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Another day in Bludhaven, another glimpse at the seething cesspit of humanity. Dick sighed as he looked over the disarray in the office he’d broken into. The tip he’d followed on the trafficking organization hadn’t led to where they were keeping the omegas, but he at least managed to get his hands on a paper trial.
Dick took pictures of all the documents he could find, knocking on drawers to find false bottoms and looking behind pictures and in bookshelves to find hidden safes. He struck the jackpot behind an imitation of Van Gogh’s Irises and cracked the combination to reveal a mini freezer.
There were three vials in the vial holders, each filled with a viscous liquid the color of sunflowers. Liquid heat, Dick had heard it called among traffickers—a banned drug that could induce a heat in an omega in a matter of minutes. Dick’s jaw tightened and he swiped all three vials.
The spying had netted him a lot of information and the night was getting late—better to regroup and comb through the document than do any more surveillance tonight. Dick clambered back through the window and out of the office, fluidly making his way up the tall corporate building until he was on the roof.
His pocket vibrated.
“Nightwing,” Dick chirped into the receiver, trusting in the voice modulation software to do its job. He didn’t hand out his vigilante phone number to just anyone, but better safe than sorry.
“Nightwing,” Amy’s clipped voice filtered through. “Do you have a moment?”
“Yup! What’s going on?”
“Got a tip for you.” Amy wasn’t the biggest fan of Nightwing, both reluctant to enable Dick and to work outside the law, so whatever it was had to be too big for the BPD to handle. “Deathstroke’s been spotted near the docks.”
Or just too inconvenient.
After that whole mess with Deathstroke showing up to assassinate Amy on a contract from another cop, the BPD collectively did their best to ignore the mercenary. Like if they pretended hard enough, he wouldn’t be their problem to deal with. Luckily for them, supersoldier assassins fell neatly into Nightwing’s wheelhouse.
“I’ll check it out,” Dick straightened, stretching out any stiffness. “Thanks for the tip!”
“Be careful,” Amy signed off and Dick set his grapple in the direction of the docks.
It had been a while since Deathstroke had last been in Bludhaven. That time, Dick had disrupted Slade’s contract, fought the man until his target was locked up in police custody, and then gotten fucked through a mattress by an alpha with an insane refractory period and the determination to take the failed contract out of Dick’s hide. Dick hadn’t been complaining.
Which was to say that Dick wasn’t exactly thinking with his brain when he arrived at the warehouses next to the docks.
The dead bodies did a good job of snapping him out of it.
They were lying scattered like bowling pins, blood and viscera splattered all over. Dick’s footsteps got lighter, quieter, as he crept into the warehouse, disquiet slithering down his spine. It was messy—it was sloppy, a word not normally attributed to Deathstroke. It was possible that his contract had called for this brutal savagery, but Dick couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
Each body looked like it had been murdered with Slade’s bare hands.
The realization clicked into place a scant second before the hair rose on the back of his neck. Dick ducked before he finished thinking about it, whirling away from the knife hand strike that would’ve snapped his spine.
Not a sword, or a gun, or any other of the weapons Deathstroke favored.
“Slade?” Dick said warily, putting distance between him and the mercenary, still trying to figure out the full picture. “Is everything okay?”
Deathstroke growled, low and vicious and deep. Any other omega would’ve cowered before it, an alpha would’ve fled. As it was, Dick had to lock his knees to stop from sinking down.
“Slade?” he tried again. “Are you okay? What happened?”
A blur of movement was his response.
Dick had never before fully appreciated how much Slade held back in their fights. Or rather, how much Slade held back in general, how much of his speed and strength and ability was constrained by the need for control. How much of his own capability Slade sacrificed in order to ensure he never twitched a single finger he didn’t want to move.
Because he could’ve killed Dick a hundred times over with this kind of force.
Dick tried to keep up, escrima sparking, ducking and twisting and kicking, trying to anticipate Slade’s movements, trying to avoid the strikes, every other one a killing blow, trying to keep from drowning in the overpowering miasma of alpha rage and domination. He couldn’t think, there was no space to think, barely space to breathe, no time to put together the pieces he’d been given to the picture just out of reach.
A punch crashed through his block, followed by a kick so fast he couldn’t even see it, and Dick only realized he’d been sent flying when he hit the wall of shipping containers, vision sparking with black. There wasn’t a second to recover, to gather his feet under himself, because Deathstroke was there, grabbing Dick by the collar and slamming him back, tearing half the collar and his scent blockers off in the process.
The spike of pain crashed through his skull and the whole world went blurry. Dick couldn’t help the high whimper that escaped him, his now-released scent turning sour with distress.
