#slade picks up a souvenir on his trip

[green-eyedfirework]

There were few places Slade hated as much as the Upper Eastern Seaboard.  New York City, Bludhaven, and Gotham—all stinking cesspits of cities, all with too many heroes to be healthy, and, most unfortunately, all thriving with crime.

Once, just once, couldn’t someone pay him to murder someone in Hawaii?  A nice, easy vacation in the middle of the Pacific, some actual fucking sunshine, air that doesn’t smell like a rotting dumpster…  But no.  Instead, Slade gets the scent of decomposed fish over brine, neon, garish lights, and the shallow, glitzy, faded glamor of Bludhaven.

Party cities are the fucking worst.

Not for his job, no, it makes his job very easy as he tracks down a Mr. Winston Cokewell to the Palais, a mid-range casino and hotel that is definitely owned by someone on the wrong side of the law, if the guards and their nonstandard guns are any indication.

Slade cases the building, noting multiple entry points but also multiple guards—Cokewell isn’t major enough a player to have his own security, and given his client’s discretion, is probably unaware that there’s a contract on his head.  But Slade has no doubt that the moment he steps into that casino, every criminal in this city is going to know that Deathstroke’s here.

People tend to get a bit twitchy when he shows up.  Can’t imagine why.

Luckily for him, there isn’t a business in this city without fingers in multiple pies, and it was easy enough to rustle up an invitation to the underground auction taking place the floor below the casino.  Slade casts a glance across the rooftops on habit, making sure there’s no costumed hero trying to sneak up on him, and descends to the alleyway behind the casino.

As predicted, the guards freeze at the sight of him.  One grabs his gun, wide-eyed, the other just looks terrified as he stalks towards the back entrance.  “I believe I’m on the guest list,” Slade said, fully suited up and mask on.  If he was in charge of security, he’d never let someone in without confirming their identity, but the two guards look relieved that they don’t have to stop him and just wave him inside.

Amateurs.  Slade reminds himself that it makes his job easier, and lets it go.

The stairs leading down would be dark to a normal human’s eyes, and the corridor he emerges in shadowed and gloomy.  There’s several people standing there—his target is nowhere to be seen, but half of Bludhaven’s underworld is milling around in tight-knit groups.

“Mr. Deathstroke!” the host exclaims, placing himself into Slade’s path, “I wasn’t—we didn’t know if you were going to make it—this truly is a wonderful surprise—we’re so very honored—”

Slade can recognize a stalling tactic when he sees one.  “What happened,” he growls flatly.

“Ah, we’re just—just slightly behind time—nothing to worry about—we’ll be underway soon—”

Slade makes a clipped, unamused sound to cut him off.  The host looks ready to disappear through the floor.  “I don’t appreciate people wasting my time,” Slade says shortly.

“Of—of course, Mr. Deathstroke—we’re really very sorry—if there’s anything we can get for you while you wait—”

“I’ll find something to amuse myself with,” Slade strides past him, ignoring his spluttering to duck down a side corridor.  Like he cares whether this auction is delayed or not.  This is a great opportunity to eliminate his target, and Slade efficiently slips out of his Deathstroke gear and into a more conventional suit, slipping on a pair of sunglasses before he heads up to the casino.

It’s laughably easy to complete his contract.

Cokewell is drunk, the casino security is clearly more focused on what’s happening below him, and it’s child’s play to crack Cokewell’s head against the bathroom counter and leave the mess behind for the next guest to find.  His contract specified a natural-looking death, with his involvement as hidden as possible.

One drunk guy slipping and hitting his head in the bathroom, done and done.  Slade retreating back downstairs, avoiding security cameras, getting back in his Deathstroke armor and creeping through now-empty corridors to reach the auction room, also done.  He’ll stick around as long as it takes to establish his alibi, and then he’s out of here.

The auction’s already begun, and Slade’s distaste for this garbage fire of a city sinks even deeper as he realizes just what they’re selling.  Or who.  Human trafficking, how very original.  Slade suppresses his groan and slinks deeper into the shadows.  If this night was interrupted by a Bat or two, he’d call it an improvement.

