green-eyedfirework

[green-eyedfirework]

It shouldn't feel like a fresh ache.

It shouldn't—it had been years since Grant ran away from home, years since Slade hardened his heart with the possibility that he might never return, years since Grant was declared dead in all but name.

And yet looking at his son's mutilated corpse was like a thousand daggers stabbed into his back.

The body had been preserved, Slade could give Gotham that credit, though perhaps they wanted it to be recognizable when they sent him his son's corpse as some kind of deranged trophy. A poisoned knife, accompanied by honeyed words—oh they were so sorry that Prince Grant was dead, it was definitely not on purpose, it was self-defense even though his son's corpse was covered in marks of torture, you have no choice but to believe us.

No, Slade did have a choice. And he chose war.

The country was preparing, companies marching towards the battle lines as Slade finished up business at the castle and got ready to head out. He was determined to get the truth, even if he had to carve it out of Crown Prince Richard—why did Grant leave, why was he tortured, why did you kill my son—and had stumbled upon a...curiosity.

Hive.

He had nothing more than rumors, but he knew Hive was a cult of fanatics, and they were nowhere near Gotham. It was a piece of the puzzle, but it just gave rise to more questions and—

"Your Majesty!" Slade turned his glower on whoever had dared to disturb his morning, but the guard barely seemed to notice, out of breath and strangely...exhilarated. "Your Majesty, you have to see this."

The guard beckoned, and Slade was curious enough to follow. As they neared the courtyard, the noise level grew louder, and it was near deafening by the time Slade stepped towards the knot of people, soldiers surrounding...a prisoner on his knees.

"Your Majesty," the captain bowed, flushed with excitement. "Our scouts captured a prisoner inside Gotham's border." He motioned to the kneeling man, almost giddy, and Slade didn't understand—

His gaze met deep, wide, terrified blue eyes.

"Your highness." Crown Prince Richard had a cut high on his cheek, he was dusty and disheveled and wrapped tightly in chains, and he looked five seconds from hyperventilating.  "Welcome to Defiance."

#my snippets #royalty au #prisoner

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick is shivering, Damian is crying piteously, they're surrounded by warriors that would give Dick a serious run for his money even if he wasn't months out of shape, and the only good thing is that they're out of Ra's' hands.

The one in charge, a man with silver hair and only one eye and a dangerous presence despite his apparent age, barks out something in a language Dick doesn't understand, and Dick's cloak is unceremoniously divested from him.

"Wait," Dick manages to say after a full two beats, they're ushering him deeper inside the long hall and he can't resist—the hall is warm and the cloak was wet and cold and heavy. He can't quite remember what he's complaining about.

He's stopped at a threshold and someone bends down to tug at the laces of his boots—which, now that he looks, no one else is wearing. He allows them to pull the sodden, muddy boots off with a muttered sorry, and hide the wince as they limp after the others, blisters painfully sore.

Damian hasn't stopped crying, and Dick shifts him in his arms, biting his lip at the tremble. He's—exhausted, hungry and weak and tired, and he wants so desperately for this to be a safe place.

It seems like one, warm and cozy, with the sounds of laughter echoing from deeper in. Dick is led to a side chamber lined with furs and has to bite back the moan at the softness on his aching soles. Most of his escort leaves, and Dick desperately wishes they'll let him stay.

He is in no shape to go back out, not in the snow, not in the storm. And especially not with Damian.

Damian is still crying, thin and weak, and Dick peeks at the two guards left with him before turning to give them his back. His shirt is a little more complicated to wrangle, but he manages to slip it off one arm to bare a breast. Damian latches on near instantly and Dick lets out a slow breath at the ache.

His baby isn't going to go hungry. Ra's' sneers still echo in his head, the patronizing way he pronounced Dick an unfit parent while Dick begged to see his child, please, just once, and figuring out motherhood with Damian on the run has been a trial of failures.

At least he's feeding now. Dick shifts on his feet, faintly dizzy, and hopes that they let him rest for the night. He'll have to pay for a stay here somehow, but he's exhausted and he just wants sleep.

Dick isn't expecting the others to return so suddenly.  He spins around, startled, at the sudden bang of the door, and everything inside of him goes cold at the narrow-eyed expression on the leader's face.

He snarls something, and his warriors head for Dick. Dick tries to back up a step but there's nowhere to go, he's surrounded with at least three people between him and the door.

"Wait," Dick says, high-pitched, "wait, please—"

Dick isn't expecting the hands tugging at his shirt. His mind goes blank for a yawning eternity and by the time he recovers, his pants are being pulled down.

"No," Dick croaks out, tears hot and prickling, "No."

It's not that it doesn't make sense. Ra's is not the only one who demands the privileges of power and Dick knows nothing about the people who let him stagger inside their home. He cannot afford to be kicked out, to fight back, to disagree, but he still says, "no," when they pull the rest of his clothes off.

At least they aren't taking Damian from him.

Dick is freezing, cold that's gone beyond pain and into numbness and the silver-haired leader meets his gaze with a forbidding expression. He says something harsh and guttural.

Heavy hands land on Dick's shoulders and push and Dick's legs give out as he's manhandled to his knees.

Damian is busy drinking, unknowing and uncaring of what's happening above him.

He keeps his gaze fixed down, on the soft fur, and not on the incomprehensible conversation above him. He—he needs to figure this out, he knows, he can't just keep holding Damian while—while they—but he's not willing to let his baby out of his sight—

Dick is startled again by the brush of something soft against his skin. It feels like a blanket, heavy and warm, and Dick looks up in confusion as someone kneels next to him, efficiently concealing his nakedness and chilled skin while not disturbing Damian.

They smile at Dick and say something. The words sound harsh but their tone is not, and Dick can't quite believe the softness of the blanket against his skin.

#my snippets #omegaverse #nursing #fear of noncon #language barrier

[green-eyedfirework]

Slade heard the shouting first.  Not many people ventured here, Slade had managed to secure himself a prime position in exchange for being one of the Arena’s best gladiators.  A cell that was more of an apartment, most all the luxuries he wanted, food and pretty slaves and good fights.  He’d killed the last master who’d ordered him to lose a match, and his new one had learnt that lesson well.

There was little more that he needed from life.  Talia knew that a content gladiator was a loyal one, and unlike her father, she’d cultivated that loyalty well.

“Please—Talia—stop—” a younger voice on the edge of desperation, and at least three sets of footsteps.  Slade straightened off the bench and moved towards the front of his cell.

“You know better than that, Richard,” Talia’s voice was coldly amused, “You lost a fight to one of mine, and the Arena voted life.  That means I own you now.”

“Bruce will buy me back!” the voice insisted stridently, “Talia, please—”

“I find myself not exceedingly fond of my beloved at this moment,” Talia said dismissively, “And you will serve far better as a gift.”

“No—”

The footsteps reached the front of his cell, the curtains drawn back to leave only open bars, and Slade watched as his owner stepped into view, poised and calculating as always.  “Slade,” Talia smiled, eyes dark and satisfied, “How are you today?”

“Well,” Slade replied noncommittedly, far more interested in the struggling figure pinned by two guards, “I didn’t realize I’d earned a gift.”

“This particular one fell into my lap,” Talia’s smile grew wickeder, “And I have no need for a gladiator that loses fights, so I might as well use him as a favor.”  That was when the struggling figure jabbed an elbow into the stomach of the guard to his left and made a break for it.

Unfortunately for him, the guard recovered quickly, and made a sharp swing of his staff at the bandages that wound down one leg.  The unfortunate gladiator crumpled with a strangled shriek.

“Come now, Richard,” Talia said, her expression twisted with distaste, “At least try to lose gracefully.”  The guards yanked the limp figure off the ground and dragged him closer to the bars, and the spark of interest at the familiar name coalesced into sharp coldness at the sight of tan skin and dark hair.  Locks of it draped across that bowed face, as though Slade wouldn’t be able to recognize the man that had killed his son.

Talia read the simmering fury across his face.  “He’s yours,” she said softly, watching him, “To do with what you wish, for however long you wish to keep him.  His fate is yours.”

Richard Grayson made a barely perceptible sound.

Talia moved forward to unlock the cell and waited as the guards dragged Grayson closer before snagging the young gladiator’s chin.  “Your master needs a reminder on what happens when he spites me,” she murmured, “Your body will do quite nicely.”

Slade couldn’t see what Grayson did or said, but he saw Talia’s fingers tighten, nails biting into skin, before she let go and stepped aside to let the guards throw Grayson inside the cell.

Slade didn’t move.  Not as the guards retreated and Grayson pushed himself up to standing.  Not when Grayson pressed himself back against the bars, fingers tightened into fists as the click of the lock echoed in finality.  Not as footsteps receded, out of sight and out of hearing, as the beaten gladiator cowered in the corner.

Grayson looked gray.  His expression was fractured and his clothes were dusty and torn and he had one arm pressed to his chest in a way that indicated either an injured arm or broken ribs.  Possibly both.  The other arm was tensed, ready to lash out, despite him wavering on his feet.  One leg had bandages from calf to thigh.

