darkhavens (darkhavens) wrote,
darkhavens
darkhavens

Fic: Infinity x Volatility, DCU: Slade/Dick

Author: darkhavens
Title: Infinity x Volatility
Fandom: Pairing: DCU: Slade Wilson(Deathstroke)/Dick Grayson(Nightwing)
Rating: NC17
Words: 2500
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar glitch, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: **Breathplay, possessiveness, biting, a tattoo as a mark of ownership**
Summary: Dick gets a tattoo. Slade finds out.
Notes: Inspired by ladyk_d_azrael's Tramp Stamp, and written for suki_blue, because she deserves it. Posted today as part of More Joy Day.


Infinity x Volatility

Dick doesn't regret it until it's done and the endorphins are wearing off, leaving him slightly sore, a little itchy and really kinda screwed.

When he gets home, he slaps a waterproof dressing over the thing and tries to pretend it's not there while he relieves the low-grade itching with a lengthy, tepid shower.

Thoroughly soaped and rinsed, he twists under the flow and braces his clenched fists against the back wall of the cubicle at shoulder height, letting the pounding spray drum an uncomfortable refrain on the latex patch he wishes he didn't need.

Too late. Too stupid. Too easy.

Too permanent.

#

A month later, he's almost forgotten it's there. It's not like he thinks about it. It's not like he needs to think about it. He travelled three hundred miles to get it done where nobody knew him, just so he didn't have to answer questions or contemplate why the urge to do this had refused to leave him alone. Refused to let him rest until the buzz and prickle of needles at his nape had stolen his breath away and made him feel absurdly whole.

It's not like he can see it on the back of his own neck, either, and nobody's been spending enough time in his personal space recently to notice it, which, he admits to himself, is at least half the reason he got it done. And yet...

And yet, it's not even all that much of a surprise to hear Slade Wilson's damnably familiar voice coming from the shadows of his bedroom when he finally gets home after a particularly busy night saving maidens and battling drug lords, dodging deviants and slaying dragons.

Slade's quiet words still make him jump. Just a little. And mostly on the inside.

"I heard the strangest little whisper about you the other day, Grayson. Didn't think anything of it at first; nearly skinned the rabid little mouse who tried to sell it to me. But the more I thought about it, the more curious I got. See, I know you, kid. I know you remember the story behind every single bullet wound, every knife scar, every burn on your body. And I know you're just goddamned dumb enough to do something as stupid and reckless as get yourself marked up on purpose with something that could get you killed if it got seen by the wrong people."

Dick resists the urge to lift a hand to the back of his neck, but he feels Slade's gaze track the movement anyway. He sighs and reaches up to peel away his mask.

"I'm tired, Slade. It's been a long day and a longer night, so could you skip the riddles and get to the part where you tell me what the hell you're doing skulking around in the dark in my apartment, in my city, this time?"

He concentrates on keeping his movements loose and relaxed as he saunters towards the black hole that is the doorway to his bedroom. He's pretty sure Slade has drawn the drapes and possibly boarded up the windows too – he's positive it's never been this dark in there before.

There's no way to see where Slade has positioned himself, not even from the threshold of the room, but Dick could probably make an educated guess if he wasn't already aware that knowing where Slade is right now is less than useless when the man can move inhumanly fast and too damn silently.

Instead, he drags a hand through his hair and starts to peel away his suit, piece by piece, tossing them lightly onto the chair beside his chest of drawers. It's dark, he's tired, and Slade... Slade's been lurking in the shadows of his life almost forever, he sometimes thinks.

He's so used to being watched by that solitary eye that it's almost too easy to peel away the Kevlar and the Nomex and Nightwing, layer by layer, until he's standing almost naked in the dark and wondering what comes next.

If he jumps when the door clicks shut quietly behind him, it's only a minor twitch, and only because he's half asleep already and knows – he knows – he's not in any danger from his nocturnal intruder, no matter how many times they've been at odds with each other throughout the years.

"Slade, I-"

"Do you have any idea," Slade whispers directly into Dick's left ear, "how very tempted I am to reach out and take everything you're offering right now? You're too trusting, little bird; I thought I'd taught you better than that." Slade sighs, almost soundless. "Get on the bed."

