Warnings: extremely dubious consent; explicit sexual content; daddy issues; canon-typical violence
Pairings: Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson
Summary: Takes place some time after "Battle for the Cowl", where Bruce is presumed dead and Dick becomes Batman.
A gun-toting criminal dressed like Batman has been spotted in Gotham. Unable to shake off the eerie resemblance between this stranger and his late mentor, Dick takes it upon himself to catch the impersonator on his own and find out the truth.
Credits: This is a non-profit, fanmade work. All characters are owned by DC. This fanfiction was written and created by me.
A/N: WARNING this story has some flashbacks with Dick when he was younger. In this story, Dick has a one-sided, sexual/romantic attraction to Bruce. These feelings are kept to himself and never requited, and I kept his age purposefully vague, but it is a huge element to the story and it is confirmed that Dick was a teenager during the time of the flashbacks. If you don't want to read about a teenager having those feelings, I'd suggest staying away.
This fic is somewhat pwp/ooc? I still incorporated some feels but the ultimate goal was sex so... you might have to suspend some belief to get through the story.
Anyways, this fic is for SladeRobinWeek. Since I'm busy today but I wanted to make sure it was posted on time, I didn't spend as much time rereading it as I would have liked, so hopefully this is okay.
I posted my first DC fanfiction almost exactly two years ago. I've always wanted to write Slade/Dick but I just never made the time to. I'm glad this week pushed me into it! I'm super excited to post this!
Anyways, the prompt was "Daddy Issues", and I feel like DickBats is... the ultimate culmination of "daddy issues". So I set this in DickBats era, meaning Bruce is presumed dead, Dick is Batman, Damian is Robin, and Jason is a villain. This takes place after "Battle for the Cowl" when Jason was impersonating Batman.
Dick was sitting in the cave, his cowl placed on the desk and cape draped over the back of his chair. The weariness after a long patrol was catching up to him—but he didn't tear his reddened eyes away from the batcomputer.
On the screen was Batman. Not Batman, technically. An impersonator. Dick stopped the footage when the Batman in the video looked in the direction of the cameras.
Dick grimaced. A full face mask. The man's identity was hidden, and yet that seemed to support his theory. When Jason had pretended to be Batman, he had worn a similar attachment to the cowl. Dick unpaused the footage, watching the weaponry hanging off of Jason's belts.
Dick mumbled a curse. His recent victory in taking down a ring of criminal firearm dealers suddenly seemed like a joke. He rubbed his temples.
The grainy footage followed Jason as he scaled a building. Dick was looking for clues on the setting—a bird flew in the background, a seagull, so maybe he was near the bay?—but he stopped, gaze fixated on the figure moving around on the screen.
He stared as Batman stopped on a ledge. His head turned slowly, surveying the area. Then continued his trek.
Dick's eyes narrowed. He rewound the footage. Watched it again. And again. And again.
Much later, he could hear the sound of quiet footsteps behind him. Light flickered off the monitor, reflecting blue on Dick's face. He replayed the clip.
"How many times must you watch that?" a voice snipped. Dick still didn't turn away, though he was starting to become aware of the strain in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, finally pulling his face away from the monitor. He felt a crick in his back. "Tt. It's not like it's going to suddenly change."
"Part of being a detective is looking for clues," Dick said. The words felt more like a recitation than his own. He finally turned when he smelled something sweet—Dick watched as Pennyworth set down a hot cup of tea on the surface. "Peach Passion? I thought you couldn't stand fruit teas. Is this a trap?"
"Clever observation, Master Dick, but I assure you—there is no sleeping pill."
"Oddly specific."
"It failed to work on your predecessor. I assumed it would not work for you." Alfred turned to the screen, his hands folded. "Any updates on Mas—"Alfred stopped, quickly corrected himself"—Jason?"
Dick went quiet. The feed continued.
He observed the way in which the man in the video moved. There was something familiar in his stride.
Based on the last few times Jason had appeared, it was true that the man moved different than he had in his youth. Even so, there was still something Robin-like in his movements—that swiftness, that assuredness.
Characteristics of which Dick could not find in this video.
Dick watched as the Batman on the screen came to a still. The impersonator looked around him—before continuing his path.
Familiar. But...
Dick stopped the clip. Rewound it.
"What is it, Master Dick?" Alfred asked quietly. Tentatively.