Though, come to think of it, it is surprising that he’s seen neither hide nor hair of the little bluebird tonight.

~#~

Everything feels…woozy.  Like he’s underwater, blinking and blinking and never able to clear his eyes.  The floor sways underneath him, rumbling with the voice of too many people, and he can’t help the stifled shriek as the red-tinged darkness is yanked away, leaving him under the harsh glare of stage lights.

“And now, my fellow compatriots, the item you’ve all been waiting for…the thorn in all our sides…our very own little Bat, Nightwing!”

No, no, no.  He’s not a Bat, not anymore, Robin, Robin and Batman, the great partnership that ended, and any hope Dick had that he could go back was dashed by the photos of the new black-haired, blue-eyed child trotting at Bruce’s side.

He’s not a Bat.  He’s a bird, and he’s been caught, and he’s staring out through cage bars at a blurry, seething audience of people yelling out crude insults.

Something in his stomach churns unpleasantly.

“Let’s start the bidding at a hundred thousand.”

Oh, fuck.

This isn’t the first time he’s been captured, or the first time he’s been drugged with something that makes him feel like a limp, overcooked noodle, or the first time he’s listened to people haggling over him like he’s a thing and not a person.

It’s the first time he’s been alone, though.

No Batgirl to give him the intel that the traffickers had cottoned onto him and had laid a trap.  No Agent A tracking his location and vitals.  No Batman speeding through the Batmobile for a rescue.  No, Dick’s alone and no one is coming.

“Do I hear five hundred thousand?  Five hundred thousand for Nightwing!”

#my snippets #sladick #auction #slade picks up a souvenir on his trip

[writeforfandoms]

Drift Away

Sooooo I don't really know what this is. I might continue it, if there's some interest. This is not at all my norm here on Tumblr so let's see how this goes!

Deathstroke/Slade Wilson and f!reader

Selina takes you to a Wayne charity gala, and you meet an intriguing man and bring home a souvenir.

Warnings: light thievery, Tension, cape and cowl crowd drama.

Word count: 1.2k

The gala was just like any other gala: full to the brim with riches and champagne, and dull. There was lots of networking going on among the elite, as always. Rumors and gossip flew like bullets, tarnishing reputations. Or, in some cases, helping them along.

You kept track of anything particularly interesting you heard as you slunk through the crowds. Selina had sent you off to make a circuit of the room, just to get you out of her hair for a few minutes while she flirted. Not that you minded - she was the mastermind. You were just the helpful friend.

Helpful friend that also knew how to pick pockets, anyway. You smiled slyly, pleased with yourself as you tucked a little diamond charm in your purse. You'd hang it in your room later, just for fun.

You weren't on the same level as Selina, but you could hold your own. You knew what you were doing. And you enjoyed the challenge.

You spotted Dick Grayson across the room, laughing with a few young women. Playing his part well, clearly. Bruce Wayne was nowhere to be seen, but he wasn’t your problem. He was very definitely Selina’s problem.

A few more minutes of wandering brought you back to Selina. She was gorgeous tonight, of course, classic and with just a flash of diamonds to draw the eye. She was a professional, through and through, and you couldn’t help but admire her a little.

“There you are, precious,” she murmured, smiling at you and snagging a glass of champagne to hand to you. “I was beginning to think I’d have to go find you.”

You smiled impishly with a careless shrug. “Oh, you know me. Restless feet.”

“Oh? And what did your restless feet find tonight?”

“Not much of note.” You shrugged. “For a Wayne gala.” In short: the usual, what the two of you had expected.

“Well, maybe you’ll find something fun to distract you.” Selina’s smile shone as bright as the diamonds in her ears. Which meant she wanted you to go find something fun to take, make a little distraction. Nothing huge, nothing incriminating. But she wanted more attention on you than on her.

And she was letting you pick your target, too.

“Oh, I certainly hope so.” You chuckled softly and took a sip of your champagne, gaze already wandering for a likely suspect. “In fact, I think I found something to distract me.” You winked at her and slipped away, back into the crowd.

