Welcome to the end of DickDami week! Alright, so this one is for the prompt 'Talon!Dick'. It was actually the first one I wrote (of course). Enjoy! (If you're wondering why there was no story yesterday, there was. It's only posted over at Archive of Our Own, because it was co-written with a friend of mine called Firefright, and there's no good way to do co-written things here on this old, terrible website. It's a DickDami piece, ABO, with master/slave dynamics. I recommend it!)
Warnings for: canon-typical violence, and some sexual content.
It's a flash of shadow on the edge of his vision that makes him aware he's being followed. Nothing concrete, nothing he can quite pinpoint, but he has not spent his whole life in the League of Assassins to miss when someone is stalking him. He is not that naive, inexperienced, or foolish. His mother and grandfather would never have let him survive to adulthood if he was.
He turns in the same breath he notices, skidding on the gravel of the rooftop and flinging one of his knives in the path of where his mind tells him that flicker of shadow will go. Sure enough, there's the same sound of someone skidding over gravel, a more obvious shape in the shadows as his knife slices past, and then the sharp glint of metal being flung back at him. He pulls to the side, and his own knife embeds itself in the rooftop to the right of him, aimed near the center of his chest if he's reading the angles right.
He spares it only a glance, because that shadow is moving, leaping off the side of the parallel building and to his rooftop. He draws a knife to each hand as the shadow lands in an easy crouch, fingertips braced against the ground and body sunk low against the gravel. There isn't much light, apart from what dim glow the moon is managing to get through Gotham's cloud cover, but that's enough for him to catch the edges of gold on the skin tight black suit his shadow is wearing.
The shadow rises, and blades get drawn from sheathes on those thighs, metal glinting even in the faint light. The shadow's about as tall as him, but thin, lean, and the skin visible above the high collar of the black suit is pale. However, the easiest identification is in the pair of goggles strapped over the man's face, the lenses a dull orange, and a golden extension hooking down over the top of his nose.
"I was beginning to wonder if my visit to Gotham had gone unnoticed," he remarks, keeping himself loose and coiled as he starts to circle his shadow. "You are not the welcome committee I was expecting."
The man mirrors his movements, that mouth curling into a smile altogether too sharp to be called such. "Disappointed?" The voice is teasing, almost light, but from what he's heard that's normal.
"Not entirely." He tilts his head, offering his own too-sharp smile. "The Gray Son of Gotham; I have heard of you."
"Son of the Bat and Heir to the Demon," his opponent, the Court's Talon, fires back. "I've heard of you too."
He stills, and Talon does too, watching him across the roughly ten foot gap between them. "Am I the target your Court masters have set you upon tonight, Talon?"
Talon laughs, smile sliding to a grin as one of those blades flips into the air, metal gleaming. "Court's dead; didn't you hear, Assassin?" A sharp swipe of one hand — clawed, from what he understands — catches the knife again, and that grin focuses back on him. "Your father doesn't like anyone else playing in his sandbox, not without permission anyway. The shreds of the Court are under the Bat's control now."
"Including you?" he asks, and Talon's grin get replaced with a snarl in a single moment, the carefree air with danger .
"I've had masters for long enough."
It may not be entirely intelligent to continue to antagonize a killer as renowned as the Court's attack dog, but it has been a long time since he held his tongue because of the possibility of a fight. "It is my experience that those who have been under the heel of a master rarely grow out of the need to have someone holding their leash," he says, enjoying the way that Talon's snarl flattens out into a thin line.
Until it brightens to another smile, a more deadly but no less amused laugh. "Are you volunteering to audition?" Talon asks, voice and body language all shifting to scream challenge . "I've been killing longer than you've been alive, Damian ."
"I have killed many men who made that same claim," he points out, and then adds on, " Richard ."
That seems to stall Talon out for a moment, before the killer gives a smirk, sinks a little lower so it looks like he's ready to spring . "Alright then, Assassin. If I win, does that make me your master?"
He scoffs, mirroring Talon's readiness. "It makes you the victor," he corrects.
"Good enough."
Talon moves. He's fast, sharp, movements graceful but approach jagged in a purposefully unpredictable way. He waits the moment it takes Talon to cross the space between them, and only then reacts. His mother taught him to strike first, his father taught him the occasional virtue of patience and retaliation over aggression.
Both of those knives slash inwards at his throat. He breathes out as he clashes one blade with Talon's, driving his weight forward so he can knock his back into the other arm, the second blade sliding around the back of his neck but not close enough to touch his skin. His free blade he spins in his hand and then buries in Talon's stomach, driving it far enough in that the hilt presses to that black suit, and Talon gasps, sharp and pained.
