#;; ( they may not be my blood but they will always be my kittens. BATKIDS )

[internalsealpanic]

Hello I love ur works & I come here to suggest this idea! Slade have romantic feeling for Bruce's close friend despite knowing that she can easily kick his ass. That could cause much trouble for three of them, couldn't it? :)

a/n: Sorry this took so very long! Merry Christmas! Special shout out to @littleredwing89 who convinced me to write this. This fic totally fits Christmas. There's a guy with a whitebeard, family gatherings and family drama. warning: Mentions of sex, crack, and batkids taking advantage of a situation (Jason particularly)

There is no blood in your smile but some detail, some quality of it makes it carnivorous and it makes something hot and wet stir in Slade. The feeling (if he can call it that) is almost naked in its intensity as it spreads through his chest. You dig your heel lightly into his chest, resting your weight on your knee, that smile never wavering. He can hear your heart beating with the rush of adrenaline the fight gave you. "Are you finally going to listen to my request or am I going to have to be more persuasive?" you say, keeping the breathiness out of your voice.

Slade snorts, sharp and derisive. Sure, he's all ears. You certainly have his attention. You've had his attention with that snug catsuit but the fact that he is flat on his back under your heel definitely helps keep his attention on you. He angles his head, partially to look you over and partially to show that he is in fact listening.

"I'd like you to go on a date with me."

His cursory glance over your body stalls as he processes your words. He grins up at you though he doubts you can see it through the mask still your smile melts into an annoyed scowl as a breathless chuckle starts to rumble from his chest. The way the corners of your mouth twitch down is too reminiscent of the Bat for Slade not to be amused.

"Kid, if I'd known you were interested— shit!" He growls as you dig your heel between his ribs. You weren't sadistic by nature but you knew what you were doing. The ribs beneath your heel crunch and Slade isn’t a masochist by nature but he may be turned on. “So, I assume you don’t mind me asking what made you change your tune on my offer?” He asks, gripping your ankle.

You quirk your lips and shrug.

Your heart is steadily spilling out of your chest into your throat. It pulses painfully, crowding your breath out and leaving your lungs burning. You can remember so many times you've come through the doors of Wayne Manor with little more than the words 'we need to talk' as your one and only explanation.

It was too little.

Too vague.

Too horrible, letting your mind run amok with too many of Gotham's horrors playing around in your head.

Your footsteps are harsh, honestly, one brusque step away from just tossing your kitten heels and just running up the steps to ask Bruce what the hell was going on then you see him.

Jason calmly walks out from the kitchen, cheeks filled to the brim with Alfred's cookies.

"What?" Jason asks, crumbs flying out from his mouth.

Your eyes burn with tears brimming in your eyes as you throw your arms around Jason, squeezing the life out of him.

"Uh, hi?"

"Ok, you're not dead, so who is?"

"Why am I the first person you peg to die?" Jason squawks.

"Do you want the list?"

Jason seems to seriously consider this. "I'm guessing no."

You pinch his cheek, planting one of those gross spit-filled kisses aunts always give on TV shows. You could kiss their cheeks like a normal person. You could. But being the wonderful aunt that you are, you never miss the chance to have Bruce's children experience the full Auntie experience. Jason blanches and attempts to shove you off, muttering about how gross you are and how he might die if you keep embarrassing him. You would think the kid would be different after a few years but his reaction hasn't changed between 12 and 20. Your laugh is a little hysterical.

Your senses return to you when Jason finally manages to wiggle out of your grip. Jason rubs at his cheek as if he was trying to peel the skin off his face.

“Ok seriously, who is on the market for a coffin?” you ask, not really letting go of him.

“Dunno.” “What do you mean ‘dunno’?” “Well, it’s a portmanteau of ‘don’t’ and ‘know’— Ow! What the hell? Ok, ok, fine. Bruce didn’t actually tell me anything. He just said there was an emergency.”

You groan. “How has Clark not drilled communication into his head yet?” Jason snorts. “Do you not notice how thick Bruce’s skull is? Superscout would have an easier time drilling to the center of the earth.”

You blow out an incredulous breath, your nerves settling even just a little.

You stomp into the room, the thunk of your heels filed to a vicious point as you direct a glare at Bruce that looked like it could peel paint off the wall. "Damian or Alfred better be on a gurney down at the Batcave. I canceled a fucking meeting for this," you snarl, still a little breathless. Your heart is still sitting at the base of your throat aching at the idea of either Damian or Alfred being injured.

