He’ll never get used to how awful these gags taste in his mouth.
The dirty scraps of cotton; the patches moist with oil, yet somehow dry enough to absorb all the saliva pooling behind it.
Why couldn’t criminals ever find cleaner rags?
When he had first woken up, he’d mistakenly thought that he must’ve wandered away from the fundraiser and fallen asleep in the parking lot. After peeling his sticky eyelids open to take a look around the room, he’d soon realised that the tacky wallpaper of the hotel was nowhere to be found. He’s in a cordoned off section of a warehouse; it’s a singular, small room, but the walls don’t come anywhere close to the multistory ceiling of the building, for some reason, so it seems like a temporary set-up.
There’s no one else in the room, either.
TIME: ???? / LOCATION: UNKNOWN
Huh. Not the best amount of info. He can tack on a night label to that at least; Dick knows that much. Carefully, he begins to roll, to try and get up on his knees and—
He freezes as the ghost of a fist slams into his gut.
Okay. That was just a bruise. Right? He pauses to take inventory on the status of his body, beyond the uncomfortable, stuffy feeling enveloping his face. The concrete floor is cold against his limbs, but everything more than skin-deep is slowly filling with that ever-familiar magma hot ache.
Oh crap.
He twists his head, and feels his neck turn easily without the tug against the sharp edges of his scentblocker patches to irritate it.
Double crap.
Aphrodisiacs or pollen maybe, if he’s lucky, but probably heat inducers based on the centralised location of the bubbling pain, and the dull crackle of bones shifting in his lower back and hips. Luck never really is on his side. Whoever had stolen him away from the gala either already knew he was an omega somehow—worryingly, if it weren’t for having J’onn on speed dial—and had the drug on hand, or they found out later while he was unconscious and had the time to source them.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, he doesn’t even know whether it’s a group or an individual that has taken him. Dick’s memories of the event are… fuzzy, to say the least.
There’s little flits here and there until it goes muddy and dark.
Had something hit him in the head?
He doesn’t seem to have a concussion—at least from what he can tell on his own—luckily. Dick hadn’t been expecting trouble, he’d only attended because the entire daytime department at the station had received an invitation, on account of wanting as many of them there for solidarity and educational material reasons. He hadn’t been as cautious as he would’ve been on an actual mission, just playing the part of a rookie cop looking to get his hands on some free booze.
All to his own detriment, he supposed. The drinks were probably it. He never should have forgone taking his comm with him. Or his mask.
(Actually, that one may have been a good idea, at least no one saw it while rifling through his pockets. The blue is a bit too recognizable now.)
It’s been long enough that he can’t quite feel the alcohol in his veins anymore, though he can’t tell if that’s entirely because of the time, or because of the approaching heat stealing away all of his fluids for other uses.
The warehouse is strangely quiet. Creepily quiet. Save for the creaking of metal and cables in the rafters, he hasn’t heard a peep from inside the building since he’s woken up. The only noises outside are the distant clanging echoes of industrial manufacturing, mixing with the eerie sound of wind and steam. Probably on the outskirts of Blüdhaven, then, if he’s even still in Blüdhaven at all. Dick grunts, trying again to roll over, and manages to get into a crouch on his toes.
He can’t feel his phone in his pocket either—not that he really had much hope of it staying on him—so that’s another point in the enemy’s favour.
Now at a better vantage point, he can see a small window near the top of the room’s walls. The light is too diffused for him to figure out what time it is based on the angle of the moon, and it’s not really positioned right for him to climb through, sitting there partially above the dividers set by the additional concrete. The distance is… far. He could reach by leaping or jumping on his toes if he had full access to the length of his body.
But he doesn’t.
Dick slumps. His only option right now is to work on the ropes binding him, but he can feel his fine motor skills fading by the minute. A cramp squeezes him again, and he lets out a muffled groan.
If he hunches over at just the right angle, he can stave it off while he focuses on untangling them.
He isn’t sure why no one has turned up yet, or why there doesn’t seem to be anyone guarding him. It might have something to do with the way his suit jacket is missing, and his sleeves being partially torn up. His handcuff picks, razor blade and nail file have been long stripped off of him. Dick’s slacks are okay though, besides the inside-out pockets; they haven’t been un-buttoned or even unzipped, and his cup is still in place within the pocket of his briefs. He can even feel his suspenders sitting right there under his button-up knit vest.
Miraculously, his socks are still on, too, though his shoes are nowhere to be found.
Nothing happened while he was unconscious—probably—but that’s not to say nothing will.
Shit.
He feels another spasm below his abdomen and glares at the floor. They could just be biding their time, preferring an in-heat omega or something. Wet over dry. With all of his trackers missing he isn’t exactly putting all his faith in getting rescued anytime soon, no. He’s Nightwing, he can figure this out himself.
So, first things… first. Dick curls awkwardly to the side, and twists his wrist again.
The strength in his limbs is waning fast. From this position he can’t know exactly how well these ropes are tied, but whoever did them must’ve been somewhat competent. He can still feel the blood pumping through his fingers, but without almost any room to move then any further than that. It makes him wonder if this is a ransom, to keep him presentable enough for an exchange. His life in Blüdhaven isn’t exactly cloaked in an impenetrable layer of aliases and disguises—not during the day for all that matters—so it’s not impossible to believe that someone may have recognised him during the charity event.
He’d rather not try it straight away, his slower pace is fine for now; but, if he doesn’t get out of this soon, he won’t even have the energy to dislocate his thumbs as a final resort.
###
TIME: 1920 / LOCATION: HARRODS HOTEL
“Hey, sorry, am I late?” Dick huffs, sidestepping a puddle of gum as he climbs up the concrete steps of the hotel.
He’d been half-inclined to try running from Melville to here instead of taking the bus, but the idea of getting sweat all over his freshly dry cleaned suit—or creases if he’d taken it off to wear his other suit—had put him off of it. Despite how bastardised his outfits have become, he still hasn’t gotten over the old habits instilled in him. The new fear of wasting his hard earned cash doesn’t exactly help, either.
The blond officer smoking at the door shrugs and stubs out his cigarette, following behind as Dick hurries into the lobby.
“A bit, but so are the rest of ’em. Anyone who isn’t from out of town gets the Blüd traffic though, so who cares.”
“I thought this fundraiser wasn’t a big deal to outsiders?” Dick frowns, falling into step to chat as they navigate towards the ballroom. One heel of his dress shoes click as he stays close to the wall, the other silenced by the carpet.
They’re not as fancy as the ones Alfred used to maintain for him. He hadn’t spared a thought to pack those ones when he’d moved, only staying long enough to shove a quarter of the contents of his wardrobe into a suitcase—shoe racks be damned. The derbies he has on aren’t right for this sort of occasion, but neither is the rest of what he’s wearing, really, but he doubts the other attendees have it any better; the dress code only requested the impression of formality, after all.
In the end, they suit his purpose just fine.
Ha, suit.
“Not really, but the press does love a good sob story, don’t they?”
“Eh, right.”
They round the corner and into the open room. Dick squints at the abrupt change in light and scans his gaze across the various food tables stationed around the perimeter. There’s a stage set up on the far wall opposite them, but the music the band is playing is unusual by Gotham standards. Or at least for the gala’s he used to attend back then.
“Well, good luck rookie. Just don’t spend too much time with the nurse chicks, ’least not when Chief’s looking.”
Dick nearly rolls his eyes. “Got it.”
There’s still people trickling in; but for now, the crowd is small. From what he can tell, it looks like most of the groups clustering around each table are split up by profession, all with the exhausted dispositions of a day shift worker at the end of a long drive. He has no doubt they’ll begin to mingle later into the night, but for now, he decides to go with it and blend in, heading towards the corner the BPD seem to have claimed.
The group greets him briskly, turning away to continue on with their ravaging of the snack trays before Dick can lift up his hand to wave. Most of his precinct is here already, but the other stations are likely to have been a little too far out to dodge the traffic.
Or, also not unlikely, they just can’t be bothered.
At least there’s food here in the meantime. It seems like a while, but really it’s not all too long before the rest of the invited personnel from the various emergency departments around the city pile in, just as haggard and weary as the early folks. Exactly what he’d expect for a Friday. The door shuts behind the last guest after the room fills to a reasonable capacity.