Fingertips ghost across the base of his spine – an imperious, ephemeral touch that has Dick moving forward before he's even processed the command.

Then he's at the bedside and reaching for sheets that have already been turned back, and that makes him pause, but only for a fraction of a second. He crawls on hands and knees and then drops and rolls, stretching out on his back in the center of the bed.

"Cute, kid. Now flip. I want to take a look at Miss Tabi Katt's handiwork; make sure she hasn't made a mess of what's mine."

And that right there – that casually possessive tone that really should frustrate him and annoy him and make him kick and fight and, oh god, deny, deny, deny and then deny some more – that's the reason he got the damn thing done in the first place.

And Slade knows it. Is amused by it. Dick can hear in the gleeful silences between his words that he's immensely satisfied by it.

The mattress dips as Slade settles his weight on the edge and leans across to plant a hand beside Dick's farthest hip. And then he waits.

Somehow, Dick twists on to his stomach without initiating contact, no matter how much he craves it. He ignores the twisted sheet beneath his belly and thighs; stoically resists the urge to reach down and rearrange his junk. Instead, he curls one arm up, tucks his hand beneath the pillow and rests his forehead on his wrist, his eyes screwed tightly shut. The other hand slides around the back of his neck and then up and over his scalp, pulling his hair away to give Slade a clear, unobstructed view of what he's there to see.

There's a muted snick, and the darker shadows in the room flicker ominously as they're disturbed and dislocated by the penlight in Slade's hand. He aims it straight at the fragile curve of Dick's neck; at the tattoo that's been inked there by a careful hand.

It's a double ouroboros in the form of a figure eight lain on its side; the symbol of infinity, of alchemic volatility. It's two perfectly matched serpents consuming one another, tail-ends first – one coloured in old gold with bold orange flourishes and navy shadows, the other the darkest blue of a moonless night shading into black, with tiny details picked out in palest starlight silver.

Slade traces the looping figure over and over, the fingertip contact impossibly gentle and shiver-inducing as Dick fights to remain unmoved and unmoving.

"I was half expecting to find a bat, or maybe a garishly bright robin."

Dick snorts indelicately into the crook of his elbow and feels Slade's grip on the back of his neck tighten in response to the perceived, threatened insolence.

"But you know damn well I would have tanned your hide and then marched you off to get it covered up or removed if you'd done something that stupid. This..." Slade rests his thumb at the center of the tattoo, where the snakes come together and entwine, belly to belly, before curling off in opposite directions again. He curls his fingers over Dick's right shoulder, fingertips pressing deep into the hollow below the smooth arc of collarbone. "This is... neat. Smart." His thumb traces the figure eight once more. "Deniable, even, except to those who know us best. I can't imagine the Bat will be very impressed to see you wearing my colors so-" Dick can hear the satisfied smirk "-permanently."

The mention of Bruce makes Dick uncomfortable, just as it was meant to, but Slade's grip on the back of his neck, reinforced by the press of his forearm along Dick's spine, leaves him little room to squirm.

"He's not gonna-"

"Don't kid yourself, kid. It's only a matter of time before word gets back and he comes storming in to rescue you from my evil clutches." Slade leans closer and buries his nose in the tangled hair behind Dick's left ear, breathing in the mingled scents of cheap shampoo, honest sweat and sexual arousal. "Do you need rescuing from me, little bird?"

The drag and slide of Slade's tongue around the rim of his ear sends a tremor coursing through Dick's body and he presses up into Slade's unrelenting grip, wordlessly begging for more.

"Is that a no?" Slade shifts his hold on the back of Dick's neck, fingers curling under and around to apply pressure to the front of his throat, making it difficult for Dick to swallow, uncomfortable to breathe. "Are you absolutely sure?"

Dick draws as deep a breath as he can manage through his now constricted throat and holds it a moment before he slowly exhales, letting every drop of tension in his body leech away until he's completely limp and entirely at Slade's mercy. Not that he's trying to kid himself he'd have any hope of escape, not even if every muscle and cell was primed for action, but it might be fun to try one day, see how the scene plays out - though he should probably make a mental note to let Slade know beforehand, unless he's feeling exceedingly masochistic and in dire need of a hard takedown and an even harder fuck.