"Oh god, they were meeting today," croaks a small voice and you find yourself caught off guard to see Dick crumpled in a corner. His knees are bent to his chest held in place by his arms.

"Who?" Jason asks, stepping into the room after you, arms still full with a cookie jar. Dick turns catatonic eyes to Jason and shakes his head mournfully. His face looks... ashen and it dawns on you, just now, what this was.

You stare at Bruce then at Dick then back at Bruce then up at the ceiling. Your face makes this expression that's more of a twitch rather than a coherent pattern as your facial muscle try to decide on what was the least inappropriate expression is for whatever the fuck Bruce is about to subject you to. Running your hand through your hair, you flop onto the nearest offensively comfortable couch, pointedly avoiding the stern look in Bruce's eyes. There's this twitch in his jaw that you feel should automatically be followed by grinding teeth but it isn't which makes it even more disconcerting.

You peek through your fingers and see the remote clutched in Bruce's hand and any moment not a projector light will turn on and the first slide will flash the words '(Y/n) (L/n)'s Current Life Decision', subtitled: 'An Intervention'.

You groan.

Bruce shifts against the table, posture uncomfortably stiff. "(Y/n), we need to talk. About Deathstroke."

"Need is a strong word."

Bruce doesn't dignify that with a response.

"Bruce, Brucie, B, I love you. I really do even if you are hands down the worst best friend in the world but you are literally the last person who is allowed to give me shit for my love life," you say, feeling your heart sinking down to the floor.

Cass and Duke who weren't interested before perk up and tear their eyes away from whatever game they were playing.

Jason frowns, lowering a cookie back into the jar. "You people called me all the way here to talk about her love life. What does Deathstroke even have to— Oh."

The rest of the room seems to process the words along with Jason. Tim chokes on his tea, spilling it on some important-looking documents that you hope aren’t for WE's marketing department. All eyes are on you now.

"Bruce, please stop."

"We need to talk about this."

"We really don't," Tim pipes up.

Cass throws a sock at him and Tim glares, starting to take his own sock off. Duke is handing Cass his, making his stance on the matter clear.

"Why couldn’t you have picked one of Bruce's villains?" Dick groans, head buried in his knees.

You scoff. "Duly noted, I'll see if I can contact Bane."

"Thank you," he says, looking like he can breathe again.

Bruce's mouth opens and closes trying to gather the words. "No! At least pick Harvey."

Dick's face crumples into a scowl. "Two-face almost killed me!"

"Seems like (Y/n) has a type," snickers Duke who's got his tongue poking out as he aims for Tim's head.

Slouching into the couch, you grin lazily. "I'm sorry, Dick. Duke's right. Men who almost kill you specifically are really hot."

"NO," Dick exasperates, "I refuse to call him Uncle Slade."

You blink, forehead crunching. "You... don't *need* to call him Uncle Slade. Jesus Bruce, what did you tell them?"

"That you needed help and that you're in a relationship with a very dangerous mercenary."

The word relationship is what really catches you here. It lands oddly like it falls on the wrong angle and can't quite fit right into your thoughts. "I'm not. We're not," you run your hand through your hair again. Your skin flushes as the frustration begins to boil beneath your skin. You very much consider chucking your heel at Bruce's head and call it a day.

"Ok, ok," Dick says, life coming back into his form as he bounces onto his heels. "Why him?" There's genuine curiosity in his eyes and you decide to latch on to that instead of the annoyance stirring in your chest.

You shrug. "Bruce pissed me off," you don't remember why, "and I was feeling petty so I... sort of invited Slade to spend the day with me just to get Bruce's blood pressure to skyrocket and we hit it off." You scowl at both of their bewildered looks. "It's not a thing. It's casual," you add. It comes out sounding more defensive than intended and you wince.

"Causal," Bruce repeats, laying the air quotes on thickly.

"Yes, casual," you affirm. "Bruce, I trust your expertise on a lot of things but relationships and emotions are on the very bottom of that list. How would you even know?"

"He gives you that look," Bruce hisses and for once, and this is impressive, he's left you utterly lost.

"What look? The one where he wants to pin me—"

"One more word and I am leaving this family," Dick says, face cradled in his hands.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Tilting your head, you turn to Jason. "Jay, I will give you whatever car you want if you can either end this or turn your siblings against Bruce."

There's this evil little smile that spreads across Jason's face and the muscles of your face threaten to follow suit but you press it into the heel of your palm as you watch Jason make his way over to his older brother.

