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If anyone were to ask Grant what he thought of his father, he would make it very clear that he loathes Slade. In a room with Slade and Hitler where Grant has a gun with two bullets, he’s shooting Slade twice. Nothing will ever make him love his father and nothing will make him capable of being in the same room as him without at least trying to kill him.
Deathstroke is different.
Grant would do anything to be in a room with Deathstroke. Alone, preferably, but he’s not overly picky where they end up. As long as it ends with that mercenary dick inside of him, he suspends all disbelief and concern. It’s something he could never say no to, never even think about denying.
The first time it happened was on a roof. Deathstroke has finished a mission and spotted a familiar costume just a few buildings away. He pursued. Between the masks and both of them spitting out each other’s codenames like venom, it wasn’t hard at all for either of them to let things fall as they did. Which just happened to be Grant eating the gravel as Deathstroke plowed him stupid. It helped that Slade didn’t speak, didn’t say all of that guilt tripping bullshit fathers do, just split him open and came until nothing more could fit into Grant’s abused ass.
The next time it was an ambush. Grant fully intended on killing Slade when he had his guard down. Slade never has his guard down and that is one of the many things he mocked Grant for forgetting when he had his dick down his throat. Grant let his brain turn off for that, let that Deathstroke mask burn into his blurry vision as he drank and drank and drank.
The next few encounters were quick, meaningless, rolls where Grant let Deathstroke fuck him until the enhanced man didn’t have anything left in him. It got to the point where Grant couldn’t think of Deathstroke and Slade as the same man. He didn’t care what was going through his father’s head, no really, he only cared that Deathstroke had a decent sized dick and a nonexistent recovery time.
Nothing about this time is different. Deathstroke chased him across a whole city block before he was tackled. Grant spilled onto the high rooftop and fought until his arms ached, pretending he didn’t want it. Deathstroke scolded him, fucked him rough for a few rounds, then settled into this nice pace that makes Grant’s head get cloudy.
Deathstroke’s hand is in his hair, keeping his face in dirty ground, the other arm braces him up. The consistent sound of hips slapping into ass is only broken by Grant’s moaning and shifting, Deathstroke’s occasional grunt, and distant traffic. The fog in Grant’s mind makes his body feel like mush, like he’s a big pile of nothing just for Deathstroke to fuck like this. The constant thrust, one that has gone on for hours before, makes his dick throb but his prostate hum in pleasure.
Slade likes when Grant gets like this. Makes it much easier to take his mind off of it and just fuck. The rough part has to happen, there’s too much frustration he has for this brat to not need to plow into him until he cries just a little. But Grant melting into a puddle is much preferred for the sake of Slade’s own stamina. The longest he’s gone like this is six hours. Straight hours of holding himself above a partner, thrusting at a consistent pace, and never coming close to the edge. Sometimes the enhancements are a blessing, sometimes they’re annoying. With Grant, it’s perfect.
He lets it go for about two hours, just fucking into the slight plump of an ass he remembers spanking who knows how long ago. But Grant looks like he’s about to slip into a peaceful sleep, so Slade decides it’s time to finish. He picks up his pace and buries himself into Grant when he finishes, something he knows Grant won’t admit he likes. When he pulls out and rubs at Grant’s ass to tell him to get up, he gets nothing.
“Stupid brat.” Slade mutters, tugging at Grant’s hair to look at his sleeping face.
Slade could be a decent father for once and carrying Grant to the safehouse he knows his son has just a block away, but when has Slade ever been a decent father?
Grant comes to hours later, the rising sun hitting his face as he groans and rolls onto his back to make it stop aching. He can feel his discarded pants when his hand feels around beside him and the cool of the asphalt isn’t welcome against his bruised ass. But he lays in it for a bit, wondering when Deathstroke will fuck him next.