More than all that, he looked small.  Exhausted and trembling and gaunt, like someone recovering from an illness, nothing like the snatches of the golden favorite of the Arena that Slade caught from time to time.  Not too many, no one was stupid enough to let Slade and Grayson in the same room, and especially not the kid’s previous master, but Slade remembered watching his son bleed out on the Arena sands as a sweaty, bloodstained, gleaming young gladiator lifted his dual swords to a wave of cheers that shook the entire stadium.

It wasn’t something he could forget.

“Who knew that the little bird would fall,” Slade said, low and cold, stalking out of the shadows.  Grayson pressed further into the corner but there was nowhere to go, blue eyes flitting around the cell like something would save him.  “You must’ve heard the story of the boy who flew too close to the sun.”

“Slade,” the kid’s voice was passably level, eyes wide and locked on him, “I—I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” Slade arched an eyebrow, “Sorry that you killed my son?  Sorry that you built a career that started by defeating the Ravager?  I didn’t see regret when you stood over my son’s cooling corpse, I saw triumph.”  Grayson swallowed, expression fracturing further.  “You’re only sorry that you’re locked in here with me.”

“Slade—”

He didn’t give Grayson a chance to spout off pretty words—apparently he had a talent for being charming, a talent for making friends.  There were a group of them, young, puffed-up gladiators, that fought on the sands like it was their own.  Excellent, trained fighters.  And cocky and arrogant to boot.

Slade had always hoped for the chance to meet Grayson on the sand.  To have the fight he’d been itching for for years.

This was almost as good.

Grayson ducked at Slade’s telegraphed punch, pushing off the bars and twisting past Slade to stumble deeper in the cell.  Slade turned to follow him, noting his unsteadiness and adjusting his speed accordingly.

The fun was in playing with his food before he destroyed it.

Grayson was talented.  With dual short swords in his hands, and preternatural flexibility, he had gone undefeated for years.  He was masterful at twisting out of the way of strikes, all speed and deadly grace, and even with an injured leg he kept his balance well.

But he was unarmed, his right arm was clearly paining him, and he’d looked ready to drop even before the fight had started.  Even drawing it out, it wasn’t long before Slade grabbed his wrist from a poorly executed punch, and wrenched.

The kid went down with a choked gasp, clutching his shoulder as he landed hard on his knees.  Slade gave him three seconds before slamming a kick into his side—the kid made a harsh, punched-out sound and toppled over.

“Pathetic,” Slade noted, standing over the panting young gladiator, “The golden Nightwing, lying broken in the dust.  A fitting legacy of a boy that tried to fly too high, too fast.”

Grayson set his expression into a snarl and tried to lever up.  Slade ground a foot into the bandaged leg and Grayson collapsed with a strangled sound, trying to claw away.

“If only Grant could see you now,” Slade murmured, “He had a talent for humiliating his opponents.”  What his son could’ve done with a broken bird at his feet—but Grant had been cocky, and Grayson had been smart, and Slade had to watch from the stands as his son gurgled out his last breaths.

Grayson stared up at him with a facade of defiance, half-curled up on the ground.  “Spare me the monologue and just kill me already,” the kid snapped, his snarl unable to hide the waver in his tone, “There isn’t an audience to entertain here.”

Cute.  Slade would take great pleasure in watching that break.

“No, there isn’t,” Slade agreed, and reached down to haul Grayson to his feet and shove him back into the center of the room.  “There’s no one to entertain here.”  He smiled, slow and sharp.  “Just me and you.”

The mask of defiance cracked, and for a moment, the only thing in Grayson’s eyes was terror.

#my snippets #sladick #gladiator au

[green-eyedfirework]

Slade gets hit with aggression toxin; Dick has to outlast him until Slade burns through it.

#fic ideas #sladick #aggression toxin #drugged

[green-eyedfirework]

"Hands off, Rick," someone shouted from the other end of the table, "Slade wouldn't like you sniffing around his bird."

Dick let the words wash over him.  He gripped the knife a little harder, and focused on his meal.  They were too close.  Too close, and it felt too hot, even though the fire was a little distance away.  He needed to breathe.

"Screw Slade," Rick called back, and Dick suppressed the flinch as the man's arm came around his shoulders.  The grip was inescapable.  "If he doesn't want to make a move, well, we're not going to wait for him to!"  There was a smattering of laughter.  It rang too loud in Dick's head.  "Isn't that right, Your Highness?"

It took only one blink for Dick to twist, a flare of pain traveling up his spine, the knife blade against Rick's throat.  "Let go of me," Dick said, his voice strangely level, "Or I'll slit your throat."

The laughter died awkwardly.  Rick's eyes widened in shock, and then narrowed, the smile dying to something that looked more...searching.  But he made a dramatic show of lifting his hand off, his voice still light.

"Determined for Slade after all," he said loudly, and the chuckles echoed up and down the table, though it sounded oddly flat.  "Don't worry, Your Highness, he won't mind if you've already had some fun."

This time, Dick couldn't hide the flinch, and there was something contemplative in the gazes of the men around him.

Dick turned back to his meal.  He didn't relax his grip on the knife.

~#~

The teasing stopped.  They stopped touching him, and started watching him.  It felt like a tension crackling in the air, a tension in the air, and Dick half-held his breath as he moved like nothing was wrong.

He knew they were waiting.  Turning the corner into the tent where he was supposed to sleep, it shouldn’t have surprised him to see that Slade was already inside.  But it froze him to the spot, a knee-jerk of fear, and he had nowhere to run.

Not that he could run.

Slade merely stared at him, gaze inscrutable, scanning Dick like he could lay him bare with just that one, piercing eye.  Dick, lightheaded and wavering even with the crutch, certainly felt naked under the regard.

“What do you want?” Dick forced the words out, clipped and sharp.  Some part of himself was already curling up, begging no, please, stop, but it was locked away.  He wouldn’t beg.  His dignity was the only thing they hadn’t yet managed to destroy, and Dick refused to lose it too.

“No one in this camp will touch you,” Slade said, his voice level, and Dick felt himself go rigid.  “If any of them hurt you, they know they will answer to me, and my displeasure should you be harmed.”

He knew.  They knew.  Dick had seen it across all their faces, but he didn’t—he wasn’t—he didn’t want to hear what they had to say, he didn’t want to hear what Slade had to say, and especially not when he was still a goddamn prisoner.

“I killed Bane,” Slade said slowly, and this time Dick could recognize the fury beneath the steady tone, “I should have made it slower.”

“Bane didn’t touch me,” Dick snapped back, unable to stop the bite to his tone, “So if you’re here to defend my honor—”

“He hurt you,” Slade said evenly, “Or his men hurt you.  Or someone else.  I can play a guessing game if you’d like, but it won’t change the fact that you were hurt, Dick.”

Dick stayed where he was, cold and almost-shivering, still frozen to the spot.

“It wasn’t your fault, and you—”

“You don’t know what happened.”  His voice was soft, but no less poisonous.  “I don’t need your platitudes, Slade.”  He couldn’t stop the trembling.  “You weren’t there.”

Slade’s expression spasmed for a moment, there and gone before it settled back to its stillness.  “If you require medical attention,” Slade started again, but Dick cut him off.

“I require nothing from my captor.”

There was no flicker in Slade’s expression this time.  “Very well,” he said, still level, “You’re free to change your mind at any point.”

“I don’t—”

“You were raped,” Slade said, and the bluntness of his words shocked the air from Dick’s chest.  He was really lightheaded now, and he had to grab the edge of the stool to slow his collapse when his balance failed him.  Slade didn’t move forward to catch him, nor did he offer any support, but he crouched after Dick, sitting cross-legged as Dick clung to the stool in a painful kneel.

“There are physical wounds in addition to the mental ones,” Slade continued, and Dick didn’t know how he could keep his face so blank.  “I doubt Bane gave you any treatment.  Villain can give you something for the tears, and ensure that infection doesn’t—”

“Stop,” Dick rasped, unable to hear that steady voice, unable to—the memories of pain overlapped, and he ached, inside and out, and he just—couldn’t.

Surprisingly, Slade stopped.

“What do you want?” Dick asked quietly, raw and wounded.  He barely had the strength to keep his pain locked away, and Slade had a way of breaking the locks.

“For you to feel better,” Slade answered, “For you to feel safe.”

“As a hostage in a bandit camp,” Dick almost laughed.

“No one here will hurt you, Dick, ransom or not,” Slade said quietly, and Dick squeezed his eyes shut.  He could feel something inside him begin to splinter.

“And I’m just supposed to—believe you?” Dick’s voice was hoarse and cracking, “Trust the word of an outlaw?”

There was a soft silence.

“Have I ever lied to you, little bird?”

The first sound was too agonized and harsh to be called a sob, but they kept coming, tearing themselves from his chest as his cheeks grew wet, and Dick clutched the stool just to have something for his fingers to grip.

They shuddered through him, all the tears he hadn’t spilled in front of Bane, the sobs he’d refused to surrender to, and yet here he was, crying in front of Slade, in front of the man who held him prisoner, in front of the man who’d promised him safety.

He could hear Slade move, but Dick stayed where he was, kneeling on the ground, letting his anguish carve out of him.  The movements came closer, and before Dick could brace himself—a slap, a punch, a kick—something heavy and dry was draped across his back and wrapped around him.