"Jason." Bruce warns.

Jason bulldozes past his tone with a roll of his eyes, plopping down next to Dick. "Dickie bird, I don't think you're seeing the big picture here," Jason says, the affectations of a used car salesman spilling into his voice. You don't know why or how but it grabs Dick's attention.

"Jay, pretty sure the guy who used to try and murder me weekly is now trying to date my aunt is a pretty big picture," Dick says with a little laugh, finding the situation particularly ridiculous.

Bruce huffs, pleased that Dick can see reason, but you have more faith in Jason.

Jason shakes his head. "Ok, but consider this if you hate it this much, imagine how he feels about it."

A spark flickers across Dick's features. "I'm listening."

"Picture this, you're fighting Deathstroke, he doesn't know you know, then bam you just start calling him Uncle Slade and giving him shitty dating advice."

You and Bruce side-eye each other. That shouldn't have convinced Dick.

But he tilts his head, seeming to genuinely consider this.

"I'm in."

You have to smother your laughter with your hand lest you wake up every ghost in the mansion. Bruce looks like he might have an aneurysm.

Tim leans over the armrest of his chair. "If we annoy him enough, maybe he'll show up to PTA meetings." A slow grin creeps upon his features. The look on Bruce's face sparks an entire detailed discussion on how to convince Slade 'the Terminator' Wilson to attend Damian's PTA meeting.

You had no doubt that Jason could do it.

"If no one is dead I am leaving," you say, getting up.

Bruce scowls, "we are not done talking."

You scowl back. "No. I am leaving and you will NEVER do this again," you make your way towards the door. "If you try, I WILL tell all of them the stupid shit you did in highschool. Yes, including that one."

The kids perk up. (Yes, Dick is still a kid.) Cass's eyes glitter looking like she's going to pounce. Bruce cuts her off though like a stick in the mud. "Are you going to stop seeing him?" Bruce’s eye is twitching.

"No," they shout collectively.

"We need him for thanksgiving," Cass protests.

"Someone has to show Damian the best way to cut a turkey with a sword," Duke says, tone disgustingly sensible.

"He is coming nowhere near this house."

Tim raises his head from his arms, "maybe we could ask him when he’s going to marry (y/n)?"

Jason looks all too happy with the idea. "Excellent, that will maybe explode his remaining few brain cells."

"Ok, I doubt he has any," Dick chuffs, "but we could give him proposal ideas that (Y/n) hates."

"Oh like the stripper cake one," Cass says.

You all stare at her.

"No one does that. At least, I hope not," Dick says.

Tim shakes his head. "There's a company down at East End that does it."

"No shit," Jason breathes, walking over to Tim. "Huh, ok so that's one thing we can suggest."

"We could also..."

Bruce looks like he wants to keel over. Taking the chance, you walk away, feeling a little more drained than what you would have been if you had to help perform surgery.

You honestly hadn't meant for it to get this bad. Well, not it wasn't bad. You're just two consenting adults having fun. That's all it is but leave it to Bruce to blow things out of proportion.

Slade's phone pings again and it rattles against the nightstand in protest. He doesn't bother to check it. He knows who it is. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache creep in. It's too early for that brat to be hacking into god knows what system just to find one of his phone numbers.

He turns on his side to ignore it and props his head in his hand. Beside him, you're fast asleep, head buried under a pillow, your allergy to waking up early rearing its head. He glides a hand on your back. Calloused fingers trace over puckered scars, the peaks and valleys shaping your back, and the evidence of your amorous night together in the shape of bite marks and hickeys. Hand settling on the small of your back, Slade presses his thumb on the hickey he'd left there, waiting for the telltale shiver that rakes your body when he touches a sensitive part of it. You make a soft noise under the pillow and try to buck him off. He feels his face melt into something fond as he watches you squirm more under the pillow in an attempt to catch the last cusp of sleep.

Lifting the pillow, Slade sees your face scrunch up. He flings the pillow away. You squint at him and make your annoyed 'hnnnn' audible as you turn away from Slade. Slade waits for a second then your body turns back to face him, scared back by the sun streaming in from the windows. Your hand tries to tug at the pillow under his arm to which he responds to by putting more weight on the pillow. You curse softly, scooting into his chest. Slade rests his hand on your hip, pulling you closer to him.

"Why is Todd texting me about birthday presents?" he asks, feeling your breath on his collar bone.

You squint up at him. Your brain is taking its sweet time chewing up his words. You look so sleep rumpled that Slade doubts you could do basic arithmetic right now.

