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Dick would recognize that particular head of white hair almost anywhere, even without the eye patch. The rifle lined up in front of his good eye certainly helps though. He should be less excited to grapple over to the roof that Deathstroke is clearly using for a job, but he's a little bored and a lot upset with Bruce so he lands on the rooftop with just a little flair and bounces his way towards Slade Wilson.
Slade is watching his mark through the scope on his rifle when he hears the familiar pitter patter of Nightwing’s steps approaching him. He could take the kid in a fight, but he's tired and fighting with Nightwing requires a certain finesse. He'd really rather not have to work that hard for this job, so he doesn't move to start a fight. In the right mood, Nightwing might just not start it either. It's a gamble Slade is willing to take tonight.
“Don't make me shoot you,” he warns without looking up.
Dick swings his leg over the barrel of Slade’s rifle, sitting on the railing with it between his legs and blocking the view from his scope. He considers what Slade might do if he reached forward and ruffled his hair. Slade seems even more on edge than usual, so he doesn't.
“What’s crawled up your ass today?” Dick asks.
“A little birdie,” Slade growls, then pulls the trigger. The jolt of the barrel makes Dick jerk forward. He has to catch himself with both hands on Slade's shoulders. “Aw, did you just need a hug, Grayson? Daddy not giving you enough attention?”
“I don't have a daddy,” Dick says, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh, so you're looking for one? Explains those little panties you used to run around in. If you put them back on you might have an easier time.” Slade lifts his weapon, tossing Dick into his chest. Dick catches himself, but it takes gripping Slade's waist with his thighs. There's a moment where time almost stands still while Dick processes what he just did. Slade chuckles, bringing one hand to grab his ass. He takes the chance to look over Dick’s shoulder and see that he did hit his target.
“You're disgusting.” Dick snaps, but Slade isn't exactly holding onto him and he hasn't moved away yet.
“Sure, kitten.” Slade kisses Dick’s cheek, his mood suddenly improved with the knowledge that his job is done and definitely nothing to do with the bird he's holding.
Slade is tucking the gun away in a bag and moving towards the roof access door. He moves like he doesn't even notice Dick’s weight. Dick knows he should probably stop clinging to Slade. He should leave and go literally anywhere else. He's thinking these things while Slade is walking down the stairs with one hand still squeezing his ass. Slade pulls a phone out from who knows where and dials quickly. He claps his hand over Dick’s mouth when it looks like he's thinking about speaking.
The hand over Dick's mouth and nose smells like stale sweat and grease. He wonders how long Slade was waiting on this roof or how long it was before this that he bothered to shower. It should probably disgust him, he thinks, but part of him hopes there will be a hand-shaped grease print on his face when Slade moves his hand.
“It's done,” Slade tells whoever is on the phone. He clicks it shut a few seconds later, then drops it and stomps on it for good measure. It shatters under his heel and Dick thinks there have been encounters with Slade that left him feeling the same way. Slade pulls his hand away from Dick’s mouth. “Did you have something to say?”
“You smell like a locker room,” Dick tells him because he can't remember what it was he wanted to say.
“If you want to get naked and shower with me you can just ask, kiddo. If you ask real nice I might even slap your ass and tell you what a good game we had.”
“Thanks for that, Coach Sandusky.”
“As fun as this is, my ride is coming. So if you want to keep this up you're gonna need to take that onesie off.”
Dick thinks about it for a moment before bouncing to the ground. “Got another option?”
“Skin works just fine for me,” Slade looks him up and down when he says it.
He's bluffing, maybe. Probably not. Dick halfway wants to find out. More than halfway. He shimmies his way out of the Nightwing suit and drops it into Slade’s duffel bag.
“Of course you've got nothing on under there,” Slade grumbles with a shake of his head.
“I hope they aren't too strict about the dress code where we're going,” Dick says, making Slade's eyes snap up to his face.
“Your lucky day,” Slade says. His eyes rake down Dick's body again. “And mine.”
“My eyes are up here,” Dick taunts him.
Slade wraps an arm around Dick’s waist, pulling him close and lifting. Before he can think better of it, Dick is wrapping his legs around Slade's waist again.
“Now they're up here,” Slade growls and moves his hand back to Dick's ass. He hears a car pull up just outside the building. He plucks the domino mask off Nightwing’s face and slides it in the bag with the rest of his suit. “Be a good boy and keep your face away from the driver. Be a shame if I had to kill him because you couldn't listen.”
Dick glares, but there's no complaint. He should complain, even if he thinks Slade might be teasing him about killing the driver. He doesn't think it through as much as he probably should before he buries his face in Slade's neck. He doesn't really consider that Slade is going to slide in the back of the SUV picking them up with him still wrapped around his waist.
“Go,” Slade tells the driver, his voice hard.
Sirens wail past them, but Slade's hand is lightning fast on the back of Dick’s neck when he tries to pick his head up and look at where they're going.
“Patience, doll,” Slade warns in a tone that could almost be flirtatious if it wasn't so threatening.