Slade was careful not to touch.  Not even an accidental brush of fingers.  Dick lifted his head, everything still blurry around him, and saw Slade retreat.  “Do you require anything?” Slade asked when Dick met his gaze, his voice still carefully distant.  “Food?  Water?  Medicine?  More blankets?”

Dick shook his head numbly.  He felt exhausted and drained, as though once the emotions burst through, there was no stopping them until he was washed out.

“Okay.  Just call if you need anything,” Slade said evenly, and straightened, heading for the entrance.

Dick didn’t know what had possessed him.  Why he did it.  But there was a small corner of his mind that screamed at the thought that Slade was leaving, and Dick reached out and grabbed Slade’s leg.

It was stupid.  Slade was keeping him prisoner.  He was just as dangerous as Bane.  He wasn’t a man that could be trusted.

“Dick?”  Slade could rip his leg free from Dick’s grip as easy as breathing, no matter how hard Dick tightened his fingers into the material of his pants.  Dick didn’t answer him.  Couldn’t answer him.

Slade tugged his leg free, and Dick let his hand fall.  The hollows inside him stretched.  Everything was a wash of tears, and his heart felt like it was fracturing into pieces.

Slade took a seat next to him, close enough to brush the edge of the blanket, but facing away.  Dick was thankful for that, he didn’t think he could handle the pressure of Slade’s searing gaze, and that all-seeing blue eye, and something swelled in his throat as he tried to swallow.

No.  No more tears.  He had to—had to stop crying, and regain his composure and just—he had to stop.  He couldn’t afford weakness.  It had already cost him too much.

Slade didn’t say a word.  Just stayed in place, his breathing low and steady, hands crossed in his lap, looking away from Dick.  Didn’t make a single sound as Dick shifted in place to take the weight off his knees, and leaned farther than he had to—to rest his forehead against Slade’s shoulder.

Slade just adjusted to bear Dick’s weight better, and didn’t say anything as Dick’s tears soaked his shirt, constant and unending.

#my snippets #sladick #royalty/bandit au #past noncon #protective slade

[green-eyedfirework]

Here's a fun idea: Slade and Dick end up working together on some case/contract, and end up having to climb the side of an icy mountain. There are ropes tying them together as they climb up, but something happens (they get attacked/blizzard/whatever) and Slade ends up injured and unconscious.

Dick can't support Slade's weight. He's clinging desperately to the mountain. They're both going to fall.

He needs to cut the rope. Slade will survive the fall. But Dick can't bring himself to watch another person he cares about fall.

Dick stays there in frozen agony, the rope biting into his waist, paralyzed by terror and grief.

He finally manages to cut the rope. He finishes climbing, subdues the attackers or whatever, and works his way back down to Slade. By the time he gets there, he's sobbing so hard he can barely see, and Slade's body is nowhere to be found.

Dick stumbling blindly in a raging snow storm, calling out for Slade in a broken voice, hating himself so fiercely it hurts. He can see his parents' mangled forms every time he closes his eyes and now he has Slade's to add to that.

Meanwhile Slade woke up at the bottom of the mountain and was more than a little pissed when he saw the cut rope. He can't hold onto the rage in the face of Grayson's clear breakdown, however, and rescues his little bird from both the elements and himself, reassuring him that Slade is in one piece and not angry at him.

#fic ideas #sladick #falling #sacrifice #snowstorm #climbing

[green-eyedfirework]

During the Gotham lockdown, John's out getting supplies or whatever and some gang catches him. They figure out he's a police officer, and they hurt him badly. John barely manages to drag himself to the orphanage before passing out.

Meanwhile, Barsad's been keeping tabs on this orphanage, occasionally popping up with more supplies, talking to the kids, making sure they're being left alone.  One day, some of the kids screw up their courage and ask him for help, please, their friend is really badly hurt and Father Reilly doesn't know what to do

Barsad was not expecting to find Officer Blake there.  The kids were right, he is badly hurt, his wounds are infected, and he needs more treatment than they can get. Also, Bane has a lookout for this particular cop.

Barsad: two birds with one stone.

John wakes from the fever in the middle of Bane's base, surrounded by mercenaries. He nearly passes out again, but it's arrested from sheer confusion over his bandaged wounds. Still, John can't quite breathe right when Bane steps forward, alerted that John is awake.

John having to have a conversation with Bane, with the guy that broke Batman's back, surrounded by his men, still injured, trying very hard not to just collapse out of fear.

#fic ideas #nolanverse

[green-eyedfirework]

Have you ever listened to the song "Heart of Stone" from the SIX soundtrack? I was listening to it today and it really sounds like Dick from your Sladick royal AUs. Just wanted to let you know in case you hadn't heard it before

Thanks for the rec!

#green answers

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick is a teacher at Titans Daycare. Slade has a grudge against them for expelling Grant, but Joey needs a daycare and this is the only one in the area with staff that know sign language.

#fic ideas #daycare au #sladick #half the daycare staff is terrified of slade so dick is assigned to deal with him

[green-eyedfirework]

After hours of searching, he finally gets a trace of Dick’s scent.  It’s clear and sharp and not tainted by wolfsbane.  It smells like blood.

The wolf runs.

Traitor, his mind hisses, Dick betrayed him, betrayed them all, Dick is the reason his son still hasn’t woken up, and if it weren’t for the babe inside of him, Slade would’ve gutted him and left his corpse in the woods.  Good if he’s injured.  If he dies, Slade will just cut the baby out of him.  Their pack has great healers.

The smell of blood gets stronger.  It’s all Slade can scent, just blood blood blood, and there’s a twisting inside of him that is tight with worry.  That…is too much blood.  A part of his mind whispers that it’s a trap, another one of Dick’s nasty little tricks, how deceitful all humans are, and he doesn’t know which makes him run faster.

The scent leads him to a narrow ravine.  The way down is jagged—easy on four feet, but treacherous for two, and the smell of blood is so much sharper.  Slade is cautious, but there is only one scent.  Only Dick’s blood.  Nearly overpowering.

Slade stumbles upon his mate at the bottom of the ravine.

Dick is only a few paces away from the bottom of the trail, leaning against the cliff wall, sitting awkwardly with legs spread.  He doesn’t look up at Slade’s approach even though Slade is making no attempt to be quiet.  His focus remains on his arms.  No, on what’s in his arms, the folds of a shirt containing a small, wriggling bundle.

Slade registers the new scent, barely detectable under the blood, and shifts back before he makes the conscious decision to.  Dick does look up at that, craning his neck to see Slade looming over him.  He doesn’t quite meet Slade’s gaze, eyes fixed in the vicinity of Slade’s shoulder, hazy and distant.

“I just—just wanted to see her once,” Dick slurs, voice a hoarse rasp.  “My baby.”

Slade has to take another glance to fully comprehend the situation.  Dick is sitting in a puddle of blood.  His legs are splayed wide, one knee up, his leggings ripped down the middle.  The other leg lies limp and twisted, ankle swollen.  Dick’s skin is tacky with sweat and his eyes aren’t focusing and that is a lot of blood.

Slade crouches without meaning to, and Dick extends his arms.  His expression is soft, almost dream-like, and he doesn’t try to stop Slade taking the baby from him.  His cheeks are wet and as Slade watches, a few more tears trickle out.

“Bye-bye, Mari,” Dick whispers.  “I’m sorry.  Mama loves you.”

The baby shifts a tiny, closed fist and makes a quiet, plaintive sound.

It’s like the world rips down the middle.

Slade falls to one knee, arms tightening around the baby—around his daughter, around their daughter, and he can’t breathe because his mate is in front of him, barely conscious and bleeding out, and memories and emotions are twisting and warping and his mind is suddenly clear for the first time in eight months.

“No,” Slade breathes out, starkly horrified.  What has he done?  The emotions carve through him—rage and terror and guilt and confusion and Slade throws his head back and howls.

The sound splinters through the air, grief and warning and threat all in one, and it doesn’t die until Slade runs out of breath.  Slade howls again, desperate to get out the storm brewing inside of him, but the baby—Mari, Dick called her Mari, their daughter, their precious baby girl—starts crying and Slade breaks off to press his face to hers.

She smells like Dick, like Dick’s blood, but underneath that is the clear scent of a pup, is the hint of Slade, and Slade doesn’t realize he’s crying until he sees the tears splatter against his daughter’s skin.  He takes a ragged breath, head spinning, before turning back to Dick.

Dick, whose eyes have closed.

No.  “No!” Slade says sharply, shifting his grip on baby Mari to grab Dick’s shoulder, to shake his mate.  “No, Dick, little bird, please, you have to wake up, get up!”  The shaking wins him a low moan and Slade redoubles his efforts.  “Dick, my love, please!”

Dick’s eyes flutter open, blue eyes glassy and unfocused.  “You need to stay awake,” Slade tries to order.  “Do you hear me?  Dick?  Stay awake.”

“Can’t,” Dick whispers, indistinct.  “‘M sorry.”

“No,” Slade’s voice cracks.  “No, little bird, I’m the one who’s sorry, no, please, Dick!”  He shakes his mate again when Dick’s eyes close, but he’s growing alarmingly limp.  “Dick!”

“Take care of her,” Dick mumbles.  “Our pup.”  He slides sideways at Slade’s pull, and collapses against the stone.  His face is gray and his breathing is slowing.