He's almost disappointed at the ease he's injured such a renowned killer, and he shoves Talon back with a hard push of the closer shoulder, wrenching his blade back out. Talon's knife grazes the back of his neck, but if it's anything it's a scratch. Talon staggers, falls to one knee with an arm pressed to his stomach, head falling and mouth parted to breath.
" Now I'm disappointed," he says quietly. "Has it been too long since you killed someone who had the skill to fight back, Talon? Are you too used to savaging helpless victims?"
A flash of movement, and then his thigh is stinging, his waist, and he jerks back with very little of his usual grace, choking back a gasp. It registers in the next moment, as Talon gets back up with a smile, that Talon is a lot faster than he thought. Talon's head tilts, studying him, and he takes a quick glance down to confirm the slices in the clothes covering his upper left thigh and that side of his waist. He's definitely bleeding, though neither seem to be that deep.
Talon laughs, one hand idly pressing to the wound in his stomach and then withdrawing. "Stings a bit," Talon says, with that smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then mocks, "Been too long since you killed someone with real teeth, Assassin?"
" You are nothing more than an attack dog broken free of its chain," he spits. "You do not come close to comparing to those I have killed before."
Talon doesn't seem at all phased by the insult, only flips one blade to hold backwards and smiles. "Guess we'll see."
He strikes first this time.
It's not that he is outmatched, because he's not . In fact, if pressed to answer honestly, he would say that he and Talon are just about equal in terms of overall combat skill, though in different things. Talon is faster than he is, more flexible, with a clearly superior knowledge of acrobatics, however he is stronger, better with the blades, and he has a much better grasp of the precise technicalities of combat due to his obviously superior trainers. All of it evens out to a roughly equal fight.
The issue is that Talon simply does not care when he is injured. For every injury they trade, he slows down while Talon simply gets back up and keeps going. He has fought enhanced humans before, he's killed men and women with powers with nothing but blades and his own hands, but he has never run into an opponent who simply wasn't affected by injury. Fighting someone that ignores the pain no matter how deeply his blades carve is a test he was not entirely prepared for. He has to find some other way to bring Talon down; this war of attrition is not stacked in his favor, and he is starting to grow convinced that if he allows it to continue he will eventually lose.
His answer comes when he rips Talon's goggles off, exposing yellow-orange, slit eyes with large, unnatural pupils. It only takes him a few moments to understand that Talon's eyes have been either replaced or enhanced to allow him to see in the dark, like some sort of cat. Which means that his opponent should be sensitive to sudden light.
He fakes a retreat, leading a laughing Talon across buildings until he finds one suited to the task. Apartments, newer looking, probably at least some that are empty. From there it's just luck that the window he throws himself through — protecting his head with his arms — leads him into a bare, clearly unoccupied apartment. He runs across the room, spinning to face Talon as that deadly shadow follows him, just a couple moments behind and that's perfect .
Talon lunges, and he flicks the switch by the door.
Light floods the apartment, and Talon jerks in mid-lunge and squeezes those eyes shut, yelping. It's the work of just a second to grab his blinded opponent and spin him around, slamming him up against the wall and yanking Talon's own blades from their sheathes. Talon's eyes are opening, arms rising, but not fast enough to stop him from driving the blades into Talon's shoulders and back through the plaster.
Talon cries out, eyes snapping wide and then squinting again, teeth baring in clear pain as he jerks. The blades don't give.
He's through with underestimating Talon, so he draws one of his own knives and puts it underneath Talon's chin, splitting the delicate skin and drawing blood that winds down the steel. With his other hand he grabs Talon's left arm, unbuckling and wrenching that clawed glove off. Talon hisses at him, glares through narrowed eyes, but doesn't move to stop him from doing the same with the other arm.
"If I put this through your skull, would that kill you?" he asks, with a growl to his voice born of pain and irritation.
Talon's breathing harder, hands flexing against the walls. "Probably. Can't say I've had that done to me before." Talon twists against the blades, gasps in a breath, head twisting and eyes squeezing shut. He's clearly in pain, more so than anything that the numerous slices in him have given him. Those eyes must be very sensitive.
He considers reaching over and flipping the switch, before he shakes his head. Not that Talon can see. "You owe me a vow, Talon. Yield."
