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green-eyedfirework · 24 hours

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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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