"Nothing," Dick said, shaking his head. He finally spun his chair away, reaching for the cup of tea. It felt warm in his hands. Smelled sweet. Yet something in his chest still felt heavy. "He just—he kind of looks like him, you know? And it's not just the costume."
Alfred was silent for a moment. Dick could feel the words he was reluctant to say.
"I'm afraid what you're thinking might be impossible, Master Dick."
"I know," Dick said, readjusting his position in the chair.
Damian snorted. "Even if it truly was my father, you'd never get footage of him."
"No," Dick said. He stared closely at the screen, his tired eyes losing focus. The colors in the picture all blurred together. "I suppose not."
Several nights later, the trail led him to a warehouse near Gotham Bay. The smog in the area was particularly thick, making it hard to breathe. Every inhale brought in the smell of factories and rotted fish.
Dick was perched on top of a rusted billboard, its advertisement peeled away, the hinges groaning under every strong breeze.
The lenses on the cowl were zoomed in on the abandoned building. Missing windows and graffiti littered its sides. He went through different settings, trying to pick up on any indication that his mystery target was inside.
He let out a long exhale, shoulders relaxing. A strange sense of disappointment stirred inside his chest.
He was starting to think he jumped the gun.
This impersonator was starting to carve out a place in his brain. It was ruining his common sense and he couldn't allow that to happen.
He could hear Bruce's ghost whispering to him. Telling him that he had acted rashly, impulsively. Again. That he needed to wise up. To be better.
The logical thing he should have done: wait. Wait until the criminal made himself apparent on purpose. Wait until he could have backup, as opposed to running blindly into danger on his own.
Dick turned back toward the city. In the distance he could see burning lights and skyscrapers. It wasn't too late to go back home—but he had questions stirring inside of him. A wind passed by and the billboard creaked. His cape got caught in the gust, blowing backwards with sudden force.
Dick braced himself on the ledge. He couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, his gaze landing on the building. He could feel it beckoning him.
Maybe Bruce would have looked into it. He'd follow any trail, even if it was dangerous. Even if he had to face it all on his own—
No. Dick shook his head to himself. He promised himself he'd never make the same mistakes. He told himself that he'd never become him.
Even so, his gut instinct wasn't something that was taught or inherited. It was his alone. Moments later, he found himself wandering around the grounds of the warehouse, the flashlight on his bracer shining beams over concrete walls.
He looked for clues, all while telling himself there was nothing to find. That he'd soon be heading back home, trying not to wake Alfred and Damian as he snuck from the cave to his bedroom.
There was an open window on the second story.
He climbed up the notches and piping, pretending to not notice the chipped rust. He justified his silence, his held breath, as having no one to speak to—rather than his caution of getting caught.
He could hear something faint. A buzzing. He liked to pretend he was imagining it, even though his mind was already picturing a generator.
The old building creaked underneath his steps. Even though he was famously lightfooted, the building was falling apart. Bits of plaster sprinkled from the ceiling, landing in his path. Without even moving, the warehouse groaned.
There was nothing, Dick decided after he surveyed the level. No evidence of contraband. No hidden safehouse. No creepy symbol painted onto the ground with the faded blood splatter of an animal sacrifice. Nothing. Just Dick's determination to see something that wasn't there.
Shoulders relaxed, he headed back toward the passageway that he had crawled in from.
A sound.
He stopped. Held his breath.
After a moment:
"Jason?" he called into the darkness.
He saw something flicker in the light of his flashlight. A shadow.
Dick froze. His heartbeat beginning to rise. He waited for a sound.
A loud crack in the air.
Dick just barely dodged the gunshot, diving behind a pillar. He immediately turned off the flashlight, switching to his night vision. The room turned a fuzzy green.
He listened carefully. He glanced around the room, trying to plan his next move.
With surprising patience, the shooter waited.
It was that patience that made Dick's doubts resurface.
This wasn't Jason. This was someone else.
He dove from behind one pillar to the next. Shots fired after him.
Dick outran it, but he could hear heavy footsteps moving around the room. Repositioning.
· Dick aimed the grappling gun at the tall ceiling—more shots, and he pulled himself skyward. Threw a batarang in the direction of the gunfire, heard it make contact followed by the gun clattering to the ground, but a bullet had already snapped his line.