Talon gives a breathless laugh, and he digs the blade in a little harder, draws a fresh droplet of blood that Talon doesn't even seem to notice. "That was a pretty good audition," Talon grants. "But it's not like I'm afraid to die. Why would you believe me even if I did swear something?"
He reaches up with his other hand, curling it into Talon's black hair and pulling his head down, keeping the knife poised but no further into the killer's throat than it already is. "Because you are a dog without a master," he whispers, watching the slits of those unnatural eyes. "I believe you have been conditioned and trained to obey, and no matter what physical restraints you shed you cannot escape that the Court made you a servant. You have been collared too long to live without one, so of course you would not fear death; what is there for you to live for?"
Talon's staring at him, looking unnerved , which means that he's entirely on the right path.
"I can give you something to live for. Accept my rule, Talon. Serve me ." His hand gentles, and then he reaches over and flicks the light off. He can see Talon's relief. "I will treat you fairer than they ever did," he promises, "and you would have a place again. A purpose in life. Is that not what you want?" He has a suspicion that the key to gaining Talon's loyalty isn't violence as much as it is kindness. Not an excessive amount, nothing pandering , but simply to be fair. The Court was made of too many people of varying levels of sadism to have been fair to its attack dog.
He also does not believe that Talon wants to die, though he does believe that Talon wouldn't care if he did. The Court of Owls made a killer, not a person, and though it's clear that Talon is still a human and has remained more or less emotionally intact, if perhaps not entirely sane, that does not mean that Talon does not have the same core desires as anyone else. To have a home, to have a place, to have a purpose .
The fact that the Court undoubtedly trained him to be loyal will only have heightened those desires.
Talon shudders, and after a couple moments of silence, the mask slides away and he can see a desperate kind of loneliness in Talon's gaze. "Yes," Talon breathes, voice soft.
He lowers his blade, slips it away, and then reaches up and tugs the knives from Talon's shoulders. He gets a hiss, but the withdrawal of the blades is clearly a level of pain that Talon can handle. "Then give me your loyalty, Richard. In whatever way feels true to you."
Those yellow eyes stare at him, and for a moment Talon looks genuinely hesitant. Then Talon's sinking to his knees, trapped between him and the wall. Both hands rise, and he lets Talon guide him into casting one blade aside, wrapping his fingers through that black hair, and pulling upwards to arch and bare Talon's throat. From there he understands things. He lifts the other blade to press the steel flat against that vulnerable skin, and it's slightly slippery with the blood already on it, but Talon doesn't seem to care.
Talon's head turns a bit, gaze half-lidded as those lips press against the fabric covering his arm, throat pressing up against that knife. He doesn't need words to recognize the positioning as the show of submission that it is. Though it may be the most literal translation of 'life in your hands' that he's ever been a party of.
"Accepted," he murmurs, pulling the blade away and letting go.
Which is when Talon is suddenly striking, twisting the blade from his hand and yanking him down in the same breath. For a frozen moment he thinks he's about to die, until the blade stops a fraction of an inch from his throat, and Talon holds him there, watching him for several long, stiff moments where he doesn't quite dare to move.
Then the blade lowers, is pressed back into his hand, and Talon says, quiet but firm, "As long as you keep your promise."
That seems to be all that Talon has to say, because the next moment the killer is getting to his feet, showing no regard for the injuries making him bleed onto the carpet, and circles around him. He turns to watch Talon, getting to his feet a little bit less gracefully. There's only a brief glance back at him before Talon vanishes through a doorway, and a moment later he hears the water of a shower start up.
He's not precisely sure what he's gotten himself into.
Talon's presence at his side is met with a bit of skepticism from the other members of his family, but he ignores it. He knows that Talon is his only by virtue of their deal, and he knows that there is a rather decent chance that his newfound right hand will turn on him, but he does his best to delay that possibility.
Talon has a very bizarre mix of principles. Most of them seem to simply be that he won't stand for being treated as less than a person, but then some of them scream that he is not comfortable being treated as a person. Talon only very slowly agrees to share meals together, and there's a complete lack of modesty that he can only assume comes from the Court's more dehumanizing bits of training. Though Talon will normally choose to wear clothes — ones loaded with various weapons — he also shows no hesitation stripping down, regardless of other presences.
It's not precisely a problem, except perhaps in how Talon, despite his pale skin and unnatural eyes, is very beautiful. Lean, defined muscle, a facial structure more suited to a model than a trained killer, and smooth, flawless skin. He supposes that last one must be due to the enhancement that lets Talon regenerate almost anything, in exchange for the faint blackness to his veins. He has caught himself staring more than once, which is rather inappropriate considering their respective roles.
