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green-eyedfirework · 1 day

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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

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green-eyedfirework · 1 day

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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

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green-eyedfirework · 2 days

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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

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green-eyedfirework · 2 days

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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

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green-eyedfirework · 3 days

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“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

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green-eyedfirework · 3 days

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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

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green-eyedfirework · 4 days

Text

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

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green-eyedfirework · 5 days

Text

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

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green-eyedfirework · 6 days

Text

His baby was perfect. His pup—his daughter, his perfect little daughter with her tiny little nose and her tiny little fingers and her adorable sleepy scowl as she finally decided to drift off, full and sated.

"Mari," Dick whispered, and his daughter waved her tiny little fist.

Dick was full of so much love he felt like he could burst. He hadn't made a single huff of irritation at Bruce's hovering, or Jason's alpha protectiveness, or Damian asking him if he was okay every five seconds. He was floating on bliss with the sight of his daughter's adorable little face. That, and a whole lot of painkillers.

He was effused with so much joy, in fact, that he felt like being magnanimous to that long-present niggling annoyance that was constantly drifting at the edge of his senses. Dick waved at the nearest person in the room—Damian, eyeing baby Mari with the same expression he wore for his wildlife rescues. "You can go and call the idiot in."

Damian blinked at him. "Which idiot?" he asked, which was a sound clarifying question, several people had made fools of themselves during Dick's pregnancy.

"Slade."

Damian's hackles instantly rose and the baby alpha bared his teeth. "Wilson is here?" he growled, and Tim blearily rose his head from where he was taking a nap on the armchair. "Where is he? When did he get here?"

Dick blinked at him. "Slade hasn't been more than a mile from me for the last month." Dick had done his best to ignore the flickers of the alpha that he caught out of the corner of his eye, which was made all the easier by Slade not actually approaching him. Their last argument had gotten quite heated.

But Dick was in mellow enough a mood and bursting with enough happiness that he wanted to share it. He wanted Slade to see his daughter, wanted the alpha to hold the pup, his pup, their pup.

"How do I even find him?" Damian asked, clipped, his expression mired with distaste.

Dick waved him off, "Just stand on the roof or something, he shouldn't be that hard to spot." Damian's distaste grew more pronounced but he stomped off nonetheless.

Dick turned his attention back to Mari and caught a little fist in one hand, pressing a feather-light kiss to the tiny fingers. "I love you more than there are stars in the sky," he whispered to her in his mother tongue, "my little one."

His baby. His pup. His daughter.

There was a shift of motion, a prickle down Dick's neck, and he raised his gaze to the window right as it slid open. The world's deadliest mercenary slipped inside.

Dick narrowed his eyes. "Armor off," he demanded. "You're not holding her with all of that on."

Slade immediately began stripping. Tim shot them both a wary glance before heading for the door and taking Damian with him, soon it was only the two of them left inside. Slade was down to the undersuit in seconds, and he approached the bed like he was waiting for Dick to throw him out.

He finally got close enough to see her. "What's her name?" Slade asked, voice slightly hoarse.

"Mari," Dick replied softly.

Slade studied her a little while longer. Dick found himself holding his breath, waiting for Slade to say something. Do something. Some part of him still cried out alpha-mate-need-him but Dick had suppressed that part of him long ago.

"Can I?" Slade asked, and Dick leaned forward to hand over their daughter.

There was a warning on the tip of his tongue—support her head, be careful, be gentle—but Slade took Mari from him with practiced motions, and Dick swallowed his words as he remembered anew that this wasn't Slade's first child. Mari stirred at the change in position but Slade rocked her easily and she quieted down.

In a slow, deliberate movement—as though he was waiting for Dick's protest, Slade scented her. Claiming her as his own.

Dick didn't say a word.

#my snippets #sladick #omegaverse #baby fic

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green-eyedfirework · 7 days

Text

Dick waits. His heart is pounding in his ears, like it's determined to remind him that his time has run out. He tried—he was so careful, he just needed enough time to think of a solution, to extricate himself from this situation without leaving either of them hurt or dead—but there was always going to come this moment.

Where Dick was forced to choose between enslaving someone and staying alive.

Dick doesn't want to die. But he doesn't know how he'll be able to live with himself if he forces someone else's behavior. This isn't—this isn't about keeping himself alive, about ordering Slade not to attack him. This is about taking away the selkie's autonomy, and Dick can't—won't—do that.

So Dick stares up at the ceiling, everything a blurry wash to his tears, and waits for death. The fingers around his throat are on the edge of uncomfortable.