Dick rolled onto the ground safely, head turning back. He saw his attacker, just briefly, through the blurriness of the night vision. The dark pointed cowl, the cape—
There was something—something in the man's height and weight and stride—
Dick was thrown offguard, just long enough for the man to reach for the gun. Dick pushed his body forward, tackling the man to the ground. A mistake. The man hit back, an elbow striking Dick in the gut. The wind knocked out of him. But he managed to kick at the gun on the ground, sending it sliding across the rough cement.
The man wasn't bothered. He stayed on the offensive, throwing a series of kicks and punches. Dick dodged every single one—and realized, a moment too late, that the assault had him backing up toward a pillar.
Strategic. But more telling, this man knew Dick's patterns.
Dick ducked under a punch, positioning himself behind the attacker. He wrapped an arm around him, bringing him into hold. Dick ground his teeth, trying to keep his grip. But on top of being well trained, this person was strong—almost inhumanly strong—
And suddenly, the revelation hit him.
Dick knew who this was.
But the realization came a moment too late when a low-grade grenade appeared in Dick's vision.
Enough to kill an average man, but not someone with accelerated healing.
Dick tried to grab it from out of his hand.
In the tussle, it got knocked to the ground.
It landed a few feet away, and Dick pulled his cape in time to shield himself. The cowl did little to deafen the noise—the weakened building couldn't withstand the impact, and the bang of the grenade was followed by everything breaking and falling and crashing. Dick tripped when the floor shook, bringing his attention back to his surroundings, but soon the entire room was slipping away.
He grabbed for something. Anything at all. His fingers managed to catch the edge of the crumpling platform, dust and rubble falling on him in a light shower. He looked up. Caught the dark shadow of a man standing over him.
The pointed ears of the cowl stood straight, but the face plate had cracked and was hanging off. Dick's suspicions were confirmed.
A sudden anger sparked through him.
When Slade Wilson's heavy boot came down to crush his fingers, Dick reacted. He grabbed him by the ankle. Dick couldn't beat him. No. But he wasn't going down alone.
He successfully tripped him. But then there was a loud crack and all of a sudden, Dick was falling without a line to pull him back up.
"Batman?"
Dick could barely hear his own voice. His ears were still ringing from the sound of the explosion.
Something tickled his lungs. He gave a dry, raspy cough. Everything hurt. Everything stung. He looked down at his green glove. A splotch of red spread across the fibers like a flower in bloom. It horrified him.
Orange light flickered around him. He moved his head around wildly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He caught the licks of flames. He could feel the heat, saw the way it cut and distorted the air.
He moved to get up but a sharp pain shot through his leg. He looked down, saw the mess of blood and panicked, wondering if it was gone, but then it stung again.
"Batman," he coughed.
But there was no answer. The thick black clouds of smoke made it hard to see. Hard to breathe. Dick reached into his pouches, fingers fumbling for the respirator that'd hopefully hold on long enough for him to find a way out.
The lenses on his mask were blurred and dirty, and he barely made out the wall of wreckage before him. He crawled toward it, blood streaming down his leg. He groped blindly along the wall, the pieces already beginning to warm under the waves of heat.
He looked for an opening—a notch, a crack, anything. His lungs swelled up, the edges of the respirator moist with the sweat that was quickly forming on his face. His small fingers pried under a chunk of concrete and he protected his head from the rubble that came crashing down. When the sounds stopped, he looked, and realized with horror there was still more to the wall.
He looked around for another route. Flames barricaded every wall. He could feel the smoke seeping into the crooks of his mask, burning his eyes. He coughed again, the respirator doing little to protect him from the thick smog. The cough hit him hard, wracking his lungs. He doubled over. Knees hitting the concrete. It was hard to see, hard to think. His heart was racing with panic, horror dropping through his stomach. This was it and he hadn't even said goodbye. This was it.
He heard a loud crash. He backed away, less out of common sense and more from a jolt of fear at the sudden noise.
Another thud and pieces of concrete went falling. He thought he heard something—a voice.
"Batman?" he called, voice muffled, more out of hope than belief.
He flinched when a thick block of concrete popped out and landed at his feet. He looked toward the source, in the darkness, he barely made out the figure behind the wall.
"Robin—"
Dick didn't have to think twice. He took the outstretched hand, and was pulled to safety.
Underneath his breath, Dick murmured a name.