He has significant power over Talon, but that does not mean that he could get away with using that power to use Talon. He suspects the Court may have done some of that, though Talon doesn't speak of his time there unless specifically asked.
That very dilemma, however, is why he starts noticing the little brushes of lips that seem to be habit for Talon. To the top of his head or back of his shoulder when they're sparring and he's been pinned down, next to any wound that Talon is patching together, to his wrist or hand whenever he reaches out to touch the killer, and a hundred other little moments, spread out over months and months. He doesn't know why they're happening though.
Eventually, the question settles so deeply into his mind that when Talon smooths a bandage down over a shallow slice on his side, and presses one of those tiny kisses to the skin beside it, he asks, "Why do you do that?" before he even thinks about the possible repercussions. Letting Talon do what he wants to has been key in gaining the beaten man's loyalty.
Talon stills, a hand still pressed gently against his thigh where Talon is — of all things — kneeling between his legs. "Do what?" Talon asks, looking entirely calm. At least until a flicker of a smile that has too much mischief to be kind. "This?"
Then Talon is leaning forwards, hands pressing against his thighs as that mouth returns to press a far more lingering kiss to that same spot above the new bandage, including the scrape of teeth and the flicker of a tongue. Both of which combined are enough to make him suck in a small, sharp breath, and stare down at that black hair until Talon pulls back and that gaze rises back up to him.
"That is not what you do," is the best he manages to offer.
A bright, clear laugh breaks free from Talon's throat. Then his pet killer is pushing up, using the touch to his thighs to get to standing, and then those hands are rising to his shoulders and shoving him back with casual strength. He's too surprised to properly resist, so he hits the bed he'd been sitting on on his back, with Talon standing over him, peering down with the smile he's come to associate with the other man. A little too sharp, not quite reaching his eyes, but genuine nonetheless.
"Talon?" he asks, as that powerful body leans down over his, deadly hands tracing up his sides with very careful, very gentle pressure. "What are you doing?"
Talon's gaze is fixed on his, studying him even as that head lowers, mouth pressing a kiss just below one of his pectorals. "Going to stop me?"
He swallows, the feeling of being toyed with a little disturbingly familiar at this point, though still enough to thrill him a little bit. There is nothing quite like being underneath or around a killer as deadly as Talon is. "I am not sure yet," he admits, honestly. "Knowing your plans would let me make a more informed decision."
Another small laugh. Those hands close underneath his arms, dragging him farther up the bed with ease, which inspires that same mix of feeling both disturbed and thrilled. It only gets worse when Talon crawls up onto the bed, on top of him, gaze as intense as if they were sparring. It's not a safe feeling, exactly, but he's fairly sure that Talon won't kill him. At least not without some kind of warning. He'd like to think they've developed enough of a rapport to make it a safe bet that Talon isn't simply going to turn and gut him one day.
"What if I just like touching you?" Talon asks, expression teasing but voice certainly not.
He considers that for a moment, and then comments, "There are plenty of ways to touch me that are not inherently sexual. This feels like it has a rather more specific goal in mind."
Talon's eyes light, one of those rare moment of real, surprised amusement that Talon can never quite restrain bursting from that throat. Then there's a brief moment of pause, before Talon leans down and there are lips on his, and a hand sliding back into his hair to take control of the angle. He gives a surprised sound, his hands rising to grip Talon's upper arms, but he doesn't shove the other man away from him. It is not like the kiss is anywhere near bad , especially not when Talon coaxes his lips to part and slides a confident but slow tongue forward to shallowly dip into his mouth.
He holds on a little bit harder, and comes to the strange realization that Talon is actually a better kisser than he is. Not that he has had a large amount of experience, but he would have thought that Talon would not be particularly good at this. His mistake, apparently.
Eventually Talon pulls back, lingering close. "I want this to be mine ," his pet killer murmurs, lips brushing against his cheek.
"Am I a 'this' now?" he asks, tilting his head to open his eyes and look up to those yellow eyes.
Which is why he catches the slightest edge to Talon's gaze, followed by a whispered, "No. Not you."
"So I am the receptacle?" he says, instead of analyzing exactly what Talon's words imply about the shadows of the past, and what the Court might have demanded from him. It's not a pleasant thing to think about; he's actually remarkably impressed that Talon's ended up as relatively sane as he is.
Now Talon looks a bit unsure, and is drawing back. "No, I— That's not it. Never mind."