Deathstroke paused.
Dick blinked furiously to see him, see that one-eyed mask trained on him. He couldn’t see Slade’s expression, but his scent had shifted, a faint curl of confusion amidst the unrelenting fury—before it disappeared again.
Slade’s hand tightened around Dick’s throat, thumb pressing into the hollow like he planned on crushing his trachea with just that one finger. But Dick had taken that second to turn on his escrima and he slammed it into the underside of Slade’s jaw, a vulnerability in his suit design where the mask met the collar.
The alpha made a sound between a gasp and a growl before falling back.
Dick gasped, taking a full, deep breath, before immediately retreating to the rafters of the warehouse. He’d set the electricity as high as it could go, but he was under no illusion that it would stop Deathstroke for more than a handful of seconds.
Especially not if the mercenary had gone berserk.
That was the only explanation Dick could piece together, thinking frantically through the handful of clues and on a very, very short timer. Slade had shown no recognition, he was fighting with his bare hands, his scent reeked of undirected aggression—he’d paused at the scent of an omega in distress. It had to be a berserker rut.
Dick had observed similar behavior in illegal fighting rings he’d busted. There was a drug, the opposite of liquid heat, that induced a potent, mindless rut in alphas, reducing their agency to fight or fuck. Dick had seen an alpha keep fighting even after being dismembered, ignoring the pain and blood loss like it didn’t exist.
A growl echoed out, vicious and sharp. The frustration of thwarted prey.
Dick had no idea who had been stupid enough to dose Deathstroke or why in the world they thought it would be a good idea. Deathstroke couldn’t be corralled or controlled. He would murder every single person in his path.
The mercenary was going to figure out where Dick was hiding, if he hadn’t done so already. Dick needed to get onto the roof and flee; there was no way, shape, or form that he was prepared to take on a berserk Deathstroke.
Except.
No one would be safe. Dick didn’t know if the drug would wear off faster or if it’d combined with the serum to devastating effect, but anyone that crossed Deathstroke’s path before he snapped out of it was dead. If they’d been on the outskirts of Bludhaven, if Dick had a chance of luring Slade away from civilization, he would’ve tried it, but here the risk was too high.
Dick couldn’t unleash a mindless killing machine on the streets of his city.
Another growl. Louder. Closer. Dick couldn’t see him and that made the trickle of fear worse.
He needed to find a way to stop him. Dick didn’t stand a chance in a fight, the only reason he’d avoided death thus far was because Slade had paused that one, single moment—
Fight or fuck.
The scent of an omega wasn’t enough to stop Deathstroke. But an omega in heat might.
Dick didn’t stop to think about it; he didn’t have the time. He stuck an empty syringe into the vial, filling it with twenty milliliters of liquid heat, before stabbing it into his thigh and depressing the syringe. He swung down from the rafter beam after, skin prickling and unwilling to stay exposed when he couldn’t see Slade.
They were right, it did work fast. Barely twenty seconds had passed before Dick began to feel the flush of preheat, his scent sweetening from its sour, scared notes, the throbbing of his bruises increasing with his sensitivity. The sudden change was nauseating and Dick paused behind a stack of containers to catch his breath, to try and calm the jitters in his stomach.
He didn’t hear a single thing before the attack that pinned him against the container.
Dick instinctively fought back, but the alpha scent had gone from overpowering to overwhelming, like Dick was swimming through a thick sea of fog. A deep, rumbling growl turned Dick’s knees to jelly, the flush deepening throughout his body, and Dick distantly registered Deathstroke removing his mask.
He caught sight of the blue eye turned nearly black, of a snarl etched on normally composed features, before it vanished once more. Teeth dug into the junction of his neck and shoulder, the bite sinking down and forcing Dick to go limp with a high-pitched whine.
Slade’s scent changed to satisfaction and intent.
It worked, a clinical part of his mind noted as Slade tore his uniform off with no regard to modesty or comfort. The greater part was stuck somewhere between dread and horror as Slade spread his legs with disregard, yanking Dick closer as he wrenched his own suit open, and immediately slammed home.
Dick shrieked.
The beginnings of heat were licking at him, slickness between his legs and the stirrings of arousal, but he was in no way prepared to take the enormity of Slade. Being braced for it didn’t help, not when Slade drew out to slam forward again, his pace punishing and intense.
It felt like Dick was being carved open, like Slade was rewriting him from the inside, the fullness of it a shock to his senses. His body got with the program swiftly enough, pain sparking pleasure, the roughness not giving him a second to breathe, to do anything other than take as Slade chased his completion.