“A bit of a late start, but welcome to the annual St. Bernadine Children’s Hospital’s charity fundraiser, where we—and you, the people—make Christmas come early!”
Dick looks away as the announcer continues to speak in front of the camera, broadcasting to the donor’s live feed online. Last week he’d spent almost sixty two straight hours awake, trying to prevent the city funds from being stolen by a corrupt accountant and his crew of sucker-punching secretaries; now, it’s finally time to see it pay off.
The top donor ranking glitches for a second, on the projection against the wall, and the city council’s name pops up, alongside a few thousand dollars.
“Wow, an outstanding donation from our city’s council! Are any of you chatters interested in topping it? Click on the pinned link to find our donation page!” The announcer rambles, gesturing to some invisible widget.
Okay, so, not much, his eyelid twitches, but certainly great by Blüd standards.
Dick lets out a quiet sigh of relief, tension fading from his shoulders. He excuses himself from the group of officers placing bets on who really deserved to speak on camera the most, and heads over to the huddle of off-duty paramedics to introduce himself.
“—and don’t forget! Physical gifts can be left at our brick-and-mortar donation centre seen right here on the map! Just make sure your presents aren’t rigged to blow! We don’t want to be looped in with those Gothamites do we folks?”
###
TIME: ???? / LOCATION: UNKNOWN
“Well, this is a nice surprise.”
Dick startles from where he’d begun to nod off, in the middle of the escape artistry attempt he’d definitely been working on, head snapping towards the direction of the voice to see—
Deathstroke.
Of all people, already leaning there against the door; in the flesh, without a drop of blood on him. How hadn’t he heard him coming?
He tries to call out Slade’s name, before remembering the gag still in place.
“And already on your knees for me too,” Slade continues as he walks up to him, relaxed as ever. Dick huffs through his nose as a gloved hand reaches to brush the one loose curl on his face, forcing down the urge to shiver. “Christmas really did come early.”
“Fuck off, Slade,” Dick says—or at least he tries to. It comes out muffled and Slade chuckles at the attempt.
“That was the tagline of the charity, right? I didn’t realise the hospital allowed adult patients.” Slade withdraws his hand, and Dick sinks his teeth into the damp cloth to stop himself from lunging after it. Instead, he rolls his eyes in response.
“It doesn’t.”
Pulling off his Ikon mask, Slade’s hand reaches forward again, grabbing Dick’s chin this time as he holds a penlight down to one of his eyes. The brightness pitches the rest of his vision into darkness, and he blinks away floating orbs as Slade draws away.
“You’re fine.” Slade doesn’t make any further comments. Dick watches him from the corner of his vision as the Alpha slowly walks around him.
Alpha, right. Dick can’t smell Slade right now, but he knows he can smell Dick. But, he isn’t worried. Slade already knows; and, really, it’s the people holding him hostage that he’s actually worried about. Though now, maybe more-so for their safety than his.
Then again, his preheat is almost over. That formula must be really fast acting.
The footsteps abruptly stop behind him, and he sees Slade’s shadow—outlined by the moonlight—shorten ahead of him as he kneels down. Something slides into the little space left by the curl of his own hand.
“Have anywhere important to be, kid?”
Dick sighs through his nose, shaking his head, and squeezes out a No.
A remote presses into his palm, replacing the finger. He hears a shuffling sound, and watches the shadow of the arm lift as Slade peels off his own blockers before putting his mask back on. When the heady, overpowering scent finally hits his nose, Dick’s tenuous control over his body evaporates.
He jolts backwards slightly. “Slade,” he tries again, “come on.” But it’s just as muffled as before, and with the ping button in place, it doesn’t look like he’s going to get around it anytime soon. At least if he doesn’t want to wait out the effects by himself, alone in his apartment. He feels himself hardening under his cup and beginning to slick in his sports briefs, and by the visual of Slade’s shadow freezing as he rises to a stand, the Alpha knows it too.
He feels his heartbeat ticking up, bit by bit, as hands clasp around his shoulders, before twisting them. The rough concrete scrapes at Dick’s knees as he hurries to follow the movement, turning to face the far wall—along with Slade’s legs—as they resituate his body.
When he looks up, he can just see the way Slade’s mask is twitching around the nose area, like he’s scenting something in the air.
Slade detaches his codpiece, and the Ikon suit bunches up, half-hard cock falling free from its confines as he pushes down the elastic band of his black jockstrap.
Dick stays still, gaze fixated upon the thickening length, the white hairs trailing away from it and disappearing under the suit. He wants it. Needs it. A whimper catches in the back of his throat as the Alpha slowly bucks his hips. Once, twice, thrice; smearing Dick’s face with fluid as he scent marks him with his cock, before pulling away to pump it a few times, methodically drawing up the blood beneath the skin and bringing himself to full hardness.
Panting, he stares up the length of the Alpha’s body to meet the outline of his eye. He tries to lean in, planning to nudge the wet tip against his covered mouth, to convince Slade to ungag him—but a sudden grip in his crunchy, wax-frozen hair stops him.
“Not yet.”
Dick huffs, but relents. The itching feeling in his chest subsides once he obeys.
Fucking heats.
He sits there, waiting, as Slade looks down on him for one long moment, still jerking himself, until eventually—finally; Slade begins to move. He presses Dick backwards, the hand on his head sliding further back to catch his skull as he falls from the kneel to lay his back along the hard ground. It’s a little uncomfortable, even with the layers of Ikon and flesh separating his head from the floor; his hands are still tied behind him, and it forces his torso to arch up in the air to accommodate them.
Slade follows him down, letting go of his cock to procure a knife with his now-free hand.
Dick is too used to the drama of it all to even tense up anymore, and stays relaxed as the Alpha slices the bonds around his ankles and knees. With them out of the way, Slade slots himself between his legs, wedging them wide apart to make room for his bulk. Dick clenches his jaw again, as he feels the way his body senses the Alpha getting closer, trying not to uselessly whine and buck his hips up at the feeling.
So close, yet so far.
Egging the Alpha on is pointless—at least in this state, where Dick has room or no time to brat—Slade’s self control can be broken with enough effort, but it’s not something he has energy for right now.
But, then again, he’s also running out of energy to keep a hold on himself.
His slacks are in ruins. With Slade’s blockers gone he can smell every bit of the Alpha’s dark scent. It’s getting stronger, as his preheat crosses over into heat. His sense of smell is enhancing—not to the levels of Slade’s own nose, but enough. Through the musk he can now detect the little notes of emotion and feeling woven between the waves of gunpowder and iron; the love-lust-cunning and excitement.
A drop of slick falls from the seat of his pants, splattering the floor.
The mask over Slade’s face shifts with a hidden smirk. “So patient, good boy,” he says, and touches him.
The back of his knuckles trail up Dick’s thigh, before he flips his hand again to position the knife. Slade splits the seam of his slacks, then further still as the blade slices through his briefs, revealing his slickened slit but keeping his cup in place above them. Dick exhales harshly when he realises that the Alpha isn’t going to bother finishing the job, leaving him dripping hard and trapped as he waits for Slade’s next move.
“Very wet,” he hums, “I don’t get to see you in heat often.” Reholstering the knife and swiping a hand through Dick’s folds, he holds the coating of slick up to the moonlight. It glistens atop his gloves, contrasting with the dark dyes of the fabric. “What a shame.”
Dick blushes.
“Please,” he mumbles into the rag, feeling the tape over his skin stretch.
The Alpha hushes him, and slowly slides his hand out from beneath Dick’s head, giving him enough time to control his descent, before grabbing onto his shoulder instead.
“Mmpf!”
Slade pushes into him, as easy as always, using his stretched arm to keep him from sliding back across the floor as does so, and Dick lets out another muffled moan when he bottoms out, the Alpha’s balls and hair lightly grazing the skin of his ass. He tips his head back along the floor, chest hitching as Slade begins to move.
The heat washes his mind away.
###
It’s a crisp night; high tides across the bay and the tail end of bird migration overhead.
Despite what his little bird might believe, Slade isn’t actually in Estonia.
Not at all.