Slade isn't doing anything though. The waiting stretches out to an eternity, and his heartbeat sounds like a death knell. This—this anticipation, the dread, the twisting of his insides gets worse and worse with every passing second and Dick finally tilts his head to meet Slade's gaze.

What is the selkie thinking, what are they planning, can Dick at least ask-beg-plead for a quick death—

The moment Dick meets that single blue eye, Slade attacks.

Dick is hauled roughly off the floor by the grip around his throat, Slade's weight still centered firmly on his thighs, and Dick has one second of free air when Slade lets go of his throat—one second to say stop or please or don't, except Dick no longer has Slade's coat, and Dick cannot command him.

Slade's arm comes back, locked around Dick's throat. Oh, Dick thinks with a burst of quiet relief. It's a blood choke. No thrashing, no strangling pressure, no gasping for air for minutes. Just the blossom of darkness as he slips into nothingness.

It's the quickest, cleanest death Slade could've given him.

~#~

Slade glowers. He has his coat back. He has his coat back, and it should've been a celebration, but instead he has an unconscious human on the floor, because what kind of fool would give a coat back to a murderous selkie and just accept their death, and Slade's been forced to confront that maybe the ditzy idiot doesn't have paper-thin morals.

Slade dislikes being wrong. It's a particular, niggling feeling that is extremely unsatisfactory. He should've killed the human. Strangled him with his bare hands in the place of dragging him to the ocean and drowning him, except—except Slade couldn't.

Slade couldn't, because Dick had looked at him, eyes wide and blue and glimmering with tears, and had the gall to give him a bewildered expression. Like he was wondering why Slade hadn't killed him yet.

And if there was one thing Slade despised, it was doing what humans wanted.

#my snippets #sladick #selkie au #except slade is the selkie

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green-eyedfirework · 8 days

Text

"Prince Richard," said the cold, cruel general, mouth twisted into a smirk and one blue eye icy cold, "Well, I suppose you aren't a prince anymore."

Dick kept his mouth shut, and hoped that the others kept their mouths shut too. Jason, who was the first one he'd worry about, was gone, disappeared into the night with Tim on the hunt for ghosts. Cass was halfway across the land, too far to be hurt, which left Damian and Stephanie. He could trust Steph to keep Damian in line. He had to.

"If only looks could kill," Slade laughed, and his men laughed with him. The hall was full of them, of his warriors, menacing the remainder of Dick's paltry court. The representative from Nanda Parbat was watching intently. Dick wasn't imagining the smile on his face. "What's the matter, Prince Richard? Not enjoying yourself?"

Dick felt sick. Sick and numb. He had been castellan of Gotham for a few paltry months before losing it. Bruce would be so ashamed.

"It appears that the prince has lost his tongue," Slade laughed, beckoning Dick closer. Dick knew it wasn't worth it to disobey.

Slade waited until Dick was within arm's reach of the throne before grabbing him and forcing him closer. Dick struggled for an instant before he remembered where he was, and let Slade drag him forward.

The kiss was savage and domineering, Slade's mouth hot and devouring as he pulled Dick fully into his lap, forcing him to straddle the general as he submitted to the kiss. His cheeks burned when he felt the hands on his ass.

"No, tongue's there all right," Slade called out when he finally pulled back. "And I now I definitely know why there are so many odes to the prince's ass." He paired it with a pinch. "A big castle and a pretty prince in my lap, what more could I want?"

Slade's men were jeering, and Dick didn't dare turn around to look at Damian and Steph. If Slade wanted—better him than them. Please not them.

~#~

Dick shifted on his knees, hands balled into fists by his side, not looking up as the general conducted the final preparations for seizing the castle. Dick didn't want to see Slade. He didn't want to acknowledge any unspoken order the man would give with Dick here, kneeling between his legs, inches away from his own throne.

Please let Damian not be watching this. Please, please, let Steph be covering his eyes, Damian shouldn't see this, he was just a child—

"I have to say," Slade mused, loud enough for the whole hall to hear, "I could get used to a sight like this."

A hand tightened in Dick's hair and he let himself be pulled up, pliant. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't cry.

The man's expression was more inscrutable this time. "All done taking your kingdom," he said, voice heavy with implication. "Now just to take its king."

Dick locked his jaw. He would not cry. He would not cry.

"Someone go fetch a crown," Slade got up, dragging Dick up with him. "I've always wanted to fuck a prince." The jeers in the hall grew louder. "The rest of you can take whatever spoils you like. We won't be staying long."

They never did. They conquered, they looted, and they went on their merry way, a vicious band of mercenaries with no code, no honor, no loyalty.