"Wha?" you slur.

Slade lets his head drop onto the pillow. "He’s asking for a convertible Ferrari."

You blink away the haze and an expression finally surfaces on your face. It's sheepish. Slade might even dare to say shy. "Oh, uhm, expect Dick to call you uncle and maybe Tim," you pause and take a breath, inhaling his morning musk. "And Cas... and Duke... god, Steph's gonna join I just know it," you grouse, burying your face on his chest, letting the peach fuzz tickle your face.

Slade's breath is on the cusp of laughter. The swift kick you give him under the sheets only tilts it further. "They're certainly taking this well."

You sigh and smile up at him, only a little evilly. "Only after they figured out you had to deal with them too."

It's Slade's turn to sigh. The Bat and his gaggle of creatures were irritating enough to deal with on the field now they’re planning to interfere with his personal life.

"B, still hates it," you say, the corners of your eyes wrinkling with glee, "he staged an entire intervention which backfired as you can see."

Slade hums, feeling the corner of his own eye wrinkle with amusement. "Really? They think I’m that bad?"

This draws a laugh out of you, a husky bark of a throat still raw from exertion. It's beautiful. "You should have seen how traumatized Dick looked," you say, cupping your hand over your mouth, joy still spilling between your fingers. "Maybe that’s why I like you."

"Here, I thought you hated me," Slade says, pitching his brow up.

You mirror his expression but you manage to make the smallest of expressions cute. "It's not mutually exclusive," you cluck, drawing circles on his chest.

"They aren't," he agrees and the ease of which makes you very suspicious but because you have been around Alfred long enough to absorb manners, you keep your lips sealed shut. "Have to know though, what do you like about me?" You have never before regretted being polite as fast.

Well done, Slade Wilson. You are officially worse than Damian Wayne.

You make a move to get out of bed but Slade hauls you on top of him easily, the calloused pads of his fingers raking over your back. You boost yourself up on your elbows scowling down at the man looking back at you with his head propped on his ridiculously large arm. "Did I not just say it?"

"No, you didn’t."

"I can show you," you purr, grinning down at him. Your grin broadens when he generously eyes your skin, his tongue darts over his lips, gaze turning hungry.

Slade laughs huskily. "I’m all game for that, kitten..." Good. You are too. "...after you tell me what you like about me besides the free orgasms." The look on his face is the embodiment of smug and you find yourself rearing back.

"I had to work for those."

"Beg you mean," he corrects happily.

"Go to hell."

"Gladly, after you clarify," he says pressing his fingers into spots where he knows will tickle. This results in a gasp followed by a trickle of laughter.

"No! Stop!" Tears prickle your eyes and your stomach aches with laughter. "Please!"

Slade grins, looping an arm around your waist to keep you from escaping his dexterous wrath. Nibbling at the junction of your neck, he presses fingers to your side. You flail and shriek. “This isn’t funny!” You howl, thumping your hand against his chest. “On the contrary, it’s pretty funny.” “Ass.” “Is that what you like about me?” “I take it back, I just hate you,” you whine into his chest.

Slade pets your hair, humming, "thought so."

Slade takes another sip of his coffee, letting the tension in the air hang like Gotham smog. Bruce's manicured expression stays firmly in place. They've had this stalemate going for half an hour and neither of them was planning to cave. Well, Slade doesn't care. This is all on Bruce's dime. Slade knew the moment he got pinged by a client in Gotham that it was Bruce because who else would it be?

Slade leans back, arm hooked on the back of the wing-back chair. He slurps the coffee loudly. Bruce's face twitches. Slade's face does too but his face has that smug grin that makes him look ten times more insufferable.

"Wilson," Bruce says, voice hushed and flat.

"Wayne," Slade says, setting his cup down, "or was it Malone? Which one are you today?" He drums his fingers. There's no particular rhythm and he can see how this whole situation is getting on his nerves, delightful really.

"We need to talk."

"Do we now?" Slade chuckles. "I'm pretty sure that that's not your forte."

"It's not yours either."

Slade's mouth pulls down at the same rate Bruce's twitches up.

Bruce isn't wrong. One Addie Kane can attest to that. Though something about hearing it from someone who seems to have a speech limit that makes Slade's blood boil. Maybe it's the sheer hypocrisy. That does track with Bruce's MO.

Bruce sets his coffee down but his hand is still gripping the mug, poised to throw it at Slade the moment this temporary non-aggression pact is lifted. Slade should grab something to chuck at him too. Self-defense and all that.