“Dick!”

Slade, desperate, throws his head back and howls again, this time a call for help.  It feels like too long before he gets a distant, answering howl, seconds stretching against each other, seconds he spends patting Dick’s cheek or watching his pulse, absently rocking Mari with one arm to quiet her fussing.

“Dick, please, please don’t leave me, I’m so sorry,” Slade’s voice is choked and his throat is tight.  “Little bird, please, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry, please come back.”

Dick doesn’t respond.

Slade’s face is wet with tears by the time his pack comes, racing into the ravine in a flurry of paws.  There’s a healer among them and they grimly take charge as Slade’s led away, as he listens to the healer barking orders to try and keep Dick alive, to try and save the mate Slade all but threw away.

Hive.  This is the Hive pack’s fault.  His turbulent emotions seize upon the dark thread of vengeance and grow stronger, stabilizing with a clear goal for him to take.  He will go after the Hive pack and raze it to the fucking bones if it’s the last thing he does.

For his mate.  For his pup, who might grow up without a mother.  For the aching wound in Slade’s heart.

Revenge will be his.

#my snippets #sladick #wolf au #childbirth #mind control

[green-eyedfirework]

Slade isn’t expecting visitors today, so he’s annoyed that the sound of footsteps interrupts his book.  The curtains are drawn wide to let in the sunlight, and he doesn’t bother getting off the chair.  As one of Talia’s best gladiators, he can get away with a lot more than anyone else.  He’s earned enough to buy his freedom ten times over, and Talia knows that the only reason he’s here is because he wants to be here.

It’s in her best interests to keep him sweet.  A lesson Ra’s never learned.

“Slade,” she calls out before she fully steps into view, wearing a low-cut dress typical of high class fashion and yet bristling with knives, “I’ve brought a gift.”

“I wasn’t aware I was expecting one,” Slade says, still in his seat.  There are two guards with her in addition to her personal shadow, and they’re holding someone upright between them.

“This was one a long time in waiting,” Talia smiles, and beckons the guards forward.  It takes a long time to recognize the stumbling figure between them—clad in the typical revealing silks of a bedslave, bandages wound around their torso and half across their face, ruffling dark hair.  Their head is bowed, golden cuffs around their wrists, but it isn’t until Slade spots the blue brooch clipping the silks to the unassuming black collar that he realizes who this is.

Nightwing.  Richard Grayson.  Up until recently, one of the Arena’s favorite gladiators.  And the man that killed Slade’s son.

He doesn’t realize he’s on his feet until Talia’s smile widens.  He ignores her, and stares at Grayson.  The man is gaunt where he was once gleaming, a golden young gladiator now gray and exhausted and faintly trembling.  The outline of his collarbones is starkly visible, as are the dark shadows around his visible eye.  Grayson lifts his head to meet Slade’s gaze, expression cool and blank, and there’s no fire in that startlingly blue eye.

He looks like someone walking to their executioner.

“And what’s the gift?” Slade asks sharply.  He heard of Grayson’s loss weeks ago, a startling upset with one of Talia’s young gladiators, and the Arena had voted to spare him.  He assumed that Talia would’ve used Grayson in one of the games she was always playing to catch Lord Wayne’s attention, not bring him here.

To the first person in the country who wanted to tear him apart.

Talia smiles, and gestures to Grayson.  There’s a flicker of something in Grayson’s eye that fades to blankness.  It isn’t quite resignation or quiet placidity.  It’s a mask, and Slade’s itching to tear it off his face.

“He’s yours,” she says.  For what?  For a night, a day, a week, a fuck, a beating, a—“to do with whatever you wish.  Keep him or kill him, I do not care.  His fate is yours.”

Slade blinks.  This time, the fracture across Grayson’s mask spreads wider before it’s suppressed.  Before Slade can fully understand what’s going on, his cell door is opened and Grayson is none-too-gently shoved inside.

“Have fun,” Talia laughs, smirking at Grayson before she walks away, “Goodbye, Richard.”

Grayson doesn’t say a word.  Soon, the guards and Talia are beyond hearing, and the heavy weight of the silence is the only thing there.  Silence, and Slade staring at the single person he’s wanted to tear apart for years.

He takes a step forward.  Grayson presses back against the bars, clearly trembling now, expression fighting to be blank but panic too hard to fully conceal.  He’s trapped in a corner and there’s nowhere to go and Slade stalks forward with all the time in the world.

“Nothing to say?” Slade asks, because he’s been waiting for this moment for so long, stoking the fires of his vengeance year after year, waiting for Wayne to finally buckle and schedule a fight between them, and in his dreams, Nightwing turns to Icarus, the boy that flew too close to the sun.  And Nightwing dies, red spilling across the sands.

Now it looks like the wax wings burned on the way off but didn’t manage to take him with it, and Grayson’s thinner than he usually is, lost muscle and new scars and no matter how fiercely he tries to manage his expression, there’s a brightness he can’t quite mimic.

“Is there anything to say?” Grayson asks, voice hoarse, “You’re going to kill me.  I don’t have a speech for pretty last words.”  Defiant but weary.

This is a pale imitation of the golden, gleaming young gladiator that raised bloody dual swords to the roar of an Arena, triumphant over his son’s corpse, and frustration abruptly washes over Slade.

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” Slade growls, and he’s close enough to wrap a hand around Grayson’s throat and yank him away from the bars.  “Do you really think that I’ve been dreaming of killing you for years only to give you the mercy of a quick death?”

Grayson does attempt to defend himself, long-ingrained fighting instincts unable to let him truly surrender, no matter how much resignation he feigns, but Slade flings him at the floor to avoid the retaliatory swipe.

That Grayson falls is the first surprise.  The man has preternatural grace.  Slade quickly calculates that the bandages across his right eye are the culprit, as are whatever injuries he’s hiding, but the thought is pushed aside when Grayson hits the ground.

Because he screams, actually, open-mouthed, screams, voice cracking in a way that indicates precisely why it’s so hoarse, and immediately rolls over to curl up on his side, gasping and shaking and nearly clawing at the floor.

That isn’t a minor injury.  That is—

Slade’s not an idiot, not a mindless brute tearing people apart because he knows nothing else, no matter how much the impression suits him.  He used to be in the military, used to command, used to strategize, and he’s spent years watching lords and ladies play their games.

It’s a fact that Grayson displeased Talia in some way, she would’ve given him back to Wayne otherwise.  Dropping him in Slade’s lap means Grayson’s only coming out of the cell as a bloody ruin.  So Talia got her money’s worth, sold Grayson to everyone that’s wanted a piece of the charming young gladiator, until—until someone damaged him so badly that Talia wouldn’t even try putting him back together.

Slade grabs that ridiculous brooch and uses it to lift Grayson off the floor.  Grayson’s struggles are weak, and they cut out with a choked sound when Slade drops him on the bed.  Slade finds the nearest knife.

Grayson sees the light glinting off the blade, reflected in his too-wide blue eye, and squeezes that eye shut.  Stops breathing too.

Slade carefully slides the knife under the bandages and slices them all free.

The outer layer comes unwrapped easily, the cloth wrapped around Grayson’s head to keep it in place.  The second layer is more packed together, but comes undone with a few more cuts.  It’s the third layer that’s plastered to Grayson’s skin, and Grayson starts making those quiet sounds again, as if he’s trying not to shout.

It comes off, tugging at every inch of Grayson’s skin, to reveal a brilliantly red slash extending from just below Grayson’s right cheekbone to disappear into his hairline.  In its path lies an empty eye socket.

One visible blue eye stares at him, glimmering and wide.

When Slade places the knife right under it, he gets the first true glimpse of terror.

~#~

Grayson is sitting on the edge of the bed by the time Slade steps through the curtain, a book in one hand but clearly alert.  Aware of how long gladiatorial training takes, aware that Slade is back too soon, wary and—

His entire face brightens when their visitor steps past Slade.  Any thought Slade had of keeping himself between the two is thrown out the window when Grayson pushes himself upright and nearly throws himself at Hood with a cry of “Jaybird!”

Hood catches him and clutches him close, spilling a long string of half-choked apologies, and now Slade’s curiosity is burning.  Hood is murmuring “sorry,” over and over and over again, and Grayson is shushing him, and there’s a familiarity there that Slade hadn’t expected.  Sure, he knows that Hood was trained alongside Grayson, before he went out to a match he wasn’t prepared for and became Talia’s, but Hood’s bitterness for his former master and all Wayne’s gladiators is fairly well known.

Until now.

“It’s okay,” Grayson finally says loudly, squeezing Hood tightly in a hug, “It’s okay, Jay, it’s not your fault, and I’m fine, I’m okay.”

Well, that was a lie.  Hood clearly knows it as well because he disentangles enough to look Grayson in the face—and blanches.  “What happened?” he says quietly, cupping the side of Grayson’s face that’s still bandaged, “Your face—your eye—” Quick as a flash, Hood turns on Slade with a snarl, “What did you do to him, you bastard—”

“Jason, stop!” Grayson gets between them, his back to Slade, holding Hood’s shoulders, “Slade didn’t do anything to me, calm down.”