Somewhere in the distance, there was a flickering sound. The low hum of electricity. Then a clack against a surface—something small that fell and hit the hard ground. Dick's brow furrowed, eyes still clenched tight, his senses slowly returning to him. Dick smelled something but couldn't make out what it was—something chalky. Plaster?
He groaned softly, a pounding in his head. His senses slowly revived, and he became more aware of his body. He could feel—starting from his head and moving down into his aching neck and shoulders. His body was embraced by hard edges and things that pricked. He forced his eyes open, eyelids fluttering. His right lens flickered on and off between green and black. The night vision.
That's right. He was in uniform. He was chasing down Batman—except it wasn't Batman, it was—
Dick groaned again, low and deep, pulling his arm from where it was buried in crumbled plaster and wood. His glove was ripped, dust mixing in the blood. Even when his arm was freed, he could feel the muscles squeezing, blood rushing back through the limb. He touched the side of his cowl, raising the visors.
The green snapped into black. In the darkness, he managed to make out the shape that was crushing him. The board on top of him was heavy, additional debris adding to its weight. It pushed down on his ribs, constricting the breath inside his chest. It was difficult to move, difficult to breathe. He tried to get his hands on it—it was splintered. The rough, jagged edges dug into his exposed hand, making him grit his teeth.
He pushed. Every ache in his body suddenly came back to life, screaming. Every cut seemed to burst at once, stinging him. He felt blood welling inside of his suit, the fluid sticky and red on his bruised flesh.
The board budged a few inches. He could feel the strain in his tired body—too much. He had pushed himself too much. His body couldn't take any more.
Bruce would have been able to take more.
But he wasn't Bruce and Bruce wasn't there.
Dick was suddenly aware of the sweat on his skin, lined along the edges of the cowl. He could taste the salt on his lips.
Come on, you bastard. Come on, come on, come on.
If he was going to die, it wasn't going to be like this.
He wasn't going to be killed from a fall.
He didn't find strength, he forced it. He raised the board high enough to inhale, and sucked in air like a drowning man. But his arms couldn't lift much higher—the limbs trembled worse than the first time he benchpressed a hundred—when he was just a boy, in that cave, with Bruce behind him, spotting him in case he pushed himself too far, and all Dick wanted was to make him proud—
Dick's arms began to buckle when he caught a noise to his right, breaking his concentration. Rubble skipping down the mountain of debris. Bolts plinking along the ground. In Dick's peripherals, he spotted a dark shape crawling out of the grave of broken concrete and pipes.
"Shit," Dick hissed between his teeth, heart beating faster with every step that crunched towards him. All it would take was one heavy boot and the acrobat would be squashed like a bug. He pushed himself, the piece wobbling above him, until the opposite edge seesawed into his thighs. He grunted in pain.
He suddenly stopped. On the back wall, a flickering light filled the room with dim amber. Dick could hear every shallow breath that escaped his lips—listened to it stop when his gaze fell on the black silhouette of a bat before an orange backdrop.
Through the pounding in his head, he was almost fooled. He gritted his teeth, chasing away such thoughts.
Bruce wasn't coming.
Bruce was dead—
But relief did come, in a way. A hand reached towards him, grabbing the corner of board. The rubble went sliding off in a loud crash, a cloud of dust rising as it dropped to Dick's side.
Slade was on him at once—Dick's body, acting of its own accord, grabbed onto a piece of the wreckage and tossed it at Slade's head. Dick's unpredictability surprised them both—it made contact, striking the mercenary's cowl, momentarily stunning him.
Dick staggered to his feet, the room spinning. But his vision focused and all he could see was Slade. His anger rushed through him all at once—he charged forward. Slade raised his arms to stop him, but they were both knocked off balance, slipping onto the dusty, littered floor.
Dick winded back his arm, fist landing in Slade's face. He felt the reverberations crawl up the tendons in his arm, unprotected due to the damage done to the glove and bracer. Fresh blood oozed through his cut palm. He raised his fist again but Slade struck him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. From there, Dick was rolled onto the ground, something sharp pushing into his shoulder blade as he was thrown on his back.
Every movement seemed so fast. They struggled on the ground, their breaths and grunts filling the air. Dick tried to push Slade off of him, the heel of his hand colliding with Slade's face, blood smearing across his cheek and mouth. In the faint flicker, Dick caught the white of Slade's sneer.
