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“Slade Wilson was spotted flying into New Orleans two days ago,” Bruce says, not taking his eyes off the monitor. There isn’t so much as a pause in the sound of his typing.

Dick makes a face. “I assume he’s headed Belle Reve’s way, then?”

“That’s the thing. He flew commercial and seems to be lying low. He’s still in the city.”

Dick tries to imagine Slade going through TSA in civilian drag.

“I’m not here to just comment on how weird that is, am I.”

“Good guess. You’re leaving within the hour.”


“OK, boss.”

“Thank you--” Bruce belatedly calls out as Dick heads towards the stairs.

Dick tracks Slade to a pretty nice restaurant in the French Quarter and figures he might as well make himself known.

The restaurant is, somehow, too nice for Dick and not as bougie as the circles Richard Wayne runs in, which makes him uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He felt out-of-place wearing a jacket and underdressed checking it.

Slade seems to have been expecting him--or someone, at least. The table is set for two.

Dick orders the second-cheapest red wine like he normally does, and the first words Slade says are to correct him, ordering something French in a flawless accent.

The waiter listens to Slade, of course.

It is very good wine. Dick doesn’t want to know how much it costs.

He’s not sure who to be, here, across the table from Deathstroke.

Slade’s already tucked in the first course (with characteristic efficiency), so he’s twirling one of the bread knives in silence and looking at Dick expectantly while Dick eats.

Dick clears his throat.

“I mean, it’s a nice place. What was this dish called again? It’s fantastic.”

Slade cocks his head to the side.

Étouffée. It means smothered.”

“Or suffocated. Though in this context I guess smothered makes more sense,” Dick replies absently, before fully registering Slade’s tone.

The quiet between them is too easy.

“Slade, why am I here?”

“Maybe I wanted to run the menu by an idiot playboy friend of mine with an old-money palette. See if it’s up to snuff,” Slade deadpans.

“To your first point, fuck you. To your second, we’re friends? To your third, bullshit." Dick keeps his tone genial but firm.

“Cards on the table: I don’t know. It’s not like you were invited.”

Dick splutters. “You flew commercial. Oracle picked you up on cameras in San Francisco train stations.”

“I do prefer to drive.”

“That’s not the point--you making yourself seen is as close to an invitation as I’m going to get,” the words tumble out of Dick’s mouth unprompted and his eyes go wide.

Slade really looks at him with one stern, pale eye, and smiles.

The waitress appears to their right, saving Dick the indignity of having to respond. Slade keeps looking at her cleavage and it really doesn’t bother Dick.

It doesn’t.

The main course is similarly spectacular-- though as far as Dick can tell, it’s roughly the same quality and cuisine-style to other local places, just with more work put into plating.

The silence and everything in between should be much stranger than it actually is.

“What hotel are you staying at?” Dick asks over dessert (it’s a citrus custard tart of some kind covered in edible flowers), any efforts at playing it safe or playing it cool totally laid to waste. He has three glasses of stupid expensive wine in him and has no desire to remember why he was here to begin with.

“I have a place here.”

Dick doesn’t want to push, but it seems like Slade is being deliberately obtuse. Dick can’t even bring himself care about to what end it might be.

“Can I see it?”

They walk together to the edge of the French Quarter. Dick normally doesn’t think about how much bigger Slade is than him in a non-combative context, but here, even with the cobblestones, they’re on more even footing. He has to look up at him, and the old-fashioned streetlights mixed with the colorful neon light spilling from the bars must be something special. They soften the edges of everything Dick sees.

Slade gets them a taxi back into the newer part of town and Dick almost wants to hold his hand in the backseat.

Jesus Christ. 

Slade walks Dick up three flights of stairs stairs and, the next thing Dick knows, they’re kissing on Slade’s big, stupid bed in his big, stupid, converted condo. 

Dick is straddling Slade and he refuses to think about gentrification right now, no matter how soulless and minimalist he finds the whole building. 

Dick pulls back a little and reaches down to touch him.

Slade grabs Dick’s hand and shoves it between his legs at a different angle than he was expecting.

Oh. That makes sense. Dick can work with that.

He sits back in Slade’s lap and pushes his hand back and forth, rubbing Slade’s cunt through his slacks. Their faces are so close. They breathe the same air, and Dick is already panting with it.

“Anything else I should know?” Dick winces at the clinical way it sounds but has drunk too much wine to construct a more charming phrase. He kisses Slade on the cheek, as if in apology.

“Hm. I’m clean and, uh, protected. And call it whatever you like.”

“Can I go down on you?”

“Right down to business, huh. Sure, kid.”

Dick lifts Slade’s hips and pulls his slacks and--ha, his old-school plaid boxers down. They’re both still wearing shoes. 

Dick stops and gently unlaces his dress shoes, pulling each shoe off with care. 

“Where should I put these?”

On any other face, Slade’s expression could be called fondness. It doesn’t sit exactly right.

“Just on the floor is fine.”

Dick reaches over the side of the bed and sets them down, side by side. He pulls Slade’s pants off the rest of the way. Slade spreads his leg, and Dick crawls up to bury his face in Slade’s lap.