The light in Hood’s eyes is a little less manic when his gaze drops to Grayson.  “If it wasn’t him, then who?” Hood snaps.  Grayson doesn’t immediately answer.  “Dick.”

Slade crosses his arms and waits.  Grayson didn’t tell him the full story, but it’s easy—“Sionis,” Grayson exhales.

Enough to guess.

Hood’s face runs a full gamut of emotions in half a minute.  “Talia’s blacklisted Roman,” Hood says slowly, “That because of you?”

Grayson makes a weak smile and shrugs, “Difficult to do business with a man that insists on destroying your things.”

“Fucking hell, Dick,” Hood curses roundly, “Why the fuck—you can’t—stop trying to save me!”

The last one comes out as a shout, and far too loud.  Grayson’s pressed his lips in a thin line, Hood’s eyes are flickering, and the silence is heavy and tense.

Both of them flick a glance towards Slade.  “Don’t stop on my account,” he says mildly, “This is the most entertainment I’ve gotten all month.”

“Can we get a moment?” Hood asks, on the verge of rudeness.

“You paid for a visit,” Slade points out, “Not privacy.”

Grayson steps smoothly in front before Hood can retort, and asks quietly, “Can we purchase privacy then?”

Slade flicks a glance at Hood, who’s nearly vibrating in place, and Grayson, tense and desperate, and the way their hands are locked together, firm and tight.  He pushes off the wall and heads for the curtain, “Fine.”

“How much?” Hood calls out.

Slade smirks before he lets the curtain close behind him, “You get to find out.”

He ends up waiting outside the cell, absently sharpening a knife, hearing a low murmur too quiet to make out distinct words.  At one point, Hood’s voice rises into a tirade about Grayson’s intelligence and common sense, but it’s quickly hushed.  It’s close to the half hour when Hood comes stomping out.

“Well?” Hood crosses his arms, “What’s the price?”

Slade arches an eyebrow, “You’re not the one who has to pay.”

For a moment, he thinks Hood’s going to punch him.  The younger gladiator squeezes his hands into fists and his glare is vicious enough to set something on fire.  “If you hurt him—”

“What, Hood?” Slade cuts him off, “What will you do?  You can’t stop me, and Talia won’t stop me, so explain to me how exactly you propose to protect him?”  Hood is vibrating in place, a murderous statue.  “If you threaten me again, I won’t be so obliging to the next deal you want to make.”

The paleness is from fury and fear both, and Hood keeps his mouth shut as he roughly stomps past Slade.  Slade watches him go until his footsteps stop sounding, and then heads back inside.

Grayson is waiting for him, again sitting on the bed, hands crossed in his lap, gaze fixed on Slade.  “What is the price?” he asks quietly.  Evenly, for all that he’s tense and clearly scared.

“Answer some questions,” Slade says, taking the chair, “Honestly.”

Grayson looks suspicious.  “What questions?”

“What did Hood mean when he told you to stop trying to save him?”

Grayson purses his lips but deflates, leaning back, clearly resigned.  “It’s not really a secret,” he sighs, “I threw the match.”

It takes a second for Slade to comprehend.  “You threw it,” he repeats, “You threw the match.”

Grayson shoots him a half-irritated look, “I wasn’t going to kill Jay.”  Something crosses over his face, a flicker of the death that still hangs between them, the dead boy that Slade wants to avenge.  “And I—I knew they wouldn’t vote for my death,” Grayson says quietly, “Jay—I couldn’t take that risk.”

On the surface of it, it makes sense—Grayson’s made a name for himself, been pretty and charming at every sponsor that flits his way, there’s no way they’d let him die without extracting their pound of flesh.

“And Sionis?” Slade asks.

At this, Grayson’s face twists.  His gaze drops, and Slade doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously, but his hair drifts over the bandages, as if to conceal it.  “Sionis—has his preferences.”

“And Talia whores out the gladiators that aren’t doing well.”

Grayson’s expression twists further.  “Unless she had reason to doubt his self-restraint,” he says quietly, and Slade can see it.  Can see Grayson provoking Sionis until the man lashed out with a wound too egregious to ignore.  Lashings, brutality, blood and pain?  Fine, when it could all be concealed under shifting silks, and everyone wanted scars on a gladiator.

But a missing eye on one of the Arena’s prettiest warriors?  No, even Talia al Ghul, with all her animosity, couldn’t ignore that that was a step too far.

“Regardless of whether or not it worked, you had to know she would kill you for it,” Slade says.

Grayson doesn’t look him in the eye when he responds, “Talia was clear on my eventual fate from the very first day.”

Slade blinks.  With that interesting piece of information, Grayson shifts up the bed, until he can lean against the wall, and cracks open his book.  He doesn’t say anything else.

#my snippets #sladick #gladiator au #mutilation #prisoner

[green-eyedfirework]

SlaDick in the enemies-to-benefits stage, when something happens that calls back to the Blockbuster incident: the villain finds out Dick's identity, Slade immediately kills him, and Dick breaks down.

Dick stumbling from the building, caught between shock and horror, with an irritated Slade following him. Dick collapsing on a rooftop, orange-and-black in his blurry vision, stuck in a flashback with the horrible certainty that he knows what happens next.

Dick waking up in his apartment, tucked into his bed. Slade didn't touch him. Dick having the heartbreaking realization that if Slade, if Deathstroke the Terminator, one of the biggest bads out there and an untrustworthy ally, didn't take advantage of Dick when he couldn't fight back, then...then it really wasn't his fault.

If Slade could figure out that Dick didn't want to have sex, then it wasn't Dick's fault.

Dick having a fresh breakdown and sobbing on a (very worried) Slade's shoulder.

#fic ideas #sladick #flashback #recovery #consent #catalina

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick can tell that the alpha is angry from the moment he spots him. To be fair, no father would be calm right now, but angry seems like an insufficient word for Slade's current mood.

When the alpha growls, the entire clearing bows their heads.

The men chasing Dick and Rose are already dead, ripped apart by a furious wolf pack, and Dick is numb, wondering if he's next.

He was supposed to keep Rose safe. He was supposed to teach her and protect her. And he failed.

Rose is slumped unconscious in Dick's arms. She isn't seriously hurt, just bruises and scrapes and magical exhaustion, but Dick can practically feel the murder exuding off of Slade as he stalks closer.

"She's okay," Dick tries to reassure, voice hoarse.  "Just tired."

Slade's gaze snaps to him, and Dick abruptly regrets getting the alpha's attention.

The sound Slade makes is a cross between a snarl and a roar, and it's enough to start the trembling. Slade closes the distance, lips pulled back, teeth gleaming, and Dick stays on his knees, frozen to the spot. The sound of his heartbeat is the loudest thing in the clearing.

Dick's whole face is prickling. "I'm sorry," he forces out, because he failed, and then he shuts his eyes. He can't watch his death.

The bite is sudden and deep and agonizing as sharp teeth sink into the junction of neck and shoulder.

Dick cries out, or thinks he cries out, the pain a sharp counterpoint to the way he's getting dizzy. His arms are losing strength and he makes a muffled sound when he feels Rose slipping, but hands skim across his, picking her up easily.

His eyes are open again, but that doesn't make a difference, not when the world is growing ever more blurry between each gasping breath.

Slade disengages, and this time, Dick screams.

It feels like a thousand fire ants chewing on his collarbone, like someone carved him up with a superheated blade, and if this is how bad it hurts, Dick doesn't want to know how bad it looks. The world tilts around him the moment Slade lets go, and Dick finds himself sprawled in the dirt, sobbing so loud he can't hear anything else.

Something wet and cold touches his face, wandering across his skin. Please, Dick tries to say, please make it quick. If the alpha decides to play with his food, well.

The darkness is approaching swiftly, Dick's own injuries catching up with him, and Dick swears he can feel the rough, sandpaper edge of a tongue before it washes over him.

~#~

Dick wakes up feeling warm, which is pleasing enough to almost ignore the other throbbing aches that demand attention.  His shoulder is pulsating with soft waves of pain and he very carefully turns his head to avoid aggravating the injury.

He remembers—the fight, Rose passing out in his arms, his own magic drained, the wolves appearing, Slade.

The bite.

Dick swallows.  Slade was snappish the entire time Dick was teaching Rose how to use her magic, he doubts that this episode endeared him to the alpha.  The only niggling problem is that Dick feels far too cozy right now.

He cracks open an eye.  Fur.  Dim light.  Silver hair.  He blinks, looking down in surprise at the curled-up wolf pup sprawled across his chest, breaths softly whistling through the air.

He honestly thought he'd never see Rose again.

There's another pup tucked under his left arm, light-colored and drooling on his shirt, and a bigger, dark-furred adolescent wolf with his back to Dick, and on Dick's other side is—

A cold, ice-blue eye meets his gaze.  The alpha doesn't look any less angry, any less murderous in human form.  Dick is stuck to the spot, trapped by more than a sleeping wolf pup and heavy furs, as the alpha leans over him.

"Sleep," Slade says, in a voice that makes it sound remarkably like a threat.

Dick shuts his eyes, and sleep follows quickly.

#my snippets #sladick #wolf/mage au #dick is contracted to teach rose magic #of course this means he spends half the time butting heads with slade

[green-eyedfirework]

“You’re not Ra’s al Ghul,” the figure noted.