Their bodies puzzled together. Dick repeatedly tried to strike where he could—the head, the neck, the shoulders. Slade kept knocking Dick's hands away. Dick struggled to remember how to counter this hold, Slade heavy on top of him, his mind riding on survival instinct. His blows lacked their usual practiced grace, focusing on whatever raw strength he had left to force the older man off of him.
Slade didn't seem like himself. The cold, steely killer-for-hire was breathing hard, each sound haggard and deep, with this undertone of fiery, almost animalistic, aggression. Dick's heavy breaths mixed with his, toned out underneath the adrenaline-pumped heartbeat that pounded through his ears.
The batsuit was hot. So hot. The fabric seemed to cling to Dick's sweat-soaked skin. Dick laid on his back, body exhausted to the point where it wanted to give up, and he let his eyes focus on the dark shadow above him.
In an instant, almost everything seemed to slow down. He couldn't blink, his breaths and beating heart loud, his steadfast gaze focused on the cowl before him. Between the blood and the sweat and the wreckage, he caught the faint smell of leather.
So hot.
So hot.
The heavy weight on top of him felt familiar. Dick's eyes measured out the span of Slade's shoulders, the folds of his cape curtaining on either side of them. Dick's hearing focused on the man's voice, that near growl in his voice—
It was almost like—
It was like—
Dick gasped sharply, the room spinning as he hit the mat.
Bruce, relentless as always. Even during practice. Dick tried to rise up but Bruce was too big, his entire body blanketing over his.
Dick squirmed to no avail. He was too weak. The frustration over the course of a bad training session finally hit him all at once—he damn near wanted to cry, eyes burning as his forehead was pushed into the blue plastic. Sweat drenched his hair, the mat, the air he breathed—
"You're doing it wrong," Bruce said, unkind enough to lecture when he already won, but not unkind enough to outright say what was surely bothering him. Dick could hear it in the man's growl—Dick wasn't being a good enough student. He was wasting Bruce's time. He was just a fuck-up. Batman would be better off without him. "We've practiced this."
Dick wanted to snap at him—but it was hard enough to breathe, much less speak. Of course he was trying—but Bruce was just too strong, too experienced—
Bruce had him pinned down, and every time Dick wriggled, he could feel his front push against the mat.
Face hot, Dick felt suddenly aware of Bruce's body, flushed against his back. The strong knee planted in the mat between his legs. Dick inhaled through his nose, trying to catch his breath, and caught Bruce's smell instead. It did funny, fluttery things to Dick's stomach. Sudden heat pinpricked down his body, from his ears to his cheeks to his throat to his chest to his groin. Bruce's grip tightened, strong hands gripping his arms, fingers digging into his comparably soft and young flesh—
Dick's fighting increased, the movements less controlled. Panicked. Humiliation and fear lent him strength—but the increased movements worsened the friction, his body rubbing up against the mat, Bruce's form trapping him in.
Dick's heart was beating fast. His throat felt closed up. Desperately, he gasped, "Stop."
Bruce released him at once.
"Dick," he said, and Dick's face burned with shame when he sensed the regret in Bruce's voice. Years later, when Dick eventually learned the meaning behind the strange, twisted emotion he had felt in his chest—he'd finally understand why the sound of his name could ebb any trace of pain or resentment he felt toward Bruce. But at the time, when Bruce's fear of pushing Dick too far had resurfaced, Dick was too embarrassed and confused. And too convinced that telling the truth would only worry his mentor more. "Are you hurt?"
Dick didn't dare to look back or speak a word, scrambling to his feet the second that he could. He quickly escaped the training room, thankful that Alfred was in the manor so that no one could see the reason for his shame.
Slade captured both of Dick's hands—they pushed against each other, but it was a quick win in Slade's favor. Dick felt pain shoot through his wrists as Slade twisted them into the ground, knuckles hitting the cement. Dick waited for the next blow. Both exhausted, they very suddenly came to a standstill, their panting filling the room. Dick's throat felt burned raw from trying to catch his breath.
Slade's head hung low between his shoulders. Dick couldn't make out his face in the dark shadows, but he noticed something. Slade's breathing had slowed—only somewhat. Still, what was stopping him? What was stopping him when Dick was beyond exhausted?