Dick starts slow, the way he always does, alternately lapping at him and sucking gently.

There’s the feeling of one big hand over the back of his head, gently but insistently pressing him forward into the slick cunt in front of him. The overwhelming sensations combine into something amazing that makes Dick shudder with pleasure.

Slade hooks one strong leg around the back of his neck and Dick groans.

God , he’s fucking Dick’s face, so Dick lets his mouth go slack and soft and hangs on to Slade’s hips to keep his balance. Slade pushes his clit in and out of his mouth and his thrusts are shallow but strong.

Slade pulls Dick up by the hair and kisses him.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Slade growls.

Please,” Dick says with a mortifying earnestness he’s too far gone to blush about.

“Wait, I don’t have a condom--”

“If you’re clean, we’re good.”

Dick can’t push his pants down fast enough. 

Slade is really wet and covered with Dick’s spit, so Dick feels a little less guilty at how he pushes his cock inside without preamble.

They’re both still mostly clothed, Dick still has his shoes on, and he feels too  good here, inside Slade, to stop himself and do this properly. Slade readjusts, spreads his legs a little, but doesn’t complain. 

“Feels so good inside you, thank you for letting me fuck you--” Dick babbles, drowning in pleasure.

He’s trying to be considerate, trying to resist the urge to just jackhammer the man.

“Christ, kid. You can speed up, any day, now.” The words are brusque, but Slade’s gruff breathlessness gives his game away.

Dick is grateful for the feedback. He lets himself speed up and put his back into it, chasing his own pleasure.

Slade brings his fingers to his mouth and spits in them. He reaches down to rub his clit. He uses his other hand to reach up and wrap a hand around Dick’s throat.

His orgasm sneaks up on him, faster than it normally would. He'll blame the lack of oxygen.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--” and his voice is strained because he can’t breathe

Slade entwines his legs with Dick’s, and there’s a hot rush of a feeling--Dick is so comfortably trapped here, held by his throat and pinned by his legs.

“Don’t slow down on my behalf, son.”

Dick can’t look at him after that. He closes his eyes and whines. Dick humps faster and faster, trying to get deeper inside somehow. Of course he's trying to breathe, but trying harder to cum.

His priorities are fine.

Slade lets go of Dick’s throat, and before Dick can gasp in a breath, Slade wraps his arms around him. He holds Dick close to his broad chest, weaves his fingers into Dick’s hair, and everything is so warm. Dick has to kiss him, so he kisses clumsily at Slade’s throat.

It’s almost like tenderness, almost like encouragement, and that’s enough.

Dick gasps out, “Oh, fuck, Daddy, thank you,” and he full-body shudders and cums inside Slade.

It takes too long to come down from that.

Dick eventually manages to pull out and sit back on his heels.

“What should I do?”

Slade sits up a little, back against the headboard.

“Fingers should do it. Start with two.” Slade’s voice is tight and gruff and controlled. Dick thinks he must be close then.

Dick lies down, head resting on Slade’s thigh, and pushes fingers inside, just like Slade ask. He can’t take his eyes off his fingers fucking in and out of Slade, slick with his own cum.

“Good boy,” Slade rumbles, and it makes Dick’s hips rut against the bed as he works. He’s torn between his own simmering arousal (again) and his overwhelming need to make Slade cum on his face. 

Dick can feel Slade’s leg is tensing and trembling under Dick’s head. Dick repositions so he can use his mouth again. Dick sucks at Slade’s clit and it tastes like his own cum. Dick closes his eyes and Slade cumming in his mouth is everything he thought it would be. 

He could kneel here forever. He would take what he was given.


Slade looks ridiculously smug when Dick pulls back.

“Is it because I’m hard again?”

“I hadn’t noticed. Poor thing, you mostly just look a mess.”

Slade wipes some cum from Dick’s cheek with his calloused thumb.

“Do you want some help with that, son?

“Oh, fuck,” Dick breathes out. 

“What, need me to show you how?”

Slade sits up and positions Dick’s back to his chest, between his legs. All Dick can do is whine and think about how small he feels.

Slade holds him in place by the waist with one hand and starts jerking him off with the other. Slade’s so big, he barely has to move his hand to pleasure Dick.

“You shouldn’t be so careless. So easy; didn’t Daddy teach you better than that?” 

“Mm, no. Please--I’m not scared. Fuck, Daddy. I’m not scared of what you make me feel--”

Dick is babbling again. He’s trapped again, too, and he couldn’t be happier. His head is empty of anything but his desire to cum again.  

Slade shushes him. 

“It’s alright, son. You’re alright, just let go.”

Dick throws his head back on Slade’s shoulder and his eyes screw shut. He cries out as spills and spills over Slade’s hand.

They pant together for a while. Dick is pleasantly exhausted.

He manages, “Sorry about the mess. Where do you keep the spare sheets?”

“What a gentleman. First door on the right,” Slade drawls, pointing at the door to the hallway.

Dick’s legs shake as he walks, but don’t betray him fully.