“I know.”

“How about,” his throat was dry and his words raspy, “I promise not to scream if you toss me the keys.”

~#~

“Why didn’t you try and kill the bastard, instead of getting your fool head cracked open on the stones?”

Dick turns to shoot the assassin a quicksilver, insincere smile.  “How'd you think I got chained to the bed?”

~#~

“You know,” Dick said, exhaustion tugging at him, “There’s nothing stopping me from warning Ra’s the moment he walks through the door.”

“I could kill you as soon as I heard footsteps,” the assassin remarks, unconcerned, “Snap that pretty little neck.  By the time he can tell the difference, he’ll be too close to escape.”

Fuck.

“Or, you can promise to keep that mouth shut, and I’ll unlock you when I’m done.”  Dick shifts to stare at the assassin.  “Don’t tell me you have any love lost for Ra’s al Ghul.”

~#~

“The Light sends their regards,” the assassin says quietly, and Dick goes very, very still.

“Everything alright?” the assassin asks as he does what he promised and unchains Dick.  Dick warily sidles off the bed, away from the dead body.  “You seem a little tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” the assassin looks up at him, pinning him in place with that one mercilessly blue eye, “Prince Richard?”

~#~

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Slade shrugs, “I’m a hunter, little bird.  I enjoy the thrill of the chase, stalking my prey as they stumble and falter and finally collapse, mired in the despair of their inevitable capture.”

That smile looks almost wolf-like.

~#~

The weight of hips flush with his own is what makes him freeze, heart rate spiking, his mouth going dry as he braces himself for pain, as panic and dread swirl together in his stomach, no please no having long since gone soundless, there was no point begging if it was never heeded—

The weight disappears.

“I’m not going to rape you, kid.”

It takes Dick a long, fumbling moment to brace his hands against the ground and push himself up.  Slade is back on the other side of the fire, sharpening his knife and glancing idly at Dick.

“And—” his voice sounds like he gargled seawater, “And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

“I haven’t lied to you so far.”

“You said you’d let me go.”

“No, I said I’d unlock your chains, and I did.  I said I’d kill Ra’s al Ghul, and I did.  I said I’d catch you if you ran, and I did.”

~#~

“So how did the Crown Prince of Gotham end up a prisoner of Ra’s al Ghul?”

“Talia al Ghul,” Dick says quietly, “She broke from her father and fled to Gotham and my father married her.  And Ra’s decided that if Bruce stole his daughter and heir, he would do the same.”  Dick remembers that first spike of panic, past fear, past snarling rage, when Ra’s forced him down and fingers fumbled at his belt.  “And if Bruce took his daughter to bed, then he’d do the same to me.”

“I highly doubt that Lady Wayne is locked up in a tower and chained to a bed.”

“Lady Wayne didn’t try to kill Bruce at least three times.”  Dick pauses, and considers what he knows of his stepmother.  “Probably.”

~#~

Dick stares up at the furious assassin looming over him, and knows that this isn’t a fight he can win.  He’s still breathing through the injuries he got from the gang, and all he can do is curl up and try to survive Slade’s rage.

The cocoon of blankness is waiting like an old friend, and Dick sinks gratefully into it, withdrawing from his body, from the existing pains and what will soon be done to it, and hoping that he still has one to come back to.  For now, he drifts in the fog, untethered and alone.

There are fingers on his jaw, moving his head, a narrowed blue eye filling his vision.  “This a trick you learned with Ra’s?” the voice asks.

“What?” Dick says.  Slurs.  It’s all the same.

“Going away.”

Dick hums an affirmative.  He wouldn’t have survived Ra’s if he couldn’t...disconnect when he had to.  Ra’s didn’t care.

#my snippets #sladick #royalty au #prisoner #snippets from different parts of a story

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick groaned as soon as he registered the flash of orange-and-black on the rooftop, automatically changing his trajectory to engage.  It had been a long night, two gang busts and several muggings foiled, and he was not in the mood to fight with Deathstroke until the mercenary gave up on his objective.

Unfortunately, the mercenary was peering through a sniper scope and Dick wasn’t about to let anyone get assassinated on his watch.

A couple of wingdings and Deathstroke abandoned his position, twisting up to face the new threat.  Dick drew his escrima before he landed on the rooftop, and went on the attack.  “You know, we really should stop meeting like this,” Dick said with the flash of a smile.

“I don’t know, I definitely appreciate the view,” Deathstroke said, dodging a strike and somehow managing to stay still long enough to do a leering scan over Dick, obvious even through the mask.

Banter was good, banter meant that Deathstroke was not in a bad mood and Dick had a significantly higher chance of escaping without injury.

“Really?  I think you’d appreciate it a lot better without that mask,” Dick said breathlessly, dropping underneath Deathstroke’s guard and lashing out with an escrima, straight at the mask.  “And in better lighting, too.”  It connected with a crack and Deathstroke stumbled back with a grunt, hand raising to his broken mask.

Dick took the opportunity to spin towards the sniper setup—with one kick, he sent the whole apparatus crashing off the roof and to the ground several stories before.  He looked back up and gave the mercenary a bright smile.

“Oops,” Dick said.

Deathstroke regarded him for a long, stretching moment, ice blue eye narrowing as he tossed the mask aside, before exploding into movement.

Dick backpedaled, but there was only so long he could outlast a superpowered mercenary and Dick wasn’t surprised when he ended up pinned against the wall, his escrima sticks having followed the sniper rifle off the roof, staring up at that snarl.

“Someone should really teach you a lesson about how to treat other people’s stuff,” Deathstroke growled, fingers squeezing around Dick’s wrists.

Dick licked his lips, grinning when Deathstroke’s gaze dropped to the movement, and tried to stomp down on the mercenary’s instep.  “You want me to ask nicely?”

“I want you to beg, little bird,” Deathstroke said darkly, leaning down until their faces were scant inches apart.  “I want you to scream and cry and wail until you finally give in and promise to mind your own business.”

“Make me,” Dick retorted.

That was normally his cue for wriggling out of Deathstroke’s grip, throwing back a few more quips as Deathstroke’s faux flirting stalked deep into the territory of sexual harassment, and stall until the police got here from the tip he’d called in, but Dick was aching all over and not really in the mood to gain a few more bruises before Deathstroke cut his losses.

So instead he pushed up on his tiptoes to close the scant distance between them, and pressed his lips to the mercenary’s.

As a distraction technique, it worked.  He felt Deathstroke grow rigid in surprise before kissing back, grip loosening slightly on Dick’s wrists.  The mercenary deepened the kiss, pressing Dick back against the brick, so close that Dick could feel the seams of his armor.

It was a damn good kiss and Dick felt breathless and dizzy when Deathstroke disengaged, only to have to bite back a sharp moan when the mercenary sucked at the curve of his jaw, stubble scratching against his neck.  Slade chuckled, diving back in for a kiss, and Dick could feel parts of his body perk up in interest.

The distant sound of sirens faintly registered and Dick couldn’t help the smile curving against the kiss.  Deathstroke withdrew, giving Dick a suspicious look.  “What did you do?” he growled.

“Me?” Dick blinked his eyes innocently.  The effect was hidden by his domino, but Deathstroke still narrowed his eye.

The sirens got closer.

Deathstroke cursed and abruptly released Dick, stalking to the edge of the rooftop.  Dick followed him and peered over the edge.  A pair of police cars was already there, and there was an officer shining a flashlight over the pile of gear that lay in pieces on the ground.

Both of them ducked back before the officer could look up.

“Don’t worry,” Dick grinned, “I’ll make sure the BPD takes very good care of your toys.”

Deathstroke merely snarled at him.  Dick rocked on the balls of his feet, ready to jump back if the merc decided to lash out, but Deathstroke spun around and walked away, grabbing his broken mask and heading to the other edge of the rooftop.

“We should do this another time!” Dick called after him, still smiling, and stretched in satisfaction at a job well done.  He hadn’t even gotten punched.

It was a good night.

~#~

The next time he ran into Deathstroke, it was by complete accident.  Dick was sneaking into a warehouse when he caught sight of someone else moving in the rafters and it didn’t take more than a glance to identify what their target was.

Starting a fight up here would alert Deathstroke’s target, true, but it would also alert them that Nightwing was here, and Dick hoped for a little more discretion tonight.  So instead of barging forward, escrima out, Dick kept his weapons sheathed and slinked forward more quietly.

Of course, there was no such thing as quiet enough when it came to Deathstroke the Terminator, so Dick was still a few steps away when the man growled, “What do you want, Grayson?”

“Ideally, for you to stop taking contracts in Bludhaven,” Dick hummed, watching the merc tense up as Dick moved closer and finally sidled in front of Deathstroke, blocking his view of the meeting happening on the warehouse floor.  “But I’ll settle for a kiss.”

Even through the mask, Dick could feel Deathstroke’s unimpressed look.  “Get out of my way, kid,” he said tersely.

“Rude,” Dick pouted, letting Deathstroke back him up against a cross beam.  The mercenary loomed above him, a hulking figure in the semi-darkness, and Dick felt something skate across his nerves.

“Don’t test my patience,” the man growled.