Dick realized the truth a second later, when he felt Slade shift against him. Dick's face instantly burned, and he bit back a sound—even in the chaos of moving body parts, he hadn't gotten so distracted that he hadn't realized what was happening. He had known for awhile, but it was Slade making the discovery that left him mortified.
Suddenly, he was a teenager in a training room all over again.
"That's different," Slade said, tone dry. His teasing was dampened by the weariness in his voice—but Dick swallowed in shame nonetheless.
He pushed back against Slade, but there was hardly any strength in him, his hands planted to the ground. And whereas he would only get weaker from then on, Slade's accelerated healing was already making him stronger.
Dick knew he fucked up. He should have taken him out sooner. He should have ran when he had the chance.
Or, he shouldn't have been there in the first place.
"What's wrong, Grayson?" Slade breathed, voice ragged. Dick could feel the whisper touch his skin. "Have you been lonely?" Voice lower still, "Does wrestling on the ground make you miss your daddy?"
Dick bristled with indignation. No matter what Dick thought over the years, no matter what he might have wanted, Bruce never allowed himself to cross that line.
And Slade—how dare he? After everything—
"Don't talk about him," Dick said, voice a bark, and he even surprised himself with the amount of emotion behind his voice. All those nights of staring at the footage—seeing those carefully calculated movements, dressed up in a fucking cape and cowl—of course he knew it was fake, of course, but—
Dick managed to pull back an arm, but Slade easily grabbed him, black glove gripping with enough force to make Dick wince. Slade quickly had Dick's hands pinned on either side of his head and they were still for a moment, trying to recover their strength. Trying to breathe.
But it was hard to breathe.
It was hard to think.
Dick's eyelashes fluttered, his body's weariness threatening to take him under. The adrenaline worn away. His vision losing its focus.
He was so hot.
A small part of him wondered if it'd be easier—
Easier to just lay there.
Slade's voice had gone silent. It was just Dick now, his raspy breaths filling the space between them, and it felt almost lonely hearing himself in the darkness without an echoing voice to join his. And he hated himself for thinking it, but he suddenly remembered how Bruce could do that too—how he could make himself silent so fast, even when he was exhausted beyond hope.
Dick was a teenager again. He felt his frustration bubbling up.
But it wasn't just anger, it was grief.
If Bruce was here—
But he wasn't here—
And that was the problem, wasn't it?
Dick's body went alert when the pressure on his wrists increased, mind reeling back to reality—
Before going blank all over again, when Slade kissed him hard.
Dick tasted smeared blood and sweat. Felt stubble scratch at his skin. When he came to, Slade had already pulled away.
Dick didn't even have the chance to curse or ask why when Slade's hands were all over his body. His skin bristled underneath every touch, his heartbeat began to pick up again.
He had to stop this.
Dick placed his newly freed hands on Slade's shoulders, about to push him off, but a sudden sting jolted down his leg. Dick bit back a moan of pain when fingers hooked into the slashed suit, knuckles digging into the raw wound on Dick's thigh. Slade's inhuman strength ripped along the weakened seams of Dick's suit, the fabric giving way with a sound that filled the space.
Dick's stomach dropped.
"Stop—"he breathed.
And Bruce may have been relentless, but he knew the meaning of the word 'stop'. Dick's eyes closed shut, listening to those controlled, subtle hitches of breath, all while strong hands ripped apart his clothing. Controlled, always controlled. His grip on Slade loosened, hands slipping away finger by finger, grasping air instead. His heated flesh was exposed to the coolness of the room.
Smooth leather wrapped around his aching cock, the fabric soft where the movements were not.
Dick's head fell back. It was strange, how the cowl cradled his head like a pillow. He was a teenager again, in his bed. Head tilted back, his body equally sweaty and exhausted, gasps stifled behind chewed lips. And it was the same now as it was then—eyes closed while a ghost of a man stroked him.
He was humiliated by how hard he was already. He arched into Slade's fist, seeking relief for his straining erection. The man's lips were on him again, kissing him heatedly, their teeth colliding. Dick didn't stop him. Slade filled his mouth, the taste of copper touching the tip of Dick's tongue. Hard to breathe. Hard to think.