TIME: 0110 GMT / LOCATION: NEW JERSEY, U.S.A
The borders to Blüdhaven aren’t as well protected as the mayor would like them to think. Despite how dark the windows are tinted, his van passes seamlessly over the toll bridge, without a single alert uttering through any of his scanners in response. It’s unsurprising, given what he knows on how booming the smuggling industry has been in these parts as of late. Oracle won’t know he’s here, either, unless he wants her to, or if he gives her a real reason to be worried; though lately, Dick has been vastly improving at warding his friends and family off of Slade’s back, so he isn’t concerned.
It’s an excellent point in their favour tonight, most especially.
This route isn’t one he’s been down before, not on any of the countless visits to his little bird’s domain, but he’s seen it from afar enough that navigating through the drive is easy despite the bustle of traffic. With a relaxed grip on the steering wheel, he makes the turn into the parking lot behind a random store—one with a severe lack of security—and shuts off the car.
Stepping out in his full Deathstroke get-up, the few stragglers wandering the streets part as if he’s Moses on a trip towards Mealtide Park, crossing over the jingling chain boundary after only a few minutes, despite the extra time he’d taken to avoid cameras.
Still, it’s a little longer before he reaches his destination; the trees don’t care much for his suit, they won’t scamper away like the populace does, whatever Ivy might claim.
He steps quietly through the fauna, blending in beside the closed-shut buds of the web of sleeping orange flowers.
A community greenhouse isn’t the strangest location he’s ever had to take out a mark in. It’d be easy from the outside—all that glass, but that’s the same reason as to why his contractors specifically requested him to be inside.
No stray bullets. No glass shattering.
Silence.
The horticulturist professor collapses before a single leaf can fall.
He picks the frail man up easily, pocketing the fallen secateurs, all ready to remove him from the premises. Slade treads carefully, avoiding the roots trailing up and out of the dirt ground around him. Trudging through the nursery room, he passes row upon row of tiny pots lining the aisle towards the exit, until finally escaping the humid room.
Back in the grassy glade, there’s still no one around. No real citizen of this city would even try taking their guard dogs on a walk around here at this time. Lucky for Slade, because without a reason for muggers to show up, having no eyewitnesses is easy—both said and done.
Slade carries out the disposal with his usual efficiency, exactly as ordered, before pulling out his burner phone to confirm the hit with proof attached, and to log his payment.
“Deathstroke. Pin three-four-victor.”
“Accepted. Routing,” the robotic voice says.
He doesn’t know who his employer must be, to have had an entire hotline set up to take in calls from the various mercenaries working their contracts, but it’s none of his business and he isn’t exactly being paid to ask questions.
Beep.
“It’s done.”
“Confirmed, processing now.”
Beep.
He hangs up. Instant transfer. Correct amount of zeros. Perfect.
At least their shadowy system is good for something.
With all his obligations complete, he texts Billy to make sure the man knows, and won’t interrupt him later with any calls, then sets everything to Do Not Disturb before pocketing it.
Next to the abandoned swimming pool, with the bleeding corpse floating soundly in the green muck a few feet away, soaking in algae, he chances a glance up at the moon rising overhead.
Almost time.
Slade wipes down his blade, soft rag over the hard, unforgiving steel. Once it reaches his standards of in-the-field cleanliness, he sheathes it, before following the pebble path up to the shadow of trees rimming the park.
Better not to let his bird know just how many rules he’s been breaking tonight. He’ll figure one out soon enough.
He steps behind the trunk of an old tree just as a car passes him as he reaches the edge of the sidewalk, gurgling awkwardly as the engine stutters. It swerves slightly, just enough to splash the tips of unhidden boots as it skims over a puddle before the driver rights it again. Typical Blüdhaven mechanics; leave them only just broken enough to be back for more business without sparing a single thought to the suspicion in the back of their minds.
Eventually, it manages to drag itself forward, and he watches the red lights disappear out of the corner of his eye. Right now, he isn’t on the right side of town, but the congestion has cooled down since the evening rush, so it shouldn’t take too long. If it hadn’t, well… there are other ways of getting there. He’s Deathstroke afterall, his name isn’t known for it’s embodiment of selflessness.
However many years come to pass, it’ll never be something he has in common with Grayson, no matter how much the little vigilante tries.
###
TIME: ???? / LOCATION: UNKNOWN
Through the haze, Dick almost doesn’t hear the door click. He lets out a muffled yelp of confusion when Slade doesn’t stop thrusting, seemingly ignoring the sound. Tilting his head up, he stares upside-down through the blur, as a figure dressed in what seems to be a camel trench coat walks into the room.
His vision clears, and he almost chokes on his saliva in shock.
“Did the Planet not pay you enough, Kent? Becoming one with the vultures now?” Slade calls, because Clark is standing there.
Superman.
His own sight isn’t fooling him; the Alpha’s strong, sturdy, calming and familiar scent breaks through the shield of Slade’s own a second later, confirming it to his hindbrain’s senses. Why wasn’t he wearing his blockers? Clark closes and puts down his wet umbrella, leaning it against the wall. He seems completely unbothered by what’s happening only a few feet away from him. That Nightwing is right there getting fucked on the floor of an abandoned warehouse by a mercenary; the mercenary. The Terminator.
What was happening?
“Nope, investigating for my latest piece, actually,” Clark says, “got a tip with some curious info about one Richard Grayson, and I’m here to get the scoop.” He tilts his head, gaze raking over Dick like a hot red laser, through the lenses of his fake glasses with a passive expression—as he stares back with wide eyes. “Now isn’t that interesting, looks like the tabloids were right.”
He looks down to where Clark’s sight has locked; at the slick soaked mass between his legs where he and Slade are joined together.
“The heir to the Wayne empire really is just an omega.”
Dick jolts, scent souring. He tries to wriggle off Slade’s cock, getting nowhere after his bucking hips are subsequently pinned down by a grip stronger than iron. Clark’s blue eyes dart towards his chest—like he’s- like he’s seeing through to his hands, and sniffs the air with an eyebrow raised. Dick remembers the remote.
Then he remembers that Clark… already knows.
How had he forgotten?
The button hums slightly under his thumb, buzzing with electricity. Waiting.
He—
He doesn’t use it.
The mild concern fizzles from Clark’s face, and he dips his hat slightly, winking. He then turns to Slade with a friendly, million-watt smile, holding out a hand. “So, Mister Deathstroke, how about it? You got here first, but I think we can still crack a deal, no?”
Slade takes the offered hand and shakes it, right over Dick’s face. “There’s your contract. Guaranteed by yours truly.”
“Why, thank you.”
Dick watches in a daze as the Alphas trade lines above him, because they are lines, they must be—
The heat sears up within him again, and Dick lets out a muffled whine.
“Feeling neglected, are we?”
He tugs at his bonds, back arching further as he nods. Slade leans in, and Dick immediately bares his neck for him to nuzzle for a few quiet breaths.
The Alpha digs his fingers into Dick’s thighs, wrinkling the fabric, and hauls him up higher as he raises himself half-way off the floor, and begins to fuck into him again. Dick moans as the new position shifts the strain away from his middle and up to his shoulders. Even then, it’s relieving, now with Slade taking most of his weight.
Relaxing. Chasing away the sharpening edges of heat.
He comes again, soiling his briefs for the second time as he feebly shoots his useless cum against the fabric of the cup’s insert panel. His hole squeezes and flutters coaxingly, but Slade doesn’t let up, keeping the momentum going as Dick’s mind calms again. The Alpha hasn’t knotted him yet, but Dick knows the drill. Outside of rut, the enhanced blood flowing through Slade’s veins won’t allow his knot to deflate for longer than Dick can ever hope to stand while in heat—unless he’s worn out first, that is.
(It’s why his cabinets are filled with enough medicine to keep skipping them all the way up until next Halloween. That, and the necessity of hiding his designation in both his lines of work. If only they were strong enough to ward off inducers.)
Dick allows his eyes to drift shut, focusing on the Alpha’s cock sliding in and out of him, brushing against all his weak spots with the precision of a sniper.
There’s a tearing noise below him, and opens them just in time to watch his damaged slacks and briefs being thrown across the room, alongside the buttons flying off as his suspenders rip and twang against him, leaving his bottom half bare; save for the stained white socks and calf garters still wrapped around his floating legs.
“Look alive, sunshine.”