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Dick said, grabbing hold of a crisscrossing strap on Deathstroke’s armor to prevent the merc from turning back to his target.  Deathstroke snarled and yanked off Dick’s hand, but Dick had already jumped up, wrapping his legs around Slade’s waist before his grip was removed.  Dick smiled at the mercenary, face-to-mask, like he wasn’t currently holding them together with the strength of his thighs.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Deathstroke said flatly.  He didn’t move to tear Dick off, but Dick was under no impression that it wouldn’t be ridiculously easy for him to do.  Dick just moved forward with the half-ridiculous plan he’d formulated.

“We left things a little unfinished last time,” Dick said, dropping his voice as he slowly, gently placed his hands on the mercenary’s shoulders.  The mask was an obstacle, and he lifted his fingers to the knot, loosening it carefully, heart hammering in his throat as he did his best to keep his movements slow and unthreatening.

Deathstroke let him slip the mask off, standing stock still on the rafter beam.  Beneath them, the meeting was beginning to finish up.  Dick looked into the mercenary’s impassive expression and smiled, trying to ignore how everything was fluttery from trepidation.  “It’s not nice to leave a guy hanging.”

The mercenary made some kind of snort, but Dick didn’t let him get anything more out, cupping one gloved hand against that strong jaw and meeting his lips.  Deathstroke let him set the pace this time and Dick took his time in exploring, curling the fingers of his other hand in Deathstroke’s hair as he lost him in the kiss.

He didn’t even realize that Deathstroke was gripping his ass until the man gave a deliberate squeeze.

“Is this what you want, little bird?” the mercenary murmured as Dick broke the kiss with a muffled gasp.  “Do you get off on playing cat-and-mouse with villains?”  Nightwing’s armor was made of high-quality kevlar fabric, but it felt like tissue paper right now—he could feel the slow, deliberate movements as Slade kneaded his ass.  “Did you want the big, bad mercenary to hold you down and make you scream?”

Dick rolled his hips forward, re-wrapping his legs tight around Slade’s waist.  “I don’t know,” he said, voice breathless, “you tell me.”

He dove back into the kiss, feeling arousal spike higher with every press and squeeze, his suit becoming uncomfortably tight.  Dick was so consumed that he almost forgot what he was here for, but he remembered when he heard the quiet slide of a gun slipping out of its holster.

Dick broke the kiss but kept his forehead pressed to Deathstroke’s, reaching out to grab the gun before the mercenary finished aiming it.  He didn’t try to wrest the gun away, just curled a hand over the muzzle and waited.

“You truly are a pain in my ass,” the mercenary grumbled.

“In your ass?” Dick said pointedly, wiggling against the tight grip Deathstroke had on him.

The mercenary merely huffed, not engaging as he let go.  “Get off of me.  They’re gone, anyway.”  Dick darted a quick glance to check before he let go of the gun and unwrapped himself from Deathstroke.

~#~ ~#~

“I trust you,” Dick said with a smile.  It didn’t sound like a lie.  He was too exhausted and injured, and maybe it was true.  Maybe this was what trust felt like.

Slade’s face closed down, slipping straight into Deathstroke’s idle efficiency.  Shit.  That didn’t seem like a good sign.

“Okay,” Slade said, “Go to the bedroom.  Take off your suit.  Kneel next to the bed, hands on the blankets.  Now.”

Dick was already regretting this.  This wasn’t going to be gentle.  But there was no point in protesting.  Dick did what he was told, and knelt, bruised knees pressing painfully against the ground as he laid his arms out flat on the bed.  He buried his face in the blankets, and let out a ragged breath.

Slade’s footsteps were deliberate, and Dick heard him walk to the closet.  He didn’t look to see what he was doing, but he heard the harsh swish of something long and thin whistling through the air.

It’s worth it, some part of his mind attempted to soothe, it’s all worth it if it saves lives.

Slade had never been this rough before, but he was clearly trying to prove something.  Dick hoped that he didn’t break skin—that wouldn’t be fun to deal with, or to try to explain to nosy siblings.

Slade walked back to him, and Dick could feel the long, thin stick press against his back.  A cane.  Or a staff, maybe, it was too dense to be a walking stick.

“You’re sure about this?” Slade asked, voice emotionless.

Dick pressed his face further into the blanket, and nodded, a quick jerk of his head.

“Say no,” Slade said, “And I’ll stop.”  The cane pressed deeper against his back, before Slade drew it back.

Dick quickly calculated how hard Slade could hit, and bit down on the blankets.  The agonizing part would be enduring without begging Slade to stop.  Dick really hoped that this satisfied Slade, that he got whatever he was looking for, that this wasn’t going to be the tone for the rest of their encounters—Dick had enjoyed himself before, but this was only going to hurt—

He couldn’t stop the tears spilling out, and he tried to keep them silent.  As long as he didn’t say no.  That was all he had to do.  Just keep his mouth shut.

The floor creaked, and Dick fought not to flinch.  He waited for the whistling strike, the snap of wood against skin, the growing burn, the—

The hand on his shoulder, drawing him away from the bed, and Dick had to unclench his jaw before he pulled the blankets off the bed.  Slade was crouching next to him, staring at him with a blank face and a narrowed eye.

“You don’t want this,” Slade said levelly, and the words felt like a death sentence.

“No,” Dick breathed out, because he could recognize that glint in his eyes—Slade was pissed, and Dick had no idea who he’d take it out on.  “No, Slade, please, I want it, I—”

“Dick,” Slade said, cutting him off, “Stop.”

“Slade, I do—I trust you, I swear—” Dick could feel the tears streaming down his face, and he tried to wipe them away, but his hands were shaking, and Slade was angry, and—

And now he was sobbing into an expensive shirt, strong arms around him, careful to not put any pressure on his ribs, and Dick couldn’t stop crying.  “I’m sorry,” he hiccupped, feeling the despair clawing at his heart, because he’d failed, because Slade had set up a test and Dick couldn’t pass it, and he abandoned that line of conversation entirely.  “I’m sorry—don’t—don’t kill them, I’ll do anything, Slade, please—”

“I’m not going to kill them,” Slade said, something pained in his tone, “I told you, my job is over.”

“I—I’m sorry, I—just give me a minute, I’ll s—stop—”

A heavy sigh.  “Kid, you don’t have to stop crying,” Slade said quietly, and Dick instinctively tightened his grasp on Slade’s shirt as the man stood up, carrying Dick fluidly.

~#~

“I know what consent is,” Dick said irritably—he wasn’t an idiot, and Bruce had been thoroughly obsessive in designing powerpoints to cover the Talk.  “No means no.”

Slade observed him, his expression placid.  “Yes,” he said levelly, “But consent means saying yes.”

“I said yes, Slade!” Dick snarled, unsure of what picture Slade was trying to paint but knowing that he didn’t like it.  He knew that Slade would stop whenever he told him to.  That had never been an issue.

Slade continued to stare at him silently.  “If I held a gun to your head and told you to beg me to fuck you,” Slade said quietly, “Is that consent?”

Dick had absolutely no idea where he was going with this.  “Of course not.”

“What if I held the gun to your brother’s head, whichever one pops up in your mind first,” he said, and Dick couldn’t help the shiver at the mental image of Deathstroke training a gun on Robin.  “And told you the same thing?”

“It’s not consent.”

“How about a random civilian off the street?  A drug lord?  A cop?  A—”

“Forcing someone to say yes isn’t consent,” Dick said through gritted teeth.

“Okay,” Slade agreed, “And what if I didn’t force you?  What if I had a gun trained on a target and a thirty-second window to shoot, and you knew that dropping to your knees and blowing me would distract me?”

Dick went still.  Slade’s face was no longer expressionless.

“Having sex with ulterior motives doesn’t automatically mean it’s not consensual,” Dick said slowly.

“No, it doesn’t,” Slade agreed.  “But everyone draws the line somewhere, kid, and you’ve crossed mine.”

Dick felt that strike through his bones.  “Slade,” he said, unsure of what he was going to say but desperate to say something, “I don’t—”

“You were ready to let me beat you bloody,” Slade said flatly, “Not because you enjoyed it, not because you thought it might be fun to try—both answers I would’ve accepted, by the way—but because you thought I was going to murder someone if you didn’t.”

“You—you didn’t say that you would kill someone if I didn’t have sex with you.”

“No, I didn’t,” Slade agreed.  “But it’s clearly what you heard.”

#my snippets #sladick #dubcon #dick tries distracting slade #and then gets too caught up in it

[green-eyedfirework]

Wintergreen blinked at the request.

He usually spent time listening to the pulse of the underworld, monitoring contracts on various forums and sites, talking to his sources, managing the web of contacts he had to find the kind of jobs that Slade would take.  He was meticulous about it—Slade was attached to his reputation, and Wintergreen still had to hear his bitching about the one and only job he ever left unfinished, even though completing it would’ve meant killing Jericho.

Often, Wintergreen was approached directly.  Several people wanted Deathstroke the Terminator’s services in particular, and most were smart enough to use him as an intermediary, rather than be faced with Slade’s uncertain mood.  Wintergreen filtered through those as well, though most were Slade’s usual style and paycheck.  There was a certain responsibility in essentially being a pseudo handler, a responsibility Wintergreen had accepted years and years ago, and he made sure to bury any contract that would destroy more of Slade than was already gone.