Dick realized he was moaning, soft noises wrenched from him with every one of Slade’s thrusts, the mercenary’s growls stark and possessive. Concrete scraped against Dick’s back as he slid across the floor in Slade’s bruising grip, legs fallen wide, fingers curling desperately to try and ground him.
Slade slammed all the way forward and stilled, knot locking into place as heat spurted inside of Dick. Dick clenched up, pleasure shooting down his spine, an instinctive reaction to being filled, pulsing around the knot as he cried out.
Oh fuck.
He needed a moment to breathe. He needed to—that had been too intense, he was going to lose his mind if it kept up, he could barely think about anything other than Deathstroke’s knot inside of him, plugging him, filling him. He whined again when Slade moved, nowhere near ready to let go.
Slade yanked himself out regardless.
For a moment, Dick was frozen in shock. Knots were not supposed to go down that quickly—he’d barely had a moment to get his scrambled thoughts in order—why was he suddenly empty—what was going on. He needed a moment for everything to slow down so he could fucking think.
Deathstroke did not care. Deathstroke flipped Dick, as casual as breathing, manhandling him onto his hands and knees. Dick tried to breathe, tried to swallow past the churning in his stomach, the shrieking inside his head, the confusion, the pain, the anxiety—but only choked as Deathstroke thrust forward again.
How was he already hard?
“No,” Dick tried to say, but his tongue wasn’t cooperating, his breaths stolen by desperate whimpers, flashes of near-painful sensitivity in the wake of Slade’s groping fingers. It wouldn’t matter. Deathstroke wouldn’t stop. Not like this.
Dick panted between too-fast thrusts, whined when Slade pinched his nipples, shivered as teeth grazed the top of his spine. Their bodies squelched where Deathstroke fucked into his cunt, stirring the mess he’d already left inside, the glide smoother but no less overwhelming.
The knot swelled again as Deathstroke slammed in, deep enough that Dick could swear he could feel him in his throat. Warmth gushed inside him. Dick waited, breath caught in his throat, legs weak from overstimulation.
Slade pulled free and Dick couldn’t suppress the sob.
He was flipped again. This time, he was bent in half, knees next to his ears, open and vulnerable to the predator’s gaze. He instinctively attempted to struggle, pushing back against the grip—but Slade bit down over his collarbone, forcing Dick limp yet again.
Dick moaned when Slade thrust in.
Dick had lost count of how many times he’d orgasmed. How many times pleasure shocked down his spine, rattling through his bones, turning his vision white as Slade ignored the clenching and just. kept. going.
How many times before it didn’t feel like pleasure anymore.
He was uncomfortably bloated, so full it astounded him that there wasn’t a visible swell. His thighs were slick, wetness dripping down into his ass, expelled with every thrust as his cunt overflowed. Slade just kept packing more in, reasoning and motivation and control all fled as the alpha chased desire over and over and over again.
“Please,” Dick exhaled, on his knees again. He was too exhausted to hold himself up, his head pillowed on a hand as Slade dug his fingers into his hips. His knees were rubbed raw, his back felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper. His mouth was dry, his body flushed and sticky. When he blinked, it took an eternity to snap open his eyes.
Slade thrust in, ignoring Dick’s harsh breaths. Ignoring Dick’s desperate, pleading scent. Ignoring the begging.
“I can’t,” Dick exhaled. He was barely conscious. He’d gone partially numb, unable to feel his cunt, even his heat incapable of keeping up with Slade.
It didn’t matter to Slade. He kept going. As though Dick was nothing more than an empty hole to use. To be filled, over and over again. As though that was his only purpose.
The thought seized him, tightening around his ribs, settling in the pit of his stomach. It felt like a collar around his throat, grabbing him and forcing him still. Dick might’ve tried fighting it, but he was too exhausted.
Too exhausted, surrounded by possessive alpha scent, littered with bites, stuffed with cum. Thoroughly claimed.
It took more energy than Dick had to resist the surrender.
Fight or fuck, Deathstroke was always going to win.
With a sharp cry, something tearing loose in his chest, Dick gave fully into the submission.
Dick woke slowly and heavily, like there was a weight strapped to his limbs. He blinked dully at the opposing wall for several seconds before realizing it was exposed brick and therefore not his apartment, the Cave, or the Manor.
That gave him enough impetus to push upright.
Dick felt like an old man, wincing as stiff muscles protested and joints creaked. Everything throbbed like one gigantic bruise, a thousand pulses of pain joining into one. Several muscles cramped in response to the movement and Dick had to pause and stretch out each one before he had the space to look around.