The pressure on his throat increases incrementally as Dick concentrates on breathing slow and shallow, on remaining loose-limbed and acquiescent. Slade gives one last punishing squeeze and then pulls away, standing to strip himself out of his street clothes before peeling Dick's last remaining garment down his legs and off.

Nudging Dick's legs apart, Slade lowers himself onto the bed between his knees, hands slowly sliding upwards, from improbably slender feet to firm calves to sleek thighs to tautly rounded buttocks.

"Is this really the way you want to play it, kid? You're just going to lie here and take whatever I throw at you, all meek and willing? Is that it?"

Grinning into the mattress, Dick lets a miniscule shrug twitch his shoulders, just enough to be seen but not quite enough for Slade to be able to call him on it.

"I'm tired. I figured I'd let you do all the work. Sit back and enjoy the ride, you know?"

The slap on his ass is hardly unexpected. The hands that grab him by the hips and jerk him up onto his knees are slightly moreso. The click and squelch of opened lube is, frankly, a relief. It's been a few months since-

Dick's thoughts stumble and skip as one slick finger presses up and in, relentless and thick and oh, so very welcome. Nobody's touched him like this in months, not since Slade was last in town on business, dropping by at odd hours of the early, pre-dawn mornings to fuck and run, always leaving him wrung out and supremely sated, as boneless as a newborn kitten.

The finger inside him twists and crooks, sending waves of sensation radiating out, short-circuiting the last of Dick's thought processes and dragging a fractured groan from his lips. His nerve-endings are still firing pleasurably when Slade wedges his thickly muscled thighs in between Dick's own and pushes his way into Dick's body with one powerful, inexorable thrust.

"Jesus, Slade, go easy! It's been a wh-"

"A while, I know. I know exactly how long it's been since anyone dared touch you."

With casual ease, Slade lifts Dick off the bed, pulling him up and back until he's balanced astride Slade's thighs, still impaled on Slade's cock, only supported now by one huge hand in the middle of his chest. The other hand is once more wrapped around his throat, holding his head to one side so Slade can see the tattoo.

Slade rolls his hips and Dick whines. He tries to rearrange his limbs to support at least a fraction more of his weight, with little success, and Slade chuckles, then moves again.

"Enjoying the ride?"

For untold minutes or hours – must be days, Dick thinks groggily at one point – Slade keeps him off-balance, off-center. He manipulates Dick's body like it's a personalised, partially animated fucktoy, and Dick does his best not to show how much it turns him on, but he's pretty damn sure he fails miserably.

When Slade finally lets him come, he's once again face down on the bed amidst the tangled sheets, Slade's cock buried deep in his ass and Slade's teeth at his nape, where he's leaving his own livid mark below – across? – the tattoo.

Dick is barely half-conscious when he feels Slade pull out and stand up, moving noiselessly away from the bed. He rolls his head to one side and tries to watch Slade pull on the jeans and shirts he'd worn this time instead of his usual Deathstroke attire. The room is still dark, but pre-dawn light is slowly filtering in. Dick flaps a hand at Slade's indistinct silhouette.

"Leave the money on the dresser before you go, 'k?"

It's a weak joke, but it's the best Dick can come up with while he's this wiped out. He's not expecting Slade to laugh, or to return to bed, but the man surprises him, sliding back in and depositing something on the bedside table before hauling Dick's limp frame in close and draping one powerful leg across his hips and one heavy arm across his chest.

"I'm not going anywhere anytime soon," he purrs into the back of Dick's neck, lips brushing the intertwined serpents. "We have plans to make, you and I; places to go and things to do. I've been waiting for this moment for a long time."

Slade's muffled whispers filter slowly into Dick's sleep-clouded brain, but he's too sated, too exhausted to comprehend their meaning. When he wakes, he'll recognise the faintest edges of what he's set in motion.

He'll spend a lifetime wondering if he practiced the monster of all self-deceptions when he talked himself into getting inked. He'll wonder why that particular design was so clear and sharp and focussed in his head when he woke up one day. He'll never know for sure.

And, in the grand scheme of things, a lifetime's just a fleeting speck in the eye of eternity. Once it's over and forgotten, he still has plans to make and places to go and things to do. With Slade. Always with Slade.


findyourwords 2010:


Tags: dcu:dick/slade, miscfic:findyourwords
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