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There’s only so many Disney movies that Jason can stomach before he wants ‘to hang himself’, Dick proposes on finding something new.
They locate one of the last standing video stores in Gotham, and it’s a real wonder why it’s still in business. Water-logged ceiling and floor, lights flickering ominously, a muddy green half-assed paint job. The only employee sits with his legs crossed on the register, smoking and flipping through the paper. Not exactly family friendly. Dick is almost certain it was a front for gang activity.
Flimsy wire racks of empty VHS boxes line the store with little cards noting the genre. The acrobat searches the area marked ‘Classics’, while Jason explores through a doorway with a sign above reading ‘Adults Only’. Dick sighs, and picks a couple films that he’d seen on the Top One-Hundred list.
A laugh cuts the silence of the store, and Jason rushes over to him. “Dickie! Look at this!” He brandishes a box. “It’s you!”
”What?” Dick snatches it. Obviously it wasn’t him, but a damn good Nightwing look-alike, same hairstyle, same body type. The face was definitely off though, the nose kind of big and the eyes too far apart. The double is in a slumped pose on the box, mask askew, his costume disheveled. “‘One Night in Nightwing’?”
“Let’s get it.” Jason smiles like a child on Christmas.
“Hell no, put it back,” Dick glares, shoving the box in Jason’s hand.
“Pretty please, Dickie?” Jason actually gets on his knees, tugging Dick’s shirt sleeve. “I’ll be a good boy. I’ll pack my guns away, no killing guaranteed for a week, please?” The employee peeks over from his newspaper at the commotion, and gives Dick a withered look.
“God, Jay…” Dick mutters, massaging his temple. “Alright, already.”
Jason leaps up, kisses his cheek. “Thanks, honey. You won’t regret it.” He slams the tape down on the front counter.
“A rental, my man. And we’re going to need the full week.”
—
Dick hasn’t seen Jason this eager in a long time as his partner pops the VHS in the ancient tape slot and hits ‘Play’. The Hood joins him on the bed, wrapping his arms around him. “This is gonna be so great,” he keeps saying, hugging Dick to his chest.
“We’ll see,” Dick rolls his eyes. He honestly wasn’t expecting anything too offensive. Seriously, how bad could a porno starring his alter-ego be?
There’s a fizzle before the film comes into focus, opening on stock footage of a city. Narration text scrolls down the screen: “Bloodheaven, the city of injustice. Thieves and killers run rampant like rats scurrying to their doom. Hope is a luxury left to the weak.”
“Seriously? That doesn’t even make sense,” Dick shakes his head. “They didn’t even spell ‘Blüdhaven’ correctly.”
Jason shushes him. “Just give it a chance, love.”
The text continues, “Crime never sleeps in this twisted town. And neither do its lovely birds.” The actual film begins on a wide street alley, dead of night. Or at least it’s supposed to be night, obviously staged, lighting awkward. It’s noticeably shot on a hand-held camera, the quality grainy at spots. An actor struts into view, wearing a pretty accurate knock-off of his costume, Dick had to admit. Nightwing twirls a cheap set of escrima, catching them gracefully, and smirks at the camera.
Jason jabs at the screen. “Dickie! It’s you!”
Dick sighs wearily.
Nightwing is suddenly surrounded by a group of ninja, in what look like black bathrobes and masks. “Time to get a piece of the action,” he says. He hits them with a fake flurry of kicks, complete with cheesy sound effects, and leads an attack on them individually as they recover.
“That doesn’t work that way—”
“Hush.”
Eventually the masked men stay down, Nightwing standing over their bodies, triumphant. “Well, that takes care of the trash.” But it doesn’t last long, as a low voice calls out, “Hello, Robin.”
Dick holds back a shudder, mimicking Nightwing’s own terrified expression. “S-Slade?”
“Yes, me.” Jason keeps Dick steady as the Deathstroke actor gets his close-up. “Long time no see, my apprentice.”
Nightwing waves his escrima, backing up into the wall. “I’m not your tool anymore, Slade. That’s in my past, and I’m keeping it that way.” He lunges to strike, and Deathstroke swiftly avoids him.
Dick is shaking his head, “No, no, oh god no…” he mutters. “This can’t be…they wouldn’t…”
The assassin knocks the sticks from Nightwing’s hand, and pins him to the brick wall. “I’ve missed having my little bird around to keep me company,” he says hotly through his mask. “I’d like to reminisce a little.”
“Sl-Slade, please,” Nightwing whines.
“They wouldn’t…” Dick’s fingers are twitching, a nervous sweat starting to prick his body.
“They are, Dick.”
Deathstroke rips a hole in the center of Nightwing’s costume, and it tears off like toilet paper. The vigilante gasps at the exposure. He runs his hands against Nightwing’s flushed skin, making him moan, loll his head back. Gloved fingers find their way along his bare hip, peeling the tattered costume down.
Dick sits motionless on the bed. Painful dark memories from long ago are seeping back into his mind, yet he can’t take his eyes off the scene. And there’s something else he’s feeling too, something that absolutely terrifies him.
Jason tightens his grip, smooths over Dick’s arm. “How ya feelin’?”
“F-Fine,” Dick nods, bites his lip as he shivers. Nightwing is a noisy one, panting deeply as Deathstroke removes the lower half of his suit, and the acrobat tries to tune it all out.
He’s abruptly interrupted when a hand snakes between his legs, pokes at the sensitive area. “J-Jason, don’t!” he cries out.
“That’s kind of the point of these movies, Dickie. You’re supposed to get a reaction.” Jason traces the strain in Dick’s jeans. “And it’s doing it’s job quite nicely.” He cups the bulge, leans into Dick’s ear, whispers, “Admit it. It’s turning you on to see yourself getting handled by Slade.”
Dick doesn’t answer, only whimpers as his doppelganger is flipped, facing the wall. Nightwing spreads his legs, bends as his dripping cock leaks pre-come down his thighs. Deathstroke steps away, admires his handiwork. The camera pans Nightwing’s yielding body, ready for anything the assassin could dish out.
“What do you want me to do, Dick?” Jason nuzzles the nape of his neck.
“Tell me what’s on your mind, dear Robin?” Deathstroke ghosts over his back.
“P-Please, Jay…”
“M-Master, please…”
“—Touch me!”
“As you wish.”
“Whatever you say, baby.”
—
The VHS has been rewound so many times by the end of the week that the tape is beginning to fade. The white splotches certainly didn’t help, either.
“That store isn’t getting it back anytime soon, is it?” Dick giggles after the thirteenth re-watch, holding Jason under the sticky sheets.
“Never,” Jason laughs. “It’s too bad, there were a bunch of other porn tapes I wanted to check out.”
“We can look around,” Dick says. “I’m sure there’s one more sleazy video place still in business.”
“I wonder if they’ll have a copy of ‘Under the Red Hood’…”