"Please," Dick finally unstuck his mouth to say, "my siblings. Please don't—"

"The little prince and his handmaid will be fine," the general snorted, still dragging Dick along. "You really aren't very bright, are you."

Something hot and thick crawled into Dick's throat at the insult given so bluntly. If Dick had been smarter, he could've protected Gotham, if Dick had been a better leader, if Dick had just crowned himself king—

He could feel himself start to go numb. Distant. He barely registered Slade reaching his bedchamber, or shoving him inside, or the man locking the door behind him.

Overkill, Dick thought dazedly, at the numerous locks on the door.

Dick stumbles back. Away from Slade. From the man who will—who was planning to—who—

There was a crown in Slade's hand. Dick didn't know who gave it to him. Slade steps forward and Dick steps back, until he hits the edge of the bed, until there's nowhere to run.

Slade drops the crown on his head with a sardonic smile. It's the actual crown. Gotham's crown, to be worn only by its ruler. It's of Gotham, the weight heavy on Dick's head, it's the literal symbol of his country. And Dick is going to get fucked wearing it.

It feels....really heavy. Dick is actually developing a headache. He raises a hand to take it off but Slade catches it and forces it down. "No," the general says sharply.

Dick should obey. Dick has to obey. But it's getting acutely painful and he fights against Slade's grip, trying to free his hands or toss the crown off or something to prevent this searing pain.

"It hurts," Dick gasps, vision blurry. The room is spinning.

"Maybe if you'd just bloody crowned yourself at the start, it wouldn't have to be this way," says an unsympathetic voice, before the whole room goes dark.

#my snippets #sladick #royalty au #conquered #fear of noncon #what are slade's motives here?#uncertain

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green-eyedfirework · 9 days

Text

Dick twisted his wrists, aware that the ropes were cutting deeply into his skin, but too desperate to stop. If he just—a little more, a little faster, a little harder—

The sound of stone scraping against stone. Dick froze, a rabbit under a fox’s gaze, his heart hammering in his ears.

It sounded again. Like massive footsteps, bigger than anything Dick had ever heard before, pacing around the altar that Dick was tied to. Ropes lashing his wrists to the arch, just high enough to force him on his tiptoes, the position raising the simple, cotton shift until it only brushed the top of his thighs.

Something chuckled, low and deep and loud, echoing around the hilltop. Dick ignored the shudder working down his spine, bit his lip, and tugged harder.

There was a sharp flash of pain—he’d started to bleed.

“So,” the voice reverberated through the stone, low and sibilant. “They finally caught the little thief.” Dick swallowed, mouth entirely dry, and twisted his head to follow the shifting shapes in darkness. There were a lot of them, too many to be one person. “I wonder, did you ever think about the consequences of stealing from a god?”

He’d needed that food, that gold—medicine was expensive, and Wally was sick, and Roy was sicker, and they’d spent so much buying Kori away from her sister, and—

“Was it worth it?” the voice half-laughed.

Dick set his jaw. “Yes,” he snarled back at the shadows. “It was.” His heart was racing, his ears ringing, everything too close and yet so far away. “I’d put it to much better use than your corrupt priests.”

Silence for a stretching moment, the world itself holding his breath, before a growling started. Low at first, it grew louder and louder and louder, until Dick could hear nothing but the angry, vicious, discordant sound.

It had occurred to him that pissing off a god was suicidal, but Dick was already dead. Bumping up the timeframe wouldn’t matter.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut and took a moment to remember his friends. Remember them as they were happy. Remember them the way he saw them last, dropping off medicine and gold and food and leaving before his pursuers caught up.

“Bold little thief,” the voice said, no longer amused. “But I can taste your fear. Flesh is all the sweeter for it.”

Claws scraping against stone, growls rising into distinct tones and Dick couldn’t help but open his eyes. His breath caught in his throat.

He was surrounded by wolves. The altar was covered in them, shifting back and forth, prowling along the stone, getting closer and closer and closer, until he could reach them if he stretched out a leg.

His face was wet.

Fur brushed the back of his bare legs and Dick flinched, yelping and instinctively moving away. A low chuckle echoed around him as Dick arched up even higher, trying to get away from the wolves.

Please, please let it be quick, let it be fast, please, oh gods, I don’t want it to hurt, please—

“There is only one god here,” came the growl right in front of him, and Dick cracked open blurry eyes to see a massive black wolf approaching closer. It looked taller than him standing. Its teeth were the size of his face.

“And I’m not inclined to be merciful.”

#my snippets #sladick #gods au #sacrifice

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