He refuses to let go, pulling Talon back down to make the older man face him. "Wait," he orders. "The reasons do not matter. Is it me you want? Behind all the rest of it?" Talon's face slips to relief, and he gets a small nod in confirmation. "That is good enough for me," he reassures the killer on top of him. "Do what you wish, Talon."
"Dick." For a moment he is very confused, until Talon grazes fingers across his cheek and murmurs, gaze dipping away, "My name was Dick."
He pauses for a second, considering that, before he gently squeezes the other man's arms, and answers, "As you wish, Dick."
Those yellow eyes light again, a smile curving that mouth, and then Dick is laughing and leaning down, gathering him into a harder kiss that he can nearly taste the joy of. Before he has a chance to breathe, that mouth is slipping down his chin, his throat, one hand tugging at his hair and the other sliding down his chest, fingers mapping out the ridges of his muscles and tracing the lines of scars.
"Dick—" he starts, tightening his grip, but the other man just grazes teeth over a sensitive spot below his ear and he forgets how to speak for a moment. It may have been far too long since he's done anything like this.
Dick hushes him, and lightly bites down on that same spot. He squirms. "I want to memorize you," Dick whispers, nose nudging at his ear. "Everything. How each different part of you tastes, and smells, and how your pulse jumps when I touch it. Stay still?" It rises at the end, becoming a question instead of a command, and he finds his eyes flickering shut.
"As you wish," he repeats, and then lets go of Dick's arms, letting his hands fall to the bed. He can feel Dick smile against his skin, and only spares a brief moment to debate the perhaps not entirely sane idea of letting a Talon, a killer as or maybe even more deadly than him, have such control.
Then again, he imagines the control is exactly why Dick wants to do this. Or at least, a very large part of it is. If any of his suspicions are right, this is not an activity that his Talon has ever had control over, and this is part of some kind of attempt to reclaim it. Honestly, he is happy to assist. He has certainly been looking at Talon — Dick — in a more than innocent way, and it is not as if this is in any way him forcing that upon Dick. This is entirely Dick's decision. That's a far cry better than it could have been.
Dick hums pleasure, tugs at his hair again, and begins to explore.
He keeps his eyes closed, relaxing into the sensation of Dick's mouth on him, that wandering hand, and the rhythmic but spaced out tugs to his hair that keep his throat bared whenever he starts to lower his chin. That is something he never before believed he was interested in, and perhaps it is just that it is his pet killer that is the one doing it, but he is quite enjoying that feeling of vulnerability. It's a rather new sensation; he's always been careful not to give anyone such power over him.
His first real sound is a small gasp when Dick finds a sensitive spot just below the bottom of his rib cage, just in the center above his belly button. He feels teeth, almost expects to be bitten, but the teeth only graze across his skin before retreating, and Dick presses a second, softer kiss there before moving on. He squirms as the mouth draws lower, into the mess of more sensitive skin that makes up his stomach and waist, and Dick's free hand presses firmly to one of his hips, holding him down.
Out of respect — and slight caution — for the killer currently nuzzling at his side, he curls his fingers into the sheets of the bed instead of reaching up to tangle them in Dick's hair instead. Plenty of time for that at some other point, when his current partner is more comfortable, and a little bit less likely to draw back and cut all this off. Dick seems to notice the movement, because he gets another little hum of pleasure before his hair is let go of, and Dick is sliding back up him. He opens his eyes, and his breath catches at how very smooth and predatory the other man looks shifting up and over him.
He expects to be kissed, and isn't disappointed. It's softer than he expects though, and brief. Of course he finds he can hardly complain when Dick gives a curling smile and shifts back down, both hands finding the knot holding on his sleeping pants and undoing it with quick, deft fingers. They're guided off his legs, and he tilts his head down to watch Dick study him, gaze sliding down the length of his legs, lingering on seemingly random spots, and definitely taking some time to examine between them. If he wasn't already slightly flushed, and more than a little hard, that would have done it.
He tightens his grip on the sheets, taking in a deep breath to gain control. Which is promptly ruined when Dick reaches forward, shameless, and wraps one smooth hand around him. He expels the breath in a loud cry, shock contributing as much as pleasure, which leads into a gasp as that hand stays firm around him, and then starts to stroke with a clearly practiced twist of his wrist.
"Tal— Dick," he breathes, arching a bit. "I thought you wanted to— to take your time."
Dick gives a quiet laugh, not pausing even a moment. "I said I wanted to memorize you. Not the same thing. " That smile curls a little wider, and Dick's voice lowers as he adds on, "Besides, why would I stop at once?"