A flashbang goes off, and Dick jerks up from the floor, abs aching, rolling over slightly to rest on a restrained-elbow as his head snaps to scan the area, but his vision is blurry with fuzzy dots. Are they under attack? He can’t smell anything new. Why hadn’t either one of the Alphas—
Clark is lowering his black DSLR camera. Dick blinks slowly in confusion as he watches him adjust the strap around his neck.
Huh?
He looks back at the Alpha still thrusting into him. There’s not a hint of possessiveness in his scent, at least none directed in a way that would constitute anger. The aggression in the air is barely any more than what he would naturally produce, as an Alpha-metahuman-mercenary, filled with more than enough testosterone to be constantly on the verge of bursting at the seams. It clicks in Dick’s head, all of a sudden, why Slade had kept his mask on this entire time.
“Slade?” he tries to ask, getting only a short grunt in response.
Taking another look—after mustering up all his experience and training to ignore the pleasurable waves cascading through him—he realises that despite the outfit, Clark’s bumbling beta reporter persona is nowhere to be found. He’s leering down at them, only a short distance away, with an expression Dick has never seen on the Alpha hero before. That reminiscent façade around him only exists to fuel the… character he’s playing.
A new character, with a bulge right there under his zipper.
Holy kink, Batman.
Not Clark Kent the reporter, or even Superman; the hero. But something else. Something new to Kal-El’s list of aliases entirely.
Slade pulls out, and a yelp flies from Dick’s throat as his eyes snap back to him in distress.
“Hhwait—”
The Alpha releases his thighs and grabs his shoulders with both hands, hauling him forward—as he shuffles back on his knees—until Dick is facing the ground with the door behind him.
“Settle,” Slade snarls above him, and he promptly goes limp against the cold floor when a hand scruffs his neck. “Show him your pussy, let him see you.” Distantly, he can feel the Alpha stand to lightly kick apart his legs again, and his chest slumps closer to the ground when a boot presses against his back, between his immobilised arms. It doesn’t stay long, only nudging him down just enough to fall back into the classical presenting position.
Well, almost classical. His hands are still, in fact, tied behind his back. Not the most traditional.
Through drooping eyelids, he can hardly notice the dash of light sweeping across the rough surface below him, as Clark snaps another photo of his bare, empty holes and hanging cocklet; displayed like an obscene painting, dripping in the air.
“Come on, stay still right there for Mister Kent. Give the press something to talk about.”
The… press?
Click.
Dick whimpers and squeezes his eyes completely shut in embarrassment, feeling another rush of slick pool down to the floor. Perfectly timed to the next volley of shutter sounds behind him.
The hand comes back quickly as Slade kneels at his side, stopping from scraping up his knees as he squirms. Like this, he can’t even think to curl his toes. With the Alpha so close to his head as he holds him in place, Dick can do nothing but bask in the thick smell of pheromones emanating from the glands around Slade’s cock and thighs. It makes him drool, wetting his left cheek as it trickles from his panting mouth; dazed under the watchful eye of Slade.
“Look at you, drooling from both ends,” Slade mocks above him. “Pathetic. Just what exactly do you think the people will say tomorrow?”
“Don’t worry Richard, you’re sure to be a hit on the morning papers,” Clark calls from behind him. “What do you think, Deathstroke? I can see the headlines already.”
Slade scoffs in response. “An omega’s wet cunt and tiny little cocklet to stare at while they sip their coffee, one of Wayne’s no less, just who wouldn’t love it?”
The press. That kind of press. Oh.
“Mmh!”
“No?” The other Alpha chuckles, and Dick hears footsteps getting closer as he walks around to stand near Slade. “You wouldn’t? Or you don’t want them to see?”
Dick frantically nods his head, a few sweaty black locks sticking to his forehead, tacky from the slowly dissolving wax as he whines into the gag, breathing unsteadily.
“Oh, Mister Deathstroke, I think I’d like to hear him for this part.” Clark holds his wrist under Dick’s nose, gland pumping out a heavy stream of pheromones so calming that Dick instantly relaxes his bite on the sodden rag before Slade can even begin to rip the duct tape off.
“But of course,” Slade says, smirk evident in his voice, “anything for my favourite reporter.”
Dick coughs once his mouth is free, lips stinging from the harsh tearing of glue.
“Ow.”
He startles when out of nowhere, Clark bends down, picking him up slightly—pulling him from his presenting position—to press a quick kiss to his torn lips. The Alpha’s thick rimmed glasses gently bump his nose bridge as they slip before he withdraws.
Dick watches as the Alpha’s eyes flicker under the lenses, entranced, swiftly switching back from gentle to lustful again in the blink of an eye.
It’s intoxicating.
(And a reminder. This is new, and unexpected, but he’s not… put off. Not really. He probably should be, but it’s not too far off from what he and Slade have done before—as Nightwing and Deathstroke—with the recording camera in Slade’s eyepatch. He wants to play along; to find out what idea they’d concocted after rescuing him. Or before. Whatever.)
“You really wouldn’t want these to end up on all those front-pages tomorrow, would you?” Clark croons, running a thumb over his cheek, under his eye. “That doesn’t need to happen, of course; if you tell Uncle Clark exactly who you want.”
A cold-then-hot flash spears Dick through the heart, yanking him out from his foggy headspace. “Wh- what, I don’t—”
How did—
“Did you think I didn’t know, baby?”
“Clark,” he starts.
The sound of the slap hits his conscience before the actual feeling does, and Dick gasps, turning to the side to see Slade’s hand pulling back. The new, stinging print on ass overrides the one around his lips as Slade rubs the spot. “Don’t be rude to your Uncle, Grayson. He’s being so kind as to give you out, you’re losing me a lot of money off that modelling deal, you know.”
What deal? The handshake? He wants to scoff. “Thoug- thought you didn’t—" Dick coughs. "—cancel contracts.”
“I think I can make an exception for my favourite reporter, can’t I?”
He hears Clark mutter something under his breath too quiet for him to hear. Apparently not for those with enhancements though, because Slade lets out a short snort in response.
Opening his mouth, ready to interrogate Clark on what he’d said, he yelps almost instantly instead; question lost to the void as Slade swats him again. “Now then.” He feels the gloved hand shift, stroking his flank. “Would you like me to keep going?” He barely feels it. It’s nothing he can’t handle. “Or are you going to listen like a good omega?” But in front of Clark— “He has his phone with him right now, it’ll only take a second to do the transfer, he could leak these lovely little photos too.” It’s just so—
“Richard,” Clark prompts him.
“Y-yes Alpha.”
“No. I said to tell me who you want. That’s not it, isn’t it? I’m not your Alpha. That’s Slade.” Clark squeezes his jaw. “Who do you want, Dick?”
“You.”
“And?”
“You, Uncle Clark,” Dick forces out in a near whisper, face heating up again, “I don’t- I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologise. Did you know I could smell you through your blockers, Dickie?” Clark murmurs, lifting up his other hand to cradle Dick’s face in between them both. “I’ve always been able to, honey. Didn’t you ever realise?”
He feels his eyes and ears burning at the revelation, and Dick whispers, “No.”
“Every time you looked at me after—”
“Kent,” Slade growls, “we’re not done, focus.”
Clark laughs, and bumps his nose to Dick’s, before pulling away and letting go of his face. Dick whines after him in a daze, sniffling when he sees the Alpha’s eyes darken when he picks up the camera again, raking an appraising gaze over his form.
“Okay Richard. You’ll take whatever Deathstroke gives you now, alright? No more fussing. Or else the rest of my coworkers are going to have a lot of fun working overtime tonight.”
“But you said—” The idea of Clark’s entire office floor bustling to get the pictures of him ready before the next printing deadline sends a ricochet of fresh fear up his body, and Dick pauses, nodding. “Yes Uncle Clark.”
There’s a scratchy noise behind him, like sandpaper on wood, and then his shoulders are rolling as the ropes tying his wrists are cut free. He feels Slade grab and hold them silently—probably to check for damage—before taking the remote from his loose grasp and letting them fall to the floor.
“I want to see you in perfect posture, Grayson, I know you can do it,” Slade says, as Clark positions his camera. “Palms open and flat, now.”
He doesn’t bother nodding this time. Dick splays his fingers out over the rough concrete, next to his neck as he folds back down from the lurch Clark had pulled him into. He tilts up his hips and shifts his knees out a little further, before settling in place, eyes screwed shut in embarrassment, knowing what was to come. Air whistles behind him as Slade’s hand arcs down for another blow, and the shutter goes off. White flashes beyond the feeble protection of his eyelids.
