans and bucks in response.

Then Slade grabs his other hip so hard his slick hand doesn't slip, and he doesn't make Dick beg any more.

"Nnngh, God, yes please." Eyes rolling up, Dick throws his head back and savors the burn and stretch and pain-edged pleasure, letting it drive thought and embarrassment and shame out of his brain. Slade pushes his leg up, stroking counterpoint to the burn in his thigh and pressing tingles into the skin behind his knee, and laughs and grunts and fucks him hard and steady.

"Harder, please harder," Dick gasps. He can still remember Slade's words, and he doesn't want to remember praise he doesn't deserve, he doesn't want to think at all. Slade mutters something about "greedy" and grabs both his hips again with hands that are big enough, tight enough, hard enough...

"Oh, God, yes." Dick arches off the bed, and the pound of Slade fucking him is like the pound of his heart, and that's it, that's just it. That's mind-numbingly, mind-clearingly perfect. "Come on," Slade growls, forehead furrowing, and the moment he wraps one of those big hard hands around him Dick screams and comes like his heart's going to burst, a wrenching blast of sensation so huge it almost doesn't feel like pleasure.

Considering he hadn't thought he'd even come again... Dick's on the edge of a happy greyout, and Slade's still fucking him just as hard and for a moment Dick almost thinks... but Slade doesn't sound or smell like anyone but himself as he grunts satisfaction and slides his hand off and up and around to Dick's hip again, and Dick holds on to the way this feels and lets everything else fade away into the dark behind his tightly closed eyelids.

Slade gasps a groan and leans closer over Dick, drops of his sweat splashing hot on Dick's forehead and chest. "Damn. Damn, you little--" Dick comes down shuddering, thrust by thrust, as Slade fucks him to the edge of soreness. His hips are rolling without any help from his brain, but when he manages to think about it and writhes and flexes, Slade's hands tighten even more, Dick's flesh denting and bone creaking under them. A few final thrusts, and Slade breathes, "ah, fuck, fucking hell, ah," and orgasms.

Dick wraps his legs a little tighter around Slade's broad back and rides this, too, Slade's heaving weight atop him and shuddery jerks, the crackle-edged fullness and the smudges of heat on his hips where Slade's fingers are bruising him. For a moment there's nothing but how sex feels, how their bodies feel, and in that moment Dick can almost relax.

With a final groan, Slade stops moving; Dick tries to push up his heavy eyelids and see what he looks like, but by the time he gets his eyes open Slade is sucking in a deep, noisy breath and sitting back. Not that Dick isn't gasping himself. After another moment or three of intense oxygen consumption, Slade grins, broad and sated, and strokes Dick's sticky belly. "Whew. Damn, kid."

"Ah. Heh. Damn yourself." Dick's grin spreads uncontrollably across his face. He feels melted, in the best way. Slade shakes his head and pulls out, and Dick tries not to wince, but Slade gives him a critical look anyway as he flops down beside Dick and reaches up to untie his hands.

Dick lets his arms fall to the pillows and just stretches for a bit. The potential of movement surges right until Dick tugs at his arms and finds them heavy and unstrung, and realizes that he doesn't really feel capable of moving for much less that a major disaster. So he just drags them to his chest and rubs his wrists wearily. He'll get up in a moment. Really.

Maybe two moments, or five. Slade drops a heavy hand on his chest and says, "Well, that answers some questions." Dick feels a languid pride that Slade still sounds a little winded.

Of course, when Dick glances at him, Slade's blue eye is sharp as ever. "But not all of them," Slade adds, looking at Dick so appraisingly he can almost feel it beneath his skin. Dick knows why Slade waited till now to look at him this way, but Slade's hand is broad and warm on him, and Dick is sore and easy and hasn't felt this good in forever, and he just can't make himself care.

So he nods, and Slade asks. "So, you left Bludhaven to your little bird-brother, eh?"

Dick winces, and nods again. Slade rubs Dick's breastbone a little with his thumb. "Word's come down the grapevine about a new mob enforcer, a pretty kid who fights like he's dancing, but I think you need a real job, Grayson. Why don't you come work for me?"

Well, that wasn't one of the questions Dick was expecting. He blinks. But maybe it's one he should have asked himself. Working for Slade would put him right where he needs to be.

Besides, with blood on his hands, maybe it's where he belongs.

No. The muscles along the sides of Dick's neck twitch, as if shaking his head could negate the thought. He isn't... he's just been given a perfect opportunity, and he'd better not hesitate. When Dick turns his head to look at Slade, the grin he wears is wide and near enough to real. "Would this be a condition of employment?"

Slade just smiles. "Do you want it to be?"