This particular contract...well.  Wintergreen didn’t know what to do with it.

It was from a verified source—it was from Nightwing, so the morality of the job wasn’t in question, but Nightwing had never put out contracts before.  Strange in and of itself.

The pay was generous, but then again, Dick Grayson was newly in control of the entire Wayne fortune, so that made sense.

The job was...unusual.

Wintergreen reread the contract, hoping it would make a little more sense this time.

Stand-in for Batman.  Mission parameters strictly non-lethal, and minimum collateral damage.  Mission includes patrolling Gotham City and assisting with containment of Gotham Rogues.  Suit and gear will be provided.  Particulars available upon acceptance. 

Batman was dead.  The whole world knew it, even if the Bats and the Waynes attempted to cover it up by sticking someone else in the suit and hiring a lookalike to play Bruce Wayne.  Anyone with half a brain could tell that the Bats were fracturing—though in all fairness, they’d been fracturing for a while, Batman was just enough of a terrifying specter to cover it up.

And now Nightwing wanted to bring that specter back.

Well.

Wintergreen thought through the logistics—Slade was certainly capable of it, and the job wasn’t unreasonable—and then the implications—Dick Grayson must be truly desperate, if he was going to these lengths—as he considered the contract.

He finally came to a decision.

If nothing else, at least he’d get to see the look on Slade’s face.

~#~

“You’re going to need to repeat that again,” Slade said flatly.

“If you haven’t heard it the first twelve times I told you, Slade, I’m not sure what one more is going to do,” Wintergreen said.  The bastard was amused, Slade could hear it.

“You’re telling me,” Slade growled, “that the goody two-shoes Robin is asking me to play Batman.”

“He’s Nightwing now, and yes, that is what I’m saying.  I’m glad your listening comprehension isn’t failing.”

Slade made an inarticulate snarl.

“Are you accepting the job or not, Slade?  It’s a yes or a no question,” Wintergreen hummed, looking away from the screen and down at his keyboard.

“You can’t be serious.”  It wasn’t April 1st, and Wintergreen wasn’t in the habit of playing jokes, but if one of the kids had gotten to him—“Whose idea is it?  Joey?  Rose?  Given that the man is dead, it’s in poor taste.”

“It’s not a joke,” Wintergreen replied.  “Confirmed with Nightwing himself.  It’s real, and yes, they’re really asking for you.”

“Why?” Slade asked, honestly bewildered.  “I thought someone else was filling the suit.  And even if they aren’t, why not get one of the other heroes to do it?”

“Nightwing was doing it, but he sprained an ankle, and the situation is too precarious in Gotham for him to take a break.  No one else was available.  Or so he says,” Wintergreen added, looking up.

“And you think this is a legitimate contract.”

There was a long, stretched silence.  “Yes,” Wintergreen said finally, quiet, “I think it’s legitimate.  They need someone with the skills, the control, and discretion, you fit all three.”

Aside from the fact that he was a mercenary, he’d fought them all once before, and now they were willing to trust him with the keys to the empire?

“I saw him.  Nightwing,” Wintergreen clarified.  “He looked exhausted.  I doubt he had the energy to come up with an elaborate lie.”

“The kid’s a good actor,” Slade said automatically, and ground his teeth.  “It’s most likely a trap.”

“You’re Deathstroke.  Nothing they try is going to keep you down—”

“Just going to jinx it, are you—”

“And besides, Slade—aren’t you the slightest bit curious?”

Damn him.  Damn him to the deepest pits of hell.

Slade always loved a challenge.  If Nightwing was attempting a double-cross, Slade would enjoy shredding his plan to pieces and exacting retribution.  And if he wasn’t...playing a hero?  One of the first heroes, the infamous Dark Knight?

His blood was singing already.

“Fine.  Get me a plane to Gotham.”

~#~

The meeting location was a rooftop in Gotham, which was typical.  What wasn’t typical was Dick Grayson stumbling out of the rooftop access door on crutches, dressed in dark clothes and a domino mask in an attempt at secrecy.

Slade had thoughtfully foregone the Deathstroke armor, given the particulars of this request, but Grayson didn’t look armored or even armed.  “Slade,” Grayson said, with something approaching relief.  “You made it.”

“You have a job for me?” Slade said archly, watching as Grayson hobbled over.  Sprained ankle, his ass.  Something was at least cracked there, or Grayson would’ve foregone the crutches entirely.

“Yes,” Grayson wavered on one foot to run an absent hand through his hair.  In Slade’s professional opinion, the kid looked like shit.  “I’m assuming Wintergreen told you—”

“I’m not sure I can believe what Wintergreen told me,” Slade raised an eyebrow.  “Seemed a little too fantastical to be true.  You sure you want me for this job, kid?”

“You’re the best, aren’t you?” Grayson smiled, and it was a shadow of Nightwing’s charming grin.  No wonder the kid had broken something, if he looked this close to passing out.  He’d probably worn himself straight into the ground.  “But if you’re accepting, we can take this downstairs.”

Slade should’ve said no.  Should’ve walked away.  Gotham was a sinking ship without its protector to hold it afloat, and best case scenario was that the place wiped itself off the map.  He could even consider it a civic duty.

But the lines of exhaustion on Grayson’s face stopped him, the lines of exhaustion for a face that young, and besides—what was life without a little risk?

‘Downstairs’ apparently meant the basement, because of course the Waynes had a penthouse apartment with rooftop access and an elevator down to a secret bunker below the building.  Wayne had really gone overboard with his bases, how many toys did the man need?

No, Slade was not jealous, and besides, there wasn’t a single gun down here.  Not a single blade either, except for the one a twelve-year-old was currently menacing him with.

“So this is who you obtained to play theater for a week,” the kid sneered, and he sounded just like his parents.  Both of them.  “A trained pet who sees the world through a scope.”

It might’ve been insulting, if the kid wasn’t twelve.  “Al Ghul,” Slade greeted, walking past him like the katana wasn’t even there.

“Wilson,” the kid spat, and those prickles were all Talia.  The scowl was definitely Wayne’s.

“Is he going to be part of this too?” Slade asked, because he was demanding a raise if that was the case.  The kid was a biter, and Slade wasn’t a babysitter.

“No,” Grayson replied just a little too quickly, his eyes going wide for a fraction of a second.  “No,” he repeated, calmer.  “Robin will be staying off patrol until I recover.”

“Tt,” the kid sneered, “I shouldn’t be handicapped by your mistakes, and I already told you that I’m more than capable of patrolling—”

“We already discussed this, Dami,” Grayson said, his light tone at odds with his pinched expression.  “And my answer hasn’t changed.”

Slade could practically feel the kid’s seething glare, and mentally marked down a note to watch him.  Twelve or not, the kid had been raised an assassin.

“Now, Alfred will be down soon to make sure the suit and gear all fits properly, and I’ll teach you how to throw batarangs in a bit, but first we’re going to go over the rules,” Grayson said, easing himself into a chair in front of a large computer setup.  “First rule.  No killing.”

Slade took a deep breath, “I’m well aware of your moral code, kid—”

“No killing,” Grayson repeated, blue eyes sharp.  “Not for any reason.  Not if you think it’s the only option left.  There’s another way, there will always be another way, and you’re smart and fast enough to find one.  Batman doesn’t kill, and if you’re going to wear the cape and cowl, I need to know you can stick to that.”

Grayson was acting like this was the first non-lethal mission Slade had ever taken.  “No killing,” he repeated mildly, and Grayson deflated slightly.

“Great.  Rule number two…”

#my snippets #bruce lost in time arc #slade gets a very unusual contract

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick sat at the high table, inches away from his new husband, and smiled and thanked everyone who stepped up to wish him well.  His right hand was loose in the King’s grasp, facsimile of affection, as though everyone at the table was not fully aware that King Slade would rather break Dick’s hand than hold it.

His other hand was in his lap, curled so tightly his fingernails were biting into his skin.

When Dick had heard what terms Gotham’s council had decided upon for their treaty with Defiance, he hadn’t been able to believe it.  Bruce would never have stood for it, would never have allowed any of his children to be sent to Defiance after Dick had been returned unconscious and bleeding, but Bruce wasn’t there.

Bruce wasn’t there, Dick had long since given up the Crown Prince position in favor of riding out with the Titans, and Tim was too young to be listened to.  The terms had been set and agreed and there was no way Dick would send any of his siblings to Defiance to be punished in his name.

There was no question of King Slade forgetting what had happened even if he agreed to ally with them in the face of a greater threat.  No one would ever be able to forgive the loss of their firstborn son.

“All the best wishes for your marriage,” smiled a lord whose name Dick hadn’t retained, “May your future be bright and joyful.”

Ha.  Bright and joyful.  The only thing Dick could be sure of was that he wouldn’t be killed, and the thought wasn’t entirely pleasant.  “Thank you for your wishes,” Dick said politely, as his husband sat in his chair, silent and narrow-eyed.

All too soon, the parade of well-wishers was over.  The music switched to something…raunchier, and Dick ducked his head slightly as cheers and whistles sounded out over the crowd.

#my snippets #sladick #royalty au #political marriage