Dick bites into the side of Slade's neck. It's gentle; Would be even if Slade was someone else. Mostly he's just trying to provoke some kind of reaction from him. He gets it when Slade uses the arm on his waist to grind up into him. Dick almost wishes Slade was wearing his armor. At least then he wouldn't be able to smell his skin or feel the hard line of cock through his pants against his bare ass. He rolls his hips against Slade's abs and bites into him again. Slade rewards him with a definitely exaggerated groan directly into his ear. The warmth of Slade's breath sends a shiver down his spine. Dick realizes when the car slows that he probably should have been paying more attention to what turns they were making and less attention to Slade's wandering hands.
Slade once again effortlessly stands with Dick balanced on one arm, the other lifting his bag from the seat. He tries to sneak a look at the driver or the plates, more out of habit than anything else, but the car is pulling away as soon as they're out of it and the plates have been removed. He huffs a little against Slade's shoulder, which earns him a gentle laugh. Slade ducks in the door of a ground floor apartment and presses Dick's back up against it as it closes.
“You've been unusually cooperative tonight,” Slade’s gaze is pinning him to the door as much as his weight is.
“Are you complaining?” Dick uses both hands to toy with Slade's hair.
“Did I drug you?” Slade asks, pointedly ignoring Dick's hands and the fact that he's still naked, hard, and seemingly happy to be pinned to the door.
“Losing your memory, old man?” Dick teases.
“You're quickly running out of chances to fly away, birdie,” Slade warns, pressing their bodies together.
“All talk, no action.” Dick complains.
Then Slade's mouth is on Dick's and he's lifting him away from the door. Dick smiles into it like he's won something. When Slade kicks open a door to what might pass for a bedroom with a bare mattress on the floor, Dick lets himself be dropped onto it. He lets himself stare while Slade pulls his own shirt off followed quickly by his belt and pants. It seems only fair considering how often Slade makes a point to stare at him.
“My face is up here,” Slade tells him once his clothes are tossed aside and Dick is still gawking.
“I know,” Dick smiles but doesn't move his eyes. He does splay his legs almost into a full split.
It's enough to get Slade's attention. He practically pounces on top of Dick, mouthing at the side of his neck. Dick tangles his legs around Slade's waist, pulling him off balance enough to drop his weight all the way into him. It knocks the air out of Dick’s lungs in the best way. He lets his hands rest on the back of Slade's neck.
They stay there while Slade mouths his way down Dick's chest, peppering him with bite marks. It isn't exactly gentle; nothing about Slade is, but he's not trying to hurt Dick for the sake of it either. Slade's hands shove his legs into a complete split and Dick almost wishes he were less flexible so he could feel the strain of it. He flexes against Slade's hands just to feel the pressure of his legs being pinned apart. It's not quite the same as a stretch, but he thinks it's close enough.
Slade bites down on the inside of his thigh. Hard. It makes Dick yelp, then the sound draws out into a low groan when Slade’s teeth don't let up. His hips try to roll up into the pressure of teeth, but Slade's hands keep him firmly in place. He thinks about begging, not that it would get him anywhere. He runs his fingers gently through Slade's hair. Slade is watching him with a look between suspicion and want when he lets up from the bite. If he were someone else the way he licks over it might be apologetic. If Dick were someone else he might mistake it for an apology anyway. Instead, his tongue passing over over the ridges of his bite imprint feels possessive. Slade tries not to think about it past the surface-level way it feels nice on his mouth.
Dick's hands are still gentle when Slade swallows his cock down in one smooth motion. Slade wouldn't say that he was hoping for Dick to yank his hair, but he feels some small loss when Dick’s fingers flex away. They're back quickly, petting through his hair again. He's gentle even though Slade is working his mouth over his cock like he's getting paid for it. Every movement of his hands drives Slade just a little insane. He threatens with teeth, giving Dick just the slightest scrape over the head of his cock. He wants to drive him to roughness. Craves the sting of his hair being pulled out by the root or the drag of sharp nails over his shoulder. What he gets is Dick's palm skating past the eye patch and cupping his cheek. Distantly, behind the almost deafening ringing in his ears, Slade can hear Dick’s rambling fading off into whimpers.
“Slade- shit- so good-”
Between the fluttering of his own eyelids Dick catches the moment when Slade stops staring at him like he's waiting for the fight to start. His eye drifts closed and he's still swallowing around Dick with the same urgency, but there's something peaceful on his face. It's that calm that has Dick surrendering to the growing heat in his stomach. He tries to warn Slade, but only chokes out a strangled sound before he's coming down his throat. Slade’s eye opens again to watch while he swallows everything. He still looks more relaxed than Dick would have ever thought possible.
Dick's chest is heaving, but his fingers are still moving softly through Slade's hair. Slade considers for a moment before mouthing his way up Dick's chest again. He's shivering, still oversensitive, but he arches into Slade's mouth instead of away and that's something.
“Hope you don't have anywhere to be,” Slade tells him, his voice scratchy. “I'm far from done with you.”
Dick kisses his temple, painfully soft. “Nowhere I'd rather be.”