"When it comes to y/n, I have to," Bruce sighs, and the stress lines that never show up on in his Bruce Wayne face show.

Slade scoffs, "no, you really don’t."

The tight grip Bruce has on his mug turns his knuckles white. "You expect me to trust you not to hurt her?" he says, voice low, face edging into a glower.

"She's broken 3 of my ribs. I think she's made it crystal clear she'll be fine." Slade says jaw tightening. The bulk beneath his skin coils. He doesn't know why Bruce's words get under his skin. The accusation is fair given Slade's past relationships and it's not like Slade's gonna deny that but still, something about the idea rubs him the wrong way. He can't or doesn't want to place it.

Bruce looks... surprised, brows hiking up to the ceiling, mounting an escape from Bruce's face. The expression looks wrong on him. "Only 3?" He asks carefully.

Slade crosses his arms and angles his head. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"She," he pauses, "she normally goes for a higher count with damages. Not even a cracked skull?" Bruce's stoic features look lost amidst the crisis looming in his brain.

Slade's posture relaxes. "She clearly has a soft spot for me," he says all smug and petty. Now, this, this is more comfortable.

Bruce coils, ready to strike.

Slade smiles, honestly rearing to also lay Bruce out on his ass.

"Slade?"

They both freeze at the familiar voice that floats over the crowd. Mechanically, Bruce turns his head only to see your pinched confusion get blown wide by surprise then flex into concern. Maybe the right word was that you were flummoxed. He watches the muscles in your face work, slotting between expressions you'd prepared for the meeting you had with the man now tapping your shoulder. Bruce winces as you short circuit.

You had a catalog of Bruce's identities and your brain is trying to process why this one is here in this nice, well-lit cafe, at noon of all times. You excuse yourself, slotting on your most pleasant face, telling your new acquaintance that you'll keep in touch. You neglect to tell him it will be your assistant keeping in touch but that's mainly because you're currently trying to puzzle together the picture in front of you. You're pretty sure Matches Malone's natural habitat is shady alleyways and dive bars, not faux french cafes. Your eyes slide to Slade instead and it clicks, so does your tongue.

Slade and Bruce watch as you weave your way towards them, your mind still wading through a mix of irritation and confusion. You're predictably clumsy because of it. Slade can't fault the smile that softens his features as you come heart-stoppingly close to getting coffee splattered onto your crisp white shirt. He knows he's letting too much of the fondness crowding his chest show on his face so he tries to angle it away from Bruce and towards your oblivious ass.

All the color in Bruce's face drains when he catches Slade's expression in the corner of his eye.

You reach the table, miraculously unscathed. You scowl down at Bruce, open your mouth, then shut it before proceeding to ruffle his hair violently. Bruce slaps your hand off but it just makes its way back to his hair. The slap fight continues and eventually, you seat yourself on to the arm of Bruce's chair. The ease of affection between the two of you is palpable. This... irritates Slade.

"What did I tell you?" You say, this time tugging on Bruce's hair with actual force. He winces but again slaps your handoff in an exercise of futility.

"This isn't an intervention."

Your face scrunches up, less glower and more pout. Crossing your arms, you look between the both of them before turning the full force of your ire on Bruce. The annoyance flaring is Slade's chest is smothered by this and he angles his head so Bruce can see the satisfaction on his face.

"Your kids are gonna hear how you almost got Harvey expelled from GA."

The declaration lands and for the second time that day, Bruce's face goes ashen. He opens his mouth to plea but thinks better of it and just resolves to keep you away from his kids for however long your anger lasts.

You continue to sit there and be mad at Bruce when your watch buzzes. Looking up, you groan then curse softly.

"Meeting," you offer briskly, planting a kiss on Bruce's forehead before getting to your feet.

"Lucius?"

You're tilting your head back to let another sour sound out but then settle for "God, I wish."

All seems to be normal until you brush past Slade. Without thinking, you reach down to kiss his nose then proceed to call your chauffeur.

Slade and Bruce stare at each other in stunned silence. That wasn't a calculated move. Both are well-trained enough to know that. As Bruce starts to emulate a man being swallowed up by the ground while Slade's face unfurls in the most unfailingly smug grin in the history of human faces.

#slade wilson #damian wayne #tim drake #dick grayson #jason todd #bruce wayne #cassandra cain #duke thomas #slade wilson x reader #slade wilson imagine #batfamily x reader