There was nothing kind in Slade's movements. Nothing gentle or patient in the way he gripped and groped. Blunt fingertips dug into the meat of his thigh, keeping his legs spread, pressing hard enough to bruise—just like then, on the mat, arm wrapped around his back and Bruce breathing into his ear—and Dick groaned, but the nature of the noise seemed to speak of both pleasure and pain. His body was battered and bleeding—but Bruce's kindness had tormented Dick over the years just as easily as his coldness, and Slade's rough touch felt like everything he had been waiting for.
It was enough to make him forget.
Or maybe remember.
He was a teenager again.
Take it.
Just take it.
Dick jerked back, loudly crying out, the sound muffled in the crook of Slade's neck as the man's fingers pushed inside of him. They burrowed in deep, pushing impatiently. It was hot and it hurt, fuck, it hurt—he could feel the trembling in his sore legs. His body couldn't take it. It couldn't take it—
Dick wasn't hot. He was on fire. He felt his suit, constricted against his skin, wrapped around him like an invisible body that refused to let go. As he squirmed against Slade's intruding fingers, his unfocused gaze kept catching a hint of the symbol on Slade's chest.
Batman.
Bruce.
Everything seemed to blur together.
Thick fingers thrusted in. Dick twisted underneath Slade's body, but he wasn't going anywhere. Slade's arm rested on his chest, weight pinning him down. Dick turned his cheek against the rough ground. He faintly felt debris digging into his body. Felt a roll of sweat trace down his face and onto the floor. His weary eyes opened, watching as their shadows played against the wall. Dick's cowl was hardly noticeable when laid against the ground, but Slade's was prominent as ever.
Slade's elbow continued to dig into Dick's ribs, even though he had stopped fighting. Stopped resisting. Dick groaned deep as he felt Slade's fingers moving inside of him. The smoothness of his glove didn't protect Dick from the harshness of the knuckles. The digits pushed and prodded inside of him, stretching him out.
Dick couldn't fight.
He should have run.
His cock was so hard it hurt. He wanted to touch himself.
Dick watched Slade's shadow shift. The weight lessened somewhat as Slade's free hand reached towards his belt. Dick's eyes rolled toward him, catching Slade's movements in his peripherals. Slade's hand was hasty, but never clumsy. He pried at the buckle and it came undone with a sound. Dick listened to the weight of it fall to the ground. Dick could just barely catch the colors of flesh when Slade's clothing was finally pulled past his hips.
Up until that point, Dick felt complacent. But he blushed hard when his vision focused and he saw Slade exposing himself. His heartrate suddenly spiked, his common sense drifting back to him.
Slade was already hard. Hard enough to fuck something.
"Wait—"Dick said, having sudden doubts. Body suddenly awake. Slade didn't say anything. He dragged Dick by the hips across the littered floor, and Dick bit back a cry as a strong hand shoved him by the shoulder, pushing his front against the ground.
Still, Dick looked back, his breath quickening in anticipation. Slade straightened his body, cock in hand as he guided it towards Dick's entrance. Dick wasn't sure why he didn't keep pulling away. Where was the fight in him?
His sore legs strained to spread and make room for Slade's body to nestle between them, the heaviness of his cock laying over the crease of Dick's ass. Dick could feel the heat of Slade's flesh against his entrance. The wound in Dick's thigh was screaming in pain, eliciting a pained groan as Slade forcefully maneuvered his body—pushing and pulling until Dick was on his knees, erection hanging between his legs. Dick's teeth ground together as he felt Slade beginning to press inside.
Slade kept going. Dick's body burned with the stretch and he cursed, a new layer of perspiration on his forehead. He grasped blindly at the ground, hands clenching and unclenching. His cut hand painting red on the cement.
Hot and frustrated, Dick released the cowl and pulled it back. He felt the air touch his sweaty hair. Slade paused long enough to spit in his palm and he wet his cock. He tried again.
Dick cried out as Slade forced the tip in. Slade didn't slow. His hips stuttered for just a moment, before savagely carving out a way inside of Dick. The place where their bodies met was hot, intense friction. Dick felt like he couldn't breathe—every bit of air seemed squeezed out of him with every inch he took. His body was on fire, trying to accommodate Slade's girth. His hole convulsing around the thick cock inside him.
He could feel it pushing its way inside of him, inch by inch. Hot. Everything was hot. Dick held his breath until Slade stopped, their hips meeting. Slade groaned, his voice seeming to rumble inside his chest, and it wasn't Bruce's voice, it wasn't, but everything was all mixed up and Dick just didn't care anymore—
He could feel every inch inside of him. Stretching him and filling him. His tilted his head up, watching their image reflected on the wall.