Since this was essentially just for fun and for a distraction, you picked the biggest target you could. Literally. This man was tall, possibly taller than Bruce, and broad, with white hair held back in a ponytail, and a patch over one eye. His suit was charcoal gray and fabulously tailored, very flattering on him.

And his cufflinks looked to have something expensive in them. You couldn't quite tell from this angle, but the glint of light off them made you curious.

Besides, you rather wanted to see if you could get away with taking something of his.

Selina wanted a little distraction. Nothing huge.

So you "tripped" over another guest and stumbled into the huge man. You gasped and grabbed his arm to help steady yourself, and his free hand came up to your shoulder.

"Are you alright?" He looked down at you, blue eye bright and, if you were reading him right, amused.

"I'm okay," you agreed with a little laugh. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to grab you."

"Not a problem, miss." He lowered his hand, and you took a step back from him. He really was quite handsome.

There. Minor distraction caused. Your job here was done.

Except Dick Grayson stopped next to you, smile fixed firmly in place, eyes a little narrowed. "Slade! I wasn't expecting you tonight!"

The man, Slade, smirked just a little. "Dick," he greeted smoothly.

“Are you alright?” Dick turned his face towards you but didn’t fully look away from Slade.

“Just caught my shoe,” you said with an embarrassed laugh. You were beginning to regret your choice of targets. “I’m perfectly fine, I promise.”

Dick didn’t even respond, merely looking at Slade again. Still. Whatever. “I didn’t know you were back in Gotham. Here on business?”

Slade smirked, shifting his hands to tuck them into his pocket. He hesitated for a moment as he tucked in his left hand, the one that you’d taken the cuff link off of. There was no way he could have noticed that. No way.

But you dropped the cuff link. Just in case.

“Stopping overnight,” Slade answered in a smooth drawl. He had a hint of a southern accent still. “Thought I’d stop by and greet some old friends.” His teeth flashed in what might have been a smile.

You were beginning to suspect you had landed right in the middle of something much more dangerous than a little distraction.

“Oh!” you gasped, drawing the gaze of both men. “Did someone drop this?” You stooped briefly to pick up the cuff link off the floor.

Slade’s eye glinted at you and he tipped his head, just a little, a slow smile curling his lips. Normally you weren’t the biggest fan of facial hair, but his looked good. Not too long, nicely trimmed, clearly well kept. And he was clearly older than you. Damn but he was ticking too many of your boxes.

“It’s mine,” he rumbled, holding out a hand. “Thank you for spotting it. I would hate to lose one of a pair.”

You dropped the cuff link into his hand with a smile. “Of course! It would be a shame.” You glanced at Dick to find his jaw clenched. And your smile widened a little. Maybe a little more poking the bear. Just a little. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met.” You gave him your name, holding out your hand.

He reached out slowly, his hand completely engulfing yours. “Slade Wilson.”

“Slade doesn’t live in Gotham,” Dick said with forced cheer. “I’m sure that’s why you two haven’t met before. Say, is Selina around? I know Brucie was looking for her earlier.”

“Oh, she’s somewhere,” you deflected with a light laugh. Slade had scars on his knuckles, so small most people probably didn’t notice them. You weren’t most people. “You know how she is. But I see an old friend - will you two excuse me?”

Dick nodded, already refocused on Slade. Slade inclined his head to you, much more regal than anything you were used to seeing. You stepped between the two and placed one hand lightly on his right arm.

“It was lovely to meet you. I hope you have a good night.”

His smile was slow and almost predatory. “You as well,” he agreed.

You stepped past him and continued on your way. You kept your grin down until you were on the far side of the room, heart still pumping fast, adrenaline going.

That had been a bit of a rush. And just a little distraction.

Later that night, after you’d gotten back to your apartment and changed into comfortable clothes, you held up the cufflink you’d taken from his right sleeve and smiled. Pity you only had one of a pair.

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Taglist: @beecastle @littlemisspascal @honey-im-hotdog

#slade wilson #deathstroke #i don't even know #f!reader