Then again. And again.
Neither of the Alphas make him count, letting him stay as still as possible without needing to move his lips. The numbers still fly through his head instinctively, as his ass and thighs burn brighter and brighter with every spank.
Twelve.
Seventeen.
Twenty- one?
“Looking good,” Clark whistles from… somewhere. “How about something a little more creative?”
The Alpha next to him pauses, and Dick holds back a huff when he hears shuffling as Slade moves away. Where was he going?
“Fuck!” Dick yelps, the next slap hitting him square over his slick folds, a humiliatingly loud wet sound ringing out around the room before escaping into the wider warehouse. He freezes then, stunned; trying not to move as his goosebumps spill out over his spine, toes curling.
Throughout all that, he hasn’t stopped leaking.
Click.
The next few go in a blur. His cocklet aches and drips all over the floor as the Alpha’s fingers graze the base of it; his vestigial balls along the sides of his hole feel like one big bruise as they’re spanked over and over.
“Hold yourself open,” Clark says once Slade takes a pause. “That’s it, good boy.”
Dick feels himself blushing—ear to knee—shaky fingers keeping himself spread open, exposed to the clicking camera’s viewport behind. From his side, he can smell Slade’s scent grow stronger; more consuming, more everything, and the hand returns, glove-free now, to scent mark him; thick wrist against neck—then behind his ear, mingling their personal signatures together. He trembles all over, cheek pressed to the floor, mind narrowing down to the wisp of cold air touching the slick seeping from his clenching, searing cunt and asshole; soaking his cocklet on the way down.
“Your pussy is so red and lovely like this, puppy.”
The title is condescending for his age, but his body doesn’t seem to care. He’s dripping faster. He can’t even feel the roughness of the gritty room surrounding him anymore, so entranced by the overwhelming roaring of his mind. His heartbeat floats above him, in his presented core high above the ground, pulsing and waiting in rapture as the camera captures it all.
As they watch it all.
It’s another aeon later, when Clark decides to speak again.
“Okay I think that’s enough of that. Make him come, Deathstroke.”
“My pleasure.”
There’s no time to even flinch away from the pressure when a massive hand closes around his hanging cocklet, giving one firm stroke in response to Dick’s squeak, voice high and thready as he struggles not to move. With his hand now wet, Slade starts jerking the engorged nub, efficiently dragging Dick over the edge with a few rough, practised movements.
“God,” Dick gasps, “wait, fu—”
He lets out a final, cut-off sob, and comes on the floor.
Faintly, he can hear a murmur of a discussion happening behind him, under the sound of the shutter clacking loudly away in time with the flashes. The room spins, stars glittering through space.
Lights dashing over his skin.
Click.
…Wait a second.
The room is spinning, because Dick is being turned over.
He blinks at the ceiling, now flat on his back, sort of like earlier. His ass burns against the floor, every pinprick of the tiny, sharp stones pressing against him like the needles of a tattoo gun. He unconsciously tilts his hips up, trying to escape it as he folds up his legs, lifting himself into a partial hover in the air. He spots the faint glow coming in through the small windows on the wall again, until it’s once again eclipsed by a bulky figure.
“Alp… Alpha?”
He reaches for the shadow, and it reaches back.
“Open up.” His Alpha taps the head of his cock to Dick’s closed lips, and he spreads them instantly.
Spearing through him like a hot knife, the cockhead drives straight past his teeth and into the deep vice grip of his throat. He lets out a muffled whimper at the size, feeling his jaw pop, hand twitching on his Alpha’s thigh, but doesn’t try to tap.
It’s… fine. His control over his gag reflex wasn’t exactly built up for this, but it works just as well.
It still gets him dizzy.
After a few years of allowing Dick to lie there, silently tensing and relaxing his muscles over the twitching heat of his Alpha’s cock; he pulls out, giving Dick just the faintest room to breath before beginning to fuck his face.
“C’mere Kent, he’s out of it now.”
“Just one more hold on—got it, okay.”
Something brushes against his thighs, and the skin-on-skin contact sends a shiver through his body as the shapes of hands fully form in his mind.
“Uncle Clark?” he tries to say, as he remembers, but it comes out muffled under the weight of his Alpha’s cock on his tongue.
There’s a groan from above him. “Do that again, pup.”
“Mm?” he hums, hoping it’s what his Alpha wants.
“Yeah, good boy.”
There’s a nudging against his cunt, and then an even thicker mass begins to slide in. His Uncle breaches him for the first time, and Dick whimpers.
“Not sure if I’ll last long like this.”
“Just don’t pop your knot until you get your last set. I don’t want to hear you whingeing later.”
“I know I know.”
A knot. That’s what he needs. Dick’s stomach swoops at the reminder.
A finger prods at the rim of his asshole, and Dick squirms at the sensation. It slides in, and starts slowly working him open, aided by the copious amount of slick he’s been producing from the hole above. His Alpha scratches his hair gently as he fucks his mouth, and Dick keeps his eyes shut as his heavy sac slaps against his eyelids. Another finger slides in, and then another. The pads push and curl gently inside, and the firm little presses causes Dick to shudder.
“Mmm, uh.”
His lashes flutter, and his Alpha growls. “Use your tongue, omega, you’ll want to make sure I’m nice and wet for this. Almost as wet as you.”
“Mmh?” He flexes the muscles in his mouth, trying to scour up as much as possible. This far in, and after so many hours since his last drink, the only thing stopping him from feeling his own dehydration is the artificial heat. The same thing wasting away his reserves as he produces more and more slick, allowing his Uncle to thrust into his shuddering pussy without a care in mind.
Click.
“Good,” his Alpha says, then pulls out. His Uncle’s cock and fingers follow suit.
Why were they leaving? Gasping, a hoarse whine rips out of him as Dick sobs in distress. “Unc—Al- Alph—pha—”
His throat strains around the words, with nothing left to hold it open, and he feels his other holes winking, desperately trying to be filled again. Heavy hands pull him into a sitting position, and he cries out at the friction and weight on his lower half. It brings him back enough to focus, however, and he quickly uses the opportunity to attempt to bring his legs in to cushion himself.
“Steady.”
His coordination isn’t bad enough for him to feel unbalanced, no matter how deep he may be into the heat, but he still leans back a little as his Uncle approaches, head bumping against the legs behind him as his Alpha’s hands curl into his hair.
“Go on, make your Uncle happy, Grayson.”
Licking up his cock, Dick breathes in, before sliding it between his lips.
A blinding white set of teeth flashes above him. “That’s it, honey.”
Holding his breath is not necessary, as it turns out. His Alpha stops him from going too deep, so Dick resorts to making use of his tongue, swirling it as he tastes the head. He can taste his own slick; it’s not much to him, just a hint of sweetness that he knows would come out tenfold on the tip of either of the other two’s tongues—just as any other omega’s would on his own—but it’s nice enough. Beyond it, the strong, slightly alien musk hovers around him, combining and swirling with the dark scent emitting from just behind Dick’s back.
It relaxes him enough to moan around his full mouth, as the trickles of cum begin to soothe his aching throat, and his Uncle growls in response to the humming buzz overcoming him.
“Keep this one here.”
“And here, too.”
With a hand against his Alpha’s thigh, and the other against his Uncle’s, Dick braces against them to work him over faster, steadily enticing until he starts to buck slowly into his face. He swallows; still not gagging, but tightening up just enough that even for all the shallow depth his Uncle may be taking advantage of, he groans just as loud as his Alpha had done all the same.
It doesn’t last long enough.
“Stop, not yet.”
At Dick’s Alpha’s command, his Uncle pulls out before he can even let out a whine of complaint, and begins to rut against his face as Dick shudders.
“Uncle Clark,” he whispers, sniffling.
“Smile, Richard.”
His gaze darts up just in time, locking his blurry sight on the dark lens of the camera above him as he curls the corners of lips, eyes narrowing pleasantly into slight crescents.
“That’s it gorgeous,” his Uncle coos as he photographs Dick’s messy face. He blushes, eyes blinking shyly as the streaks of fluid drip dangerously close to his lashline. “Okay, get him up.”