It was just him and Batman.
He felt weak, heat rushing through his body. His cock pulsed.
Every movement hurt. His body couldn't take this. Dick was panting fast, breaths laced with groans of pain, and dark strands of hair were plastered to his forehead. He watched through heavy lidded eyes at the shadows on the wall. Watched Batman grabbing him.
This was a man who takes, and takes, and takes, and Dick didn't care.
His knees rocked against the hard ground, trying to keep himself propped up. He felt the ache in his lower back and shoulders from the fall, and still he held himself up.
Slade could move easier now. Faster now. Everything went fuzzy. Dick focused on the sensation of Slade inside of him. Stretching him. Filling him. Fucking him. His breaths became elongated, tinged with something desirous. The vast room was filled with the sounds of their fucking—Slade's deep grunts, the claps of their bodies meeting, Dick's hitched gasps and groans.
Slade's hands were everywhere. Hips and waist and shoulders. Fingers finally wrapped around Dick's chin and mouth. Dick breathed in leather and sweat, his eyes rolling back, a shudder travelling through his body.
Dick's moan was muffled by Slade's glove. Slade drove into him, faster now, and Dick watched with an almost perverse fascination as their shadows danced.
He was getting fucked by Batman. He was getting fucked by Batman.
Slade was louder now. Dick got pushed into the ground, elbows on the hard ground, hips arched up. Slade pushed in so deep that things went blurry for a moment, sparks racing down Dick's spine. Slade's front was flushed against Dick's back, the man breathing hard in Dick's ear. Dick could feel the heat and sweat coming off the man. His stubble scratched at the shell of his ears.
Dick was pushing back, hips rocking back to meet Slade's thrusts. His voice was unrestrained. He twisted an arm underneath his body, grasping at his neglected erection. Slade's pace was far from accommodating. Dick struggled to stroke himself properly, cock pushing up against his hand as Slade fucked him.
He felt so full. So full. His eyes closed. He was being fucked so good. His cock pushed into his palm and it wasn't enough but it was so fucking good.
"Bruce," he said in a strangled moan. "Bruce—"
He didn't realize his mistake. It didn't feel like a mistake at all when a deep growl responded in his ear, "I'm going to come inside you, boy." A breath shuddered hot against his hair. "I'm going to fill you up."
Dick was pushed forward one last time. Slade groaned and Dick's never heard him so loud in his life. Hands dug into his skin, gripping his hips tightly in place as Slade buried himself in as deep as he could.
Dick could feel it—hot and thick and filling him up. The sudden rush of heat pushed him over the edge and he cried out, his voice giving out halfway.
The sweat on his forehead was beginning to cool.
Dick laid on his side, his breath evening out. The cut on his hand was starting to crust over. His cape was wrapped around him, cushioning the ground, but only just barely.
He heard the click of a belt. Boots rising on the cement.
Dick's mouth felt dry. He wanted to ask why. Different words slipped out, unbidden.
"You weren't always like this."
Everything went still for a moment.
A shadow lingered on the wall.
"You were always selfish." Dick swallowed. It was still difficult to speak. "But you were never so angry."
Dick's brow furrowed slightly, thinking about it. His fingers twisted in the folds of the fabric surrounding him.
He held onto the cape.
When no voice answered, he kept talking. Because that was just how Dick was. That's what he's always done. He fills silences. He speaks for others.
"Something happened to you—after your second son died—"
"Grow up, Grayson." The words cut in fast and sudden. Dick listened to the footsteps resume. Watched the shadow disappear. "They're all dead. And we're never going back."
Minutes later, Dick finally picked himself up. He pulled together the tatters of his clothes. Bandaged up his wounds. He felt pain in every inch of his body, but he barely acknowledged it. When he turned to leave, he noticed the light reflecting off something on the ground.
Dick picked up the broken cowl off the floor, holding it up to his face. He stared at it for a few seconds. As if waiting for something to happen.
Nothing did.
He dropped it back onto the pile of rubble.
He climbed back up to the upper floor, finding his abandoned grappling gun. He looked at it, remembering that the line had snapped.
Through the open window, he could see the shape of the moon.
He moved toward it and stopped—remembering to pull on his cowl.