He was in a large, empty room. A gutted garage, maybe, or a small warehouse. The walls were all exposed brick, sunlight filtering hazily from a skylight set into the roof high above and not making it to the shadowed corners of the rafters.
Dick was sitting on a mattress lying on the cement floor, in a tangle of blankets that smelled deeply of him, of Slade, and of sex. Someone had dressed him in a loose, large shirt, but his suit and his mask were nowhere to be seen.
He took a deep breath to settle his racing heartbeat and crawled to the edge of the bed.
Standing up was another trial. His legs were weak and shuddery, bloody scrapes on his knees, bite marks on the inside of his thighs. He’d been wiped clean, the mess of slick and cum he remembered gone, but he could feel fresh fluids trickling down out of him now that he was upright. His cunt throbbed dully, stretched oddly like there was a permanent opening carved into him.
The thought jolted down his spine.
Dick shoved it down, locking it with the rest of his hazy memories, and limped towards the open fixture sink he spied. He couldn’t see a bathroom, but the sink hopefully had running water and was only twenty feet away. Each step was careful and slow as he waddled to avoid brushing his thighs against each other, discomfort growing as more fluids leaked out, dripping down his legs.
He finally reached the sink and twisted the tap to a gush of cool water. Dick splashed his face, feeling a little better with the refreshing coolness, and looked into the frameless mirror tacked up above the sink.
A hollow-eyed omega looked back at him.
He looked mauled, ashen and weak, bites littering his neck like a collar, each one angry and possessive. Dick stepped back and the collar of the shirt slid down one shoulder, revealing finger-shaped bruises high on his arm. Pulling the sleeve back up revealed more decorating his arm, dark purple and stark against his skin.
There were marks splashed all across his body. Bites and bruises and scrapes, all the evidence of a raging, out-of-control alpha. Dick, staring at the very visible damage, had to contend with how very close he’d come to being killed.
He traced the edge of the bruise encircling his throat. One squeeze and Deathstroke could’ve snapped his neck.
Dick turned sharply away from the mirror, breathing ragged, chest squeezing tight. He felt…shaky. Uncentered. But there were things to do before he had to face how close he’d flirted with death.
“Slade?” Dick called out, hesitant. His voice wavered despite himself. The drug had to have worn off, if Slade had brought him here and cleaned him up. The mercenary could’ve left already, but Dick doubted it—Dick felt jittery enough, Slade’s instincts had to be in overdrive.
A deliberate footfall.
Dick jerked in the direction of the sound, heart suddenly racing. Slade stood on the other side of the room, dressed in civilian clothes, arms crossed. Dick told his heart to calm down, but it wasn’t very ineffective with Slade’s expression taut and his jaw hard. Clearly displeased.
His stomach sank somewhere in the vicinity of his bare feet.
“Slade,” Dick repeated, voice slow and wary. Like he was talking to a wild animal. “How—how are you feeling?”
A muscle in Slade’s jaw twitched. Dick noticed belatedly that Slade had scent blockers on, a rare sight. His entire posture was rigid. Closed off.
“How do you think I’m feeling?” Slade rasped, low and dark.
Dick flinched at the fury in his tone. He had to stop himself from physically stepping back—Slade hadn’t moved an inch, but the anger in his voice had lashed out like a living thing.
“I,” Dick swallowed. He felt like shit. Physically and emotionally. “I’m sorry.”
Slade’s eyebrow rose. “You’re sorry?” he repeated, incredulous. “You’re sorry? I realize you have an incurable affliction towards playing the martyr, Grayson, I just didn’t realize you’d use me to do it!”
Dick did flinch at that, swaying back like Slade had dealt him a physical blow. The only person making clear choices in that warehouse had been Dick. And he’d essentially forced Slade’s hand. To a man that prided himself on control, a heavy blow indeed.
By the time Dick managed to look back, Slade had turned away.
“Whatever,” the alpha snapped, hands balled into fists. “I’m leaving. Do what you like with the place because I’m certainly not coming back.”
“Slade, wait—please—”
The man walked out without a single glance.
It hurt. It hurt like Slade had stabbed him and twisted, the pain splintering inside of him. Dick doubled over with a keen, clutching himself and trying not to collapse. He squinted to see through blurry vision, but it didn’t matter. Slade was gone.
Dick managed to stumble back towards the mattress, heart echoing oddly in his skull, stomach turned to lead weight. Goosebumps dotted his arms, his skin hot and cold at the same time, and Dick swallowed as his stomach churned unpleasantly.
Slade was gone.