Standing, his Alpha hitches him up into his arms, hands under his knees, spreading him open the chill of the warehouse.
To Uncle Clark.
Dick’s breath hitches—a rise and fall of his chest—and squirms to reach down and cover himself.
“Come on, boy,” his Alpha growls, letting go to snatch up his hands, before pulling them back to pin beneath his larger ones as he forces Dick back into the humiliating pose. “You were fine before. Keep that up and I’ll put you back in the ropes.”
“Ropes?”
“You don’t remember?”
His mind is fuzzy. Dick blinks. “No, Alpha.”
A hand presses against his forehead, tilting him to-and-fro, and there’s a short, whispered conversation above him. It isn’t directed at him, so his mind tunes it out. He drifts aimlessly as he waits. He licks an armoured neck.
“Hn. How are you feeling then?”
“Empty,” Dick answers in a small voice, still rough from earlier, “empty. I need—”
“Shh.” His Uncle appears in his vision, tilting his head back towards him and away from his Alpha’s face. “We know. You’ve been so good that you’re going to get two of them today, okay sweetheart?”
He smiles, eyes watery. “Okay.”
It still comes as a surprise to him when a cock nudges at his asshole, and Dick gasps, startling out of the haze. He blinks rapidly, stunned.
“What’re you doing?”
His feet feel cold, out of nowhere, even with his socks still on; suspended in the air as he is. The garters itch under his knees.
“Guys?”
They shush him again, and Slade breaches him slowly, still wet with Dick’s saliva, but even more wet with the slick leaking out of his widening hole.
“Nnh, Alpha,” Dick chokes out, throwing his head back against the solid shoulder, sweat beading along his spine. He wants to scramble, to push them away with a thrash of his arms, to pull them close with the clinging of his fingertips; but his hands stay trapped in Slade’s pin, leaving him with nothing but his calves left to kick and squirm.
Slade doesn’t bother giving a real response, just mumbled platitudes and assurances into his neck. Dick whimpers as the Ikon brushes roughly over his swollen scent gland, in the shape of Slade’s lips. A reminder of the—
Click.
Dick squeaks at the light, and valiantly tugs at his trapped hands. As expected, they don’t budge an inch.
“Don’t get shy on me now, Richard.”
“Clar—Uncle.”
“Hm?”
Dick groans, trying to turn his face away, “Haven’t you gotten enough photos?” Slade bottoms out, and he groans again for a different reason as the Alpha’s presses up against his faintly aching cheeks.
“Of course not.” Clark smiles, then lets the camera drop to his chest, grabbing the flesh of one of Dick’s thighs with a large hand.
“Wait, wait wait—”
The other hand comes around to scruff the back of his neck, and Dick whimpers, sagging in their combined grip. Dammit.
Clark takes another step forward, and pushes back into his cunt again, squeezing his thigh to keep him still, hard enough to leave fingerprints—he’s been fucked by enough aliens and metahumans to know. Dick huffs, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as struggles to take the two Alphas laser-focused on stuffing him full.
Laser. Hah. Dick lets out a small noise, barely a laugh, and the Alphas lurch towards his neck. It morphs immediately into a yelp as they slide in deeper.
“Dickie—”
“What were you thinking about?”
“Huh?” He startles, flushing at the attention. “Somethin’ funny, nothing important.”
“Your scent just became a bakery, honey.” Clark chuckles, but the other Alpha just growls indignantly.
“You should be focused—” Slade snaps his hips. “—on this.”
“Ah—Slade!”
Dick’s head falls back before he can laugh again, as Slade forces him to cry out. They’re moving now, fucking him out of sync, his cocklet flopping uselessly between them as they go. He can feel them both inside, crammed almost right up against each other if it weren’t for the delicate stretch of membrane separating them. Dick has no idea how his body is still holding up under the onslaught. With his brain as melted as it is he can hardly predict what pattern of thrusts the two of them are taking. He just—
He doesn’t stand there and take it, because he’s not standing—he just. Is.
“Oh fuck,” he groans, knocking his forehead beneath Slade’s chin as he sways. “Fuck, ah, please.”
Dick moans again, and Clark catches it in his mouth, licking into him as he tries to kiss back. He tastes like sugar, pieces of chocolate and crumbling flour. Dick wants to reach up with his hands, to touch Clark’s face, but Slade won’t budge. He breaks away to turn towards him, trying to snag the bottom edge of his black and orange mask between his lips, but Slade just tilts his head away, bouncing him in his arms, like he’s—like he’s some snotty kid and not a fully grown man.
He whines pitfully.
“Almost,” Slade growls next to his ear.
“Huh?”
“Almost.”
His voice comes out strangled. “Wh—”
“Now.”
Slade’s knot inflates as Clark’s cock continues to pound his cunt. Dick comes immediately.
“Fuck, fuck—fuck,” he chants, the muscles ringing both of his puffy holes spasming and clenching down. “Fuck!”
He jerks in their hold, shaking, but he doesn’t fall. Teeth sink in against his neck, separated only by fabric.
Ikon fabric.
“Language,” Slade grumbles.
Dick snarls, “Fuck off old man.” Then his eyes slam shut as he manages to make sense of the feeling, of Slade’s cock pulsing and throbbing, knot emptying itself deep within him.
He’s so distracted by the feeling of himself instinctively working to milk the Alpha’s cock despite being in the wrong hole that he doesn’t notice how much Clark has slowed down. “Ah, that shot came out a little blurry, I didn’t have burst mode on.” He glances up to see Clark frowning down at the screen on his camera. “Care for a redo?” Clark asks, brushes the back of his hand over his softening, shrinking cocklet.
“I can’t.” Dick sobs.
“Yes you can. You’re in heat remember? This is nothing.”
“But—”
“Just this last one, okay? Then I’ll knot you. Remember what I said about fussing?”
His name all over the papers, leaking pussy and cocklet exposed across the entire web. Archived. Forever.
(Or at least until Slade logs him out of the simulator back at his base, because they’d never do it for real of course. He’s never tried it for this specific scenario though.)
Slade hoists him up again from where he’d started to slip in the sweat and slick, and Clark closes his fingers around Dick’s tiny nub, stroking him back up to hardness, somehow, as Dick thrashes and screams.
“It’stoomuch—”
“Say cheese.”
His entire being freezes, like a deer in the headlights of Clark’s camera, and he orgasms again.
It’s weak, all he manages to let out is another pathetic squirt, and it splatters his blue wool vest with a short white line, streaking over a few of the buttons. But it’s enough for them, apparently, because Clark snaps another picture, capturing the view of his body impaled and wrung dry by the two hulking Alphas. “Okay,” he coos, “want my knot now, Dickie?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, “pleaseplease please, Uncle Clark—please.”
The camera clatters back against Clark’s chest, hitting and hiding the lanyard Dick hadn’t noticed until now. The Alpha thrusts into him, faster and faster, almost knocking Slade over despite how solid he’d felt behind him this whole time. The strength of Superman really is unbelievable.
Slade releases his hands, and they fly up to cling around Clark’s shoulders immediately. His arms feel weak, but it’s all minor under his real urge. The need coursing through his blood.
Clark snarls, and the world whites out around him before he even feels the second knot inflate inside him.
“You’re perfect, Dickie.”
The blinding light disappears as black spots cloud his eyes.
Everything’s so blurry.
There’s a pricking sensation against his neck, and he flinches away, whining at the blistering jab against his glands.
“Shh, shh, you’re done now little bird,” his Alpha’s voice soothes from above, and Dick lets out another chirp of confusion, “that was just the antidote. You’ll get a nasty withdrawal otherwise. You’re done.”
###
“Anyway, that’s pretty much how my volunteer work first started, so make sure to never leave your scooters on charge!”
“Can you tell us a little bit more about the battery issue? Our readers here in Washington D.C would love to hear it.”
“Uh—sure, is that really what the kiddos are going to be caring about though?”
“It’ll get more clicks, trust me. Just talk.”
A familiar, tinkling laugh reaches his ears, just as sweet as the syrupy scent surrounding it. Clark resolutely ignores the interview session only a few steps away from him to eye Dick from across the room instead as he waits patiently in line.
