Sharps (DC Comics ficlet, R)
Aug. 3rd, 2006 10:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
browngirlThis is just a little bonbon for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
katarik, who'll know why, and with love and acknowledgements to maelithil because I recently reread "Crow in the Corn".
Fandom: DC Comics
Pairing: Slade/Dick, set between Nightwing 113 and 115 sometime. Refers to Outsiders 21 as well.
Rating/Warnings: R at most. Some kink.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
After the day he's had, Dick is exhausted, and the bed's really not as soft as it feels. Rose was willful, every single thug was armed, and Slade's being especially demanding, and... he's just exhausted.
He's used to being tired. He spent over a year being both a cop and a cape, which definitely kept him busy, not to mention the Titans and then the Outsiders. But he could always keep himself going, back then. Back then, he had... if he thinks about everyone he had then, everything he's lost, he won't be able to keep up this performing smile, and whatever else Slade wants from him tonight he wants that smile.
So Dick presses his head back into the pillow, and tugs at the scarves around his wrists till the burn wakes him up; he props up his smile and thinks about keeping his eyelids up. And nothing else.
Slade has his back to Dick as he sorts through the box at a leisurely pace, and the lamplight casts his scars in high relief. Many of the scars seem to be the same age and roughly parallel, and Dick hazily wonders about, or perhaps imagines, Slade tied to a post and whipped. Maybe one day Dick will ask. Maybe Slade will tell him. Or laugh, and kiss him. Or laugh, and kiss him, and break his neck.
Dick tugs at the scarves around his ankles, not hard enough to make the bedposts creak. He can still feel his toes, but they're tingling a little. The material's probably not silk; it knots even better, even tighter, and if he needs to get free it's going to take awhile. Which is, of course, part of the point.
"Still awake, kid?" Slade's still rummaging; he picks something up, studies it, drops it back into the box with a metallic clink. Dick snorts for a reply, and Slade hums musingly as he picks up something else, folding his big hand around it and putting the box away. He drops his robe carelessly, walking over to the bed, and he never stops being just that big and muscular and imposing, or rather, Dick never stops noticing. Dick looks up, and smiles, and maybe he'll just let himself be turned on, and just have sex till Slade's done with him and he can sleep. And not think.
"You all here, Grayson?" Slade sits down beside Dick, running two big fingers up his arm to his bound wrist. "You seem a little off today."
Dick shrugs, which he knows he can make look pretty good with the restraints, and smiles a little wider. "'M fine. Just a little tied up."
Slade's eye narrows, a smirk or just an examination as he looks at Dick long enough for Dick's heartbeat to speed up despite himself. "Well, we can always fix that."
After all the trouble he went to, to pin Dick down and tie him up? Dick's eyebrows fly up before he can catch them, and now Slade really is smirking. The smirk widens, narrows, and Slade flattens his other hand on Dick's chest, pressing the cool, curved metallic object he's holding against Dick's skin. "In a little while. I have other things to do with this toy first." He pulls his hand up, pulling the thing upright, "D'you like it?" It's got a sharp edge, a sharp point just above Dick's nipple. Dick glances down to see how sharp---
It's a Batarang.
He can't gasp. He really can't gasp. Slade's smile is wrong, there aren't any teeth in it as he leans closer, and Dick knows what voice he's gonna speak with. He shuts his eyes, but Slade drags the point across his nipple, so lightly it makes him shudder all the harder, a bright thread of a scratch as he pulls the Batarang down across Dick's ribs and up and over, stopping right over his racing heart. As Slade leans in close enough to breathe on Dick's skin, close enough to be felt. As he says, in a voice that is not his, is never his, "I got it just for you."
katarik, who'll know why, and with love and acknowledgements to maelithil because I recently reread "Crow in the Corn". Fandom: DC Comics
Pairing: Slade/Dick, set between Nightwing 113 and 115 sometime. Refers to Outsiders 21 as well.
Rating/Warnings: R at most. Some kink.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
After the day he's had, Dick is exhausted, and the bed's really not as soft as it feels. Rose was willful, every single thug was armed, and Slade's being especially demanding, and... he's just exhausted.
He's used to being tired. He spent over a year being both a cop and a cape, which definitely kept him busy, not to mention the Titans and then the Outsiders. But he could always keep himself going, back then. Back then, he had... if he thinks about everyone he had then, everything he's lost, he won't be able to keep up this performing smile, and whatever else Slade wants from him tonight he wants that smile.
So Dick presses his head back into the pillow, and tugs at the scarves around his wrists till the burn wakes him up; he props up his smile and thinks about keeping his eyelids up. And nothing else.
Slade has his back to Dick as he sorts through the box at a leisurely pace, and the lamplight casts his scars in high relief. Many of the scars seem to be the same age and roughly parallel, and Dick hazily wonders about, or perhaps imagines, Slade tied to a post and whipped. Maybe one day Dick will ask. Maybe Slade will tell him. Or laugh, and kiss him. Or laugh, and kiss him, and break his neck.
Dick tugs at the scarves around his ankles, not hard enough to make the bedposts creak. He can still feel his toes, but they're tingling a little. The material's probably not silk; it knots even better, even tighter, and if he needs to get free it's going to take awhile. Which is, of course, part of the point.
"Still awake, kid?" Slade's still rummaging; he picks something up, studies it, drops it back into the box with a metallic clink. Dick snorts for a reply, and Slade hums musingly as he picks up something else, folding his big hand around it and putting the box away. He drops his robe carelessly, walking over to the bed, and he never stops being just that big and muscular and imposing, or rather, Dick never stops noticing. Dick looks up, and smiles, and maybe he'll just let himself be turned on, and just have sex till Slade's done with him and he can sleep. And not think.
"You all here, Grayson?" Slade sits down beside Dick, running two big fingers up his arm to his bound wrist. "You seem a little off today."
Dick shrugs, which he knows he can make look pretty good with the restraints, and smiles a little wider. "'M fine. Just a little tied up."
Slade's eye narrows, a smirk or just an examination as he looks at Dick long enough for Dick's heartbeat to speed up despite himself. "Well, we can always fix that."
After all the trouble he went to, to pin Dick down and tie him up? Dick's eyebrows fly up before he can catch them, and now Slade really is smirking. The smirk widens, narrows, and Slade flattens his other hand on Dick's chest, pressing the cool, curved metallic object he's holding against Dick's skin. "In a little while. I have other things to do with this toy first." He pulls his hand up, pulling the thing upright, "D'you like it?" It's got a sharp edge, a sharp point just above Dick's nipple. Dick glances down to see how sharp---
It's a Batarang.
He can't gasp. He really can't gasp. Slade's smile is wrong, there aren't any teeth in it as he leans closer, and Dick knows what voice he's gonna speak with. He shuts his eyes, but Slade drags the point across his nipple, so lightly it makes him shudder all the harder, a bright thread of a scratch as he pulls the Batarang down across Dick's ribs and up and over, stopping right over his racing heart. As Slade leans in close enough to breathe on Dick's skin, close enough to be felt. As he says, in a voice that is not his, is never his, "I got it just for you."