Dick collapsed inelegantly on the mattress—on the nest, blankets arranged haphazardly but smelling like him and Slade—and gave into the hiccuping sobs. They shuddered through him like avalanches, each one drowning him for stretching seconds as he fought for air. His chest was being ripped into two, his skin flaying off inch by inch, his bones cracking under the weight of disappointment and regret and failure.
He couldn’t fight it. He couldn’t withstand it. He could just curl up into the smallest ball he could manage, shove his nose into a sheet that smelled like his alpha, and cry.
Time passed interminably. It could’ve been hours that Dick lay there, in the ruins of his own choices, crying until he had no tears left to shed. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been days.
He didn’t hear any indication that he wasn’t alone, not footstep or creaking metal or shift in the air. Not until the hand on his shoulder.
Dick jolted upright, ignoring the fierce protestations of his aching body, ready to attack because every nerve was a live wire and he wasn’t safe—and came to a screeching halt.
Slade stared at him, kneeling on the edge of the bed, expression unreadable. Dick stared back. For a stretching moment, no one breathed.
Then Dick scrambled forward, unsure of his welcome but unable to stop himself with his alpha so close. Slade grunted as Dick lunged at him, clinging tight to the alpha as he buried his face in Slade’s shirt, but made no move to tear Dick off.
Instead, he extended a hesitant arm around Dick. Hovering, like he didn’t want to enclose Dick in his grip.
Slade didn’t smell like anything—those damn blockers—and Dick reached up to tear them off, on the edge of frantic. They came off freshly sticky and Dick tossed them as far as he could, taking a deep breath of the smoky, metallic scent that was uniquely Slade.
And then he took another breath and smelled the festering, rancid guilt that seeped out like a cloud around them.
Slade was stiff in Dick’s arms, rigid and unmoving, like he was imitating a statue. Exactly like he was imitating a statue, as though moving would scare Dick off.
Dick pulled back, and heard Slade’s breathing stutter in response. The man’s face could’ve been carved from stone—except for that stone didn’t cry.
Dick reached up and brushed away the tear with gentle fingers, pretending that they weren’t shaking. “It wasn’t your fault,” Dick said hoarsely, shifting closer, until he was all but perched in Slade’s lap. “You were drugged.”
“I should’ve known better,” Slade said, venomous. Poison directly entirely inward.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Dick repeated, insistent, like he could carve the words into Slade’s heart if he just tried. “You weren’t in control. You had no idea what you were doing and you couldn’t have stopped it if you tried.”
Slade made a low chuckle, the furthest thing from amused.
“Do you think that mattered to me,” he said, quiet and soft, “when I woke to see you unconscious and bleeding in my arms?”
Dick pressed himself closer, feeling the faintest of tremors in Slade’s hand.
“I thought I killed you,” was so soft Dick barely heard it.
“I’m here,” Dick murmured, clinging tightly. The scent of his alpha curled around him, soothing the jagged edges of his emotions. Telling him he was safe. Protected. Not alone. “I’m here, I’m okay.” Sore and aching all over, but not seriously injured. “I’m right here.”
Slade’s grip finally tightened—still soft, still treating him like fragile glass, but finally pulling Dick close. Dick buried his head against Slade’s shoulder and fought the tears prickling at his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, because if Slade had woken up to Dick’s corpse, it would be entirely due to Dick’s own hubris. “It was the only thing I could think of. The only thing that could make you stop.”
Slade exhaled harshly. “I would’ve rather you ran,” he snarled, low and wounded, chin pressed to Dick’s hair. “I would’ve rather you flown away, little bird.”
Dick didn’t point out that he couldn’t. That he wouldn’t let Slade murder innocents while he had the power to stop it. That he would never save his own skin at the cost of others.
“Thank you for coming back,” Dick said instead, quiet and muffled. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of letting go. At least not until the overwhelming fear passed and he no longer felt like he’d been wrung dry and then set on fire.
Slade combed a careful hand through Dick’s hair. His scent settled to something less wrenching but still bitter. Dick didn’t ask about who had drugged Slade or why. He had no doubt that their deaths had been painful.
“Do you need a hospital?” Slade asked quietly.
Dick shook his head, tightening his grip in case the alpha got any ideas about leaving. “I’m fine.” Sore and exhausted, yes, not injured. “Just need you.”
Slade made a quiet, broken sound, but didn’t let go. He shifted until he was fully in the nest, leaning back with Dick in his arms, and continued stroking Dick’s hair, achingly gentle.
“It’s okay,” Dick whispered, so soft he could barely hear himself. “It’s okay.” If he said it enough, maybe it would be true.
Slade exhaled, bitterness rising in a wave. But lips pressed to the edge of Dick’s hairline, soft and slow. “If you say so, little bird.”