TIME: 10:40 PM / LOCATION: THE ST. BERNADINE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL ANNUAL FUNDRAISER
Is that too long for a title? Clark glances down to see Blüdhaven already crossed off his notepad, and scrawls down another note to brainstorm first before his write-up later, blue ink flowing like a wave over the page.
He slides the pad into his breast pocket and clips his pen over the edge.
The young hero hasn’t noticed him yet, somehow, but it’s not that surprising considering he’s been avoiding the journalists’ cordoned-off zone like the plague all night. Clark, on the other hand, had spotted him through the walls before he’d even landed on the building across from here. By his own observations, Dick has been relaxed all night, heart rate steady, so much unlike the many times Clark had run into him with Bruce over the years at a litany of other, similar events.
Maybe not so similar.
(Clark doubts he’s expecting any trouble tonight. Aside from the oversized cup carefully disguising his designation from anyone but Clark, and the small assortment of trinkets up his sleeve—literally; there isn’t a lick of kevlar to be found anywhere under his mismatched suit, unlike the red-blue beneath his own. Not even a spare domino.)
He feels only a little bad that they’re going to ruin it.
“Hey uh—Mr. Kent? Daily Planet, right? Do you mind if I squeeze in and take this next one instead? I’ve really gotta get to the airport soon.”
He tenses, forcing himself to look away and turn to identify the voice.
Judging from the badge, she’s one of the New York reporters, fiddling with the mic pack on her hip as she waits for his answer. (He wonders how much she’d take to run the kind of story he wants her to run.) Clark shrugs and lets out a little laugh, adjusting his glasses. “Oh, of course Ms. Roberts,” he says, stepping out of the line. “Long trip for such a small event, huh?”
“Sorry—you really don’t have to.”
“Hey, no biggie, I have to take a bathroom break anyway,” Clark assures with a flip of his hand. “Look at it this way, you’re the one saving me, okay?”
Ms. Roberts hums, tapping a purple pen against her chin. “I guess…”
“Next!”
Clark turns away at the flurry of commotion, a fireman bumping past as they both escape from the throng of tape recorders and swinging, oversized lenses. It takes a bit of manoeuvring to zig-zag back upstream between the queue barriers, but there aren’t too many big-name papers here, so most of the people idling around aren’t lacking on too much sleep from travel.
He’s still careful not to step on anyone’s toes though.
Emerging from the line, he steals a cookie from a nearby table, chewing it thoughtfully as he blinks on his X-ray vision to spot the waitress—Lucy—that he’d been tracking earlier again.
She’s a few steps away from the short hallway leading to the hotel’s bathrooms, balancing a tray in one hand, and Clark smoothly weaves his way in her direction. He passes her by with only the faintest flapping of his coat. His fingers ghost over the flute of champagne, faster than anyone in the room can hope to blink, just as he steps around the corner.
“God, Jacob, we said not take anything off that table.”
“Not my fault they didn’t have an allergy label.”
They should cross paths about… now.
With this many people in the men’s room, he has to hide his smile as he stands in front of the urinal, but internally he cheers as the past few hours of careful tracking pays off with a gentle click—Dick’s nails against glass, innocent and unaware.
“You are so lucky that you were next to Dr. Jordan. I can’t believe you.”
It’s not often that he gets to take this much initiative on the strategy himself; he’s mapped the movements of Dick’s flighty, increasingly tipsy movements down to a T, alongside the stiff paths that the hotel staff have been following over the large room all night, and the pride soaring in his chest makes him want to fly straight up into the moon.
“—no idiot, I fucking told yo—hey, watch it.”
“Sorry buddy,” Clark winces out sheepishly. “Excuse me.” He squeezes past the row of arguing nurses until he reaches the last available sink. Tuning them out, he listens intently over the sound of the running water as Dick takes a sip, and cocks his head at the familiar sound of rapid clicking outside.
A grappling gun reeling in.
With something heavy.
He rinses the soap off his hands, and turns to stare straight through the wall, listening to the way Dick’s heart begins to flutter unsteadily as he waits calmly for the windows to shatter.
###
TIME: ???? / LOCATION: UNKNOWN
When Dick comes to—out from the sea of tinnitus ringing over his heartbeat—the first thing he feels is a hand stroking through his hair, while he snuffles against an amazingly good smelling neck.
“Mm?”
“Back with me?” Slade’s voice rolls over him like a deep, cosy blanket.
“Mhm.” He cracks his eyes open to find the other Alpha missing, and tightens his grip on Slade. “Don’t leave too.”
“Never. I’m right here. He’s just making sure everything’s packed up for the trip.”
“Trip?” Dick tries to lift his head.
Slade doesn’t answer, but kisses the top of his head, mask off now—Dick notices, as he feels a beard brush against his hair. He relaxes again once the familiar sound of a fluttering cape nudges against his eardrums.
“Alright, ready to fly back you two?”
“Yeah,” Dick mumbles. He doesn’t really register the weight shift as Clark lifts them both into the air, but he can hear the sound of fabrics blowing in the wind, and the faint whistle as they get outside and speed up. Despite the jet stream Clark is most likely using to fly faster, Dick’s bubble stays warm and cosy; his sticky, worn body wedged between the two of them as they travel, an invulnerable shield of protection.
He presses closer.
The creeping light of dawn slowly swallows the star studded skyline as Clark deposits them in a dark corner on the rooftop of the apartment complex, and he squints with recognition once the two Alpha’s separate, reorienting his mental clock.
TIME: 0530 / LOCATION: 344 CLINTON STREET
“It is Saturday, right?”
“Yes. So you’re staying in.” Slade bounces him once to readjust his grip, now without Clark to help, and carries him down the stairwell as Dick gazes through the row of windows running down the building, then through the hallways. They reach Clark’s place in a matter of minutes, with the man himself following right behind them, and the door opens before Slade can move to touch it. Clark locks it behind them after they enter. There’s a whooshing noise as the hero disappears from the corner of his eye, and a randomised chorus of clunking and clinking sounds emerges from the kitchen.
“Can we just wipe down?”
“No.”
“Agh,” he responds, “but I’m tired. And thirsty.”
“Some of us don’t have oblivious little human noses.”
“You saying I stink?”
The Alpha snorts, but doesn’t respond.
“You know, your nose is technically more me than him, by the way,” Dick drones on airly.
Slade sits down on the edge of the bed, Dick still cradled in his arms. “I’ll keep that in mind next time you try to use me as a bloodhound. Speaking of aliens, how was that for your first roll with big-blue, hm?”
The man in question steps into the room just as Slade voices the question, holding a stack of towels in one hand and a tray in the other.
“Um, really good?” Dick scrubs a curled fist over his face. “How did you—” his voice cuts off with a choke as he turns and makes eye contact with Clark, stare piercing straight through his soul as he kisses Slade over Dick’s shoulder.
He feels his ears turning red, just as he notices Clark’s eyes flashing the same fiery colour.
“You, young man, were late; by the way,” Slade grunts, breaking away with a wet noise.
“There was an emergency in Barcelona after I got out. Don’t worry darlin’, I was listening.”
With the brainfog of his induced heat now long gone, his synapses fire fast. Facepalming, Dick groans, “Oh my god wait. You two are dating?” He rolls off Slade’s warm lap and sinks into the duvet.
Clark nods, smiling as he climbs onto the mattress after him, and starts unbuttoning Dick’s ruined sweater vest and dress shirt from behind, before unravelling his silver tie. Slade doesn’t react, but turns to feed him the tray of snacks and water Clark had procured with his superspeed earlier.
It washes away the lingering scratchiness of his throat, but the aching stretch in his muscles still remains.
He chews the nuts, berries and sugary cereal quickly, only slowing when Slade refuses to feed him the next cube of cheese unless he agrees to. Clark leaves for a minute to hang the extra towels along his heated rail, and returns just as Dick is washing everything down with three glasses of filtered water. Swallowing, Dick continues, “This wasn’t just about the useless blocker-thing right. He told you about me waxing poetic over you, didn’t he.” He brings his other hand up to fully hide his face. “Fuck.”
Clark laughs, “Didn’t seem too poetic when he told me about it.”
“Ugh, Slade.”
“What?”
“I can’t believe I was boyfriends-in-law with my lifelong crush this whole time and you didn’t tell me.” He flops back onto the bed, bouncing, and stares at the blank, shadowy ceiling, face forlorn and pouting.
“Seemed impertinent at the time,” Slade says flatly, but his lips twitch with a smile.
“I can’t believe you,” he sighs, “oh nevermind. I can. How did you guys even get together anyways?”
Ignoring Slade’s dismissive wave, Clark shrugs. “It’s a long story.”
“Which we’re not doing. You need to shower,” Slade says, scooping Dick back up again. He grumbles, but yanks off his calf garters and sweaty socks as Slade walks them out of the bedroom, throwing the gross handful over the Alpha’s shoulder and towards Clark.
He catches them with ease.
In the bathroom, Slade swivels so Dick can hit the light with his toe, before plopping him down on the edge of the sink. Dick grimaces as his bare ass and thighs touch the chilly ceramic, but the discomfort fades quickly as he leans against the mirror to watch Slade strip for the first time tonight.
Or, well, morning.
When he chances a glance over his shoulder towards the mirror behind him, he does a double take.
His ass is clearly bruised, unsurprisingly, but his back and arms are covered in lines of friction burns too—Dick hadn’t gotten a good look before Clark had taken them off for disposal, but his shirt and vest must have torn through at some point for that to have even happened. A range of pink-to-red glowing patches line the rest of his body, segmented by darkening handprints.
The rope marks around him have already faded a little. He must’ve not moved very much while unconscious, and then again before Slade had cut them off.
(It makes sense. Slade wouldn’t want any lasting marks placed by anyone but him; and maybe Clark now, if they do this again.)
His face on the other hand…
He looks like a mess.
There’s a mix of dry flakes—cum, tears, drool and slick—crusted all over, with bits of gravel and dark sooty smudges on his nose and forehead. A few marks dot his cheekbones, not as bad as the rashes along the rest of his body, but enough to make him look like he’s been caught in an inescapable state of shy embarrassment, rosy and red. His lips aren’t looking so good either, though probably more so from the duct tape removal than anything else.
His hair is unsalvageable, too, but at least it’s not so far off from how it usually looks after taking off his police cap at the end of a long day.
Sighing, he turns away.
Slade’s weaponry has disappeared, and his Ikon suit is being peeled off in swift movements, revealing long trails and large beds of soft white hairs covering his superhumanly tough skin. Slade isn’t here to give him a show, not on purpose—probably, but Dick watches gleefully anyway, trying to ignore the sleepiness seeping into his bones. The modern lights above them double as heat lamps, a benefit of Clark’s choice of residency, and he basks under the warming glow as he waits, swinging his legs.
Eventually, with the mercenary’s orange and black costume poking out of the skinny hamper in the corner, Slade—now without his eyepatch—picks him up again, before carrying him into the shower.
“Wait—” Dick groans as the cold splash hits him. “Come on, man.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Clark steps through the door frame, free to move now that they’ve vacated the small space. Dick tries to watch him undress through the glass, but the sweeping touch of Slade’s wet hand pulls him away.
“Close your eyes.”
He obeys, and Slade kisses him on the lips once in reward—finally—and he listens as the near-empty bottle of shampoo huffs and pops over his head, after Slade breaks away to squeeze it.
There, under the spray, he drifts again, letting the Alpha do the work, scrubbing and brushing and untangling every bit of his body. He stings all over, but it’s not anything worse than his usual post-patrol showers. The leftover wax is soaked and washed away into the drain, freeing the rest of his hair still caught in its confines. Once the conditioner is thoroughly rinsed off of him, Slade nudges him out of the shower and into Clark’s awaiting arms.
Dick shivers briefly at the change in temperature, but Clark smothers it quickly with a towel.
“There you go.”
He hums as Clark pats him up briefly, squeezing out the excess water from his hair. His glasses are nowhere to be seen now, probably stashed away in the bedroom, yet he looks far more like Clark Kent now than he ever had been since he first saw him walk through those inner warehouse doors tonight.
“Go sit down, I’ll be right back.”
Clark brushes past him, towards the shower, and Dick doesn’t bother to watch him go. A few dripping steps later, he ends up on the other mat by the vanity, warmed by both the heated tiles beneath him, and the lights above. He curls up, content, letting mind pleasantly drift, yawning as he waits for his body to dry.
Something thuds in the shower. Dick peeks up, through the towel on his head and the wet bangs nearly at his nose, searching for the source of the noise.
Had one of them dropped a bottle?
They’re… not washing up. Clark is on his knees in front of Slade, kissing up his cock, one arm curled around Slade’s thigh as he fingers him out of sight, the older Alpha’s head leaning back against the wet tiles.
Dick’s eyes grow wide.
Clark’s legs shift, and through the blur of the foggy glass, he watches in rapture as Clark takes Slade down to the root.
“Shit,” Slade hisses, “shit, Kent.”
“Mm.” He slides off with a pop, just loud enough to hear over the cascading water. “Yes?” The elbow to his hidden hand folds in closer, and Slade snarls.
“Don’t be a little shit.”
“Is that what I’m being?”
“Kent,” Slade growls in a low tone, and his hand flies out to grasp the younger Alpha’s chin, “pup.”
The glass isn’t foggy enough to hide Clark’s smirk.
Dick’s cheeks prickle with pink, breath quickening, and he forces himself to look away.
They might be up for it—it’s really not all that unexpected—but after that spontaneous bout of burning through all his body’s natural resources with no prior warning, then having that chemical concoction suddenly shut off right afterwards, he’s in no shape to initiate another round with them. Whether he wants to or not. It’s lucky that he’s even awake right now, and it’s even luckier that they’re under the water. Dick can’t really smell all that Alpha aggression and arousal that’s sure to be flowing out from them in waves, with the scent washing away before it can reach him.
Eventually, Slade comes, as Dick waits on the floor, listening with shut eyes as the older Alpha jerks Clark to a finish. He hears the water switch off, and the heavy footsteps following as they exit the shower.
The sound of towels shaking around him prompts him enough to take a peek just as a pair of arms slide under his waist and knees, lifting him off the mat. Dick feels his bones creaking, and Clark frowns.
“Sorry,” Clark says, pupils expanding and contracting in the light. “We shouldn’t have left you on the floor for that long.”
“Which floor?”
“Hn.”
“Christ, you two really are together, you’re literally absorbing him,” Dick groans as Clark walks them out of the bathroom. “Come on, aren’t you going to tell me about it?”
“I said it was a long story.” Clark deposits him onto the bed. “Do you want any balm?”
“But I have time.” Dick yawns, the low vibrations of a purr building up in his chest as he shuffles to get under the covers. “And no thanks; done that before, it’ll just get all over the sheets.” The top of the duvet is a little dirty from them sitting on it earlier, but he doubts it’ll be much of a challenge for Clark to unbutton and clean it tomorrow; not with his powers. He’d still prefer not to mess up the space beneath though. After the other two turn off their respective bedside lamps, they join him, and Dick wiggles his toes at the warmth, lightly kicking as their leg hairs rub roughly against each other, squirming into position until their limbs are finally tangled together.
The Alpha’s combined scents sink heavily into his nose; sated, satisfied and brewing with threads of power.
(Danger, too. But not to him. He ignores it.)
“Later little bird.”
“Maybe once you wake up, Dick. I’ll get you some balm then too.”
Chest vibrating as he nuzzles into a wide set of cushiony pecs, Dick mumbles, “What’d you do to those people?”
“What people?”
“The ones who got me.”
“Oh,” Clark says. There’s nothing for a moment, and Dick grumbles, struggling to lift his head up. “I took care of them, no one’s dead.”
Slade huffs. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
Wasn’t Clark in Spain? Dick scrunches up his nose. Wait, scratch that, wasn’t Slade supposed to be in Estonia? It’s too late—early—to think. Maybe Clark had dealt with them earlier, and had flown Slade in on top of that.
He’d been out cold for awhile, after all, and a double cross-continental trip wasn’t really outlandish given the timeframe.
“What’re you guys gonna do with the photos?”
“Um.”
“Clark wants to make a calendar,” Slade whispers against his neck, “and a photobook.”
Sounds like fun. “Okay.” Dick yawns again, eyes slipping shut. That’s not something he’s ever done before, not like this anyway, but still… “Mm. Should do this again sometime.”
When he thinks back on it later, he might just be able to remember the murmurs of agreement drifting over his head, right before he falls asleep.