Blazon (DC Comics, hard R)

[browngirl]

Title: Blazon
Fandom: DC Comics
Pairing: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Rating: hard R
Summary: Then Slade pauses, puffs a breath over Dick's wet skin, and starts to laugh.
Disclaimer: No versions of these characters belong to me, nor does their fictional universe.
Beta Reader of Benificence: solvent90
Dedicated To: petronelle (this is, somewhat, a sequel to her "That ink may character") and katarik because everything I write about Slade is for her.



Kick, feint, slam, and Dick's getting intimately acquainted with the cinderblock wall; his lungs are compressed, his spine feels like it's telescoping, his stubble must be embedding into the paint. Not to mention Slade pressing every inch of his back, gently twisting his arms behind him. Relatively speaking.

"Mmm," Slade rumbles, a hot purr on the Dick's nape. "Not bad, kid." His fist is an iron shackle holding Dick's wrists to the small of his back. "I like that move." He pushes his thigh another couple inches, maybe three, rocking Dick up onto the balls of his feet, forcing Dick to fight that much harder for his next breath against the crush of the wall and Slade's equally inflexible bulk. "How's my counter?"

"Effective," Dick is all can say without gasping. Slade's thigh is like a tilted balance beam, hard and broad enough to stand on if Dick wiggled up and twisted out of the hold. "I'll teach it to Rose." If he could just catch his breath, if his heart weren't racing, if Slade weren't up against his back tight enough for his easy breathing to press Dick rhythmically against the wall. "Not this way, though."

Slade laughs low over the back of Dick's neck, close enough for a tickle of beard. "And why not?" He shifts sideways this time as well as up, pushing Dick to his toes, and this probably isn't a spar anymore. "Might make her pay attention."

"Because." Dick stops when Slade licks the back of his neck, ruffling the short hairs there, rather than let his voice shake with the rest of him. His head is starting to fuzz around the edges; he could go awhile longer without a real breath, but it's getting to the point where he'd rather not.

"Because, Grayson?" Slade leans back just far enough to stroke his other hand up over Dick's head, nearly spanning it from ear to burning ear, intolerably gently; Dick holds himself stiff against trembling or pushing into the touch, until Slade grabs a fistful of his hair and he can relax into the pull as Slade bends his head forward.

Slade kisses the back of his neck, slow and wet, and Dick gulps cool air, forcing his lungs to expand against the uncontrollable, breathless shiver. "Be---" His voice teetering on the edge of cracking, Dick grits his teeth, doesn't whimper despite the heat streaming down his spine, and tries again. "Because I don't want you to slice off my balls." Dick smirks to go with the snide tone, because even facing away he knows Slade can tell.

Slade doesn't lift his mouth when he laughs; his skin tingling as Slade chuckles, Dick swallows hard against whimpering again. "Don't worry," Slade murmurs, to Dick, into him. "I like your balls right where they are." He bites down, a long slow press of hard teeth, and Dick probably shouldn't blame the spar for the way he's panting, the blood speeding under his skin, the burn spilling down from his scalp with every tug. Slade's grip loosens, and Dick knows he's being humored but he twists his hands free anyway, so forcefully he nearly overbalances, swaying and pressing them to the wall when Slade pulls down on his tee, following the collar with his mouth, beard and lips and teeth between Dick's shoulder-blades much more palpable than the collar pressing on his throat. Slade's rumble echoes in Dick's gut, he tugs Dick's hair a little harder and lets go as he drops to his knees, yanking down on the tee so it rips with a loud snarl.

Dick knows his dizziness isn't from lack of breath. His spine wants to arch into every bite as Slade traces a zigzag down his back, but he's not so far gone he's forgotten the concept of shame. He keeps still, flattening his palms against the painted cinderblocks, grimacing as Slade peels down his sweats and presses teeth into the muscle above his hip. Slade bites him again where the waistband was, growling a warm noise of enjoyment that shades into a chuckle when Dick bangs his fist on the wall. Dick doesn't let himself bang his forehead as well, and if he tries to curse he might just end up begging; he's concentrating on not moaning when Slade pulls his mouth away, on not saying "don't stop" when Slade leans back.

Then Slade pauses, puffs a breath over Dick's wet skin, and starts to laugh, big and loud, all the way from his gut.

What? Dick twists, and Slade sets one hand to the small of his back but doesn't really press down. He's too busy laughing, rocking back on his knees, craggy face creased with merriment. "Wha---" Dick sputters, and Slade looks up at him from a slitted eye surrounded by crinkles, still laughing as he rotates his hand a few degrees, pivoting it around a central point. Slade's fingertips skim the shape of a dimple, and Dick tries to remember what scars might be under the middle of his palm--- oh. Damn. The tattoo. Babs had laughed too when she saw it, shaking her head at him. Nobody else has noticed, until now.

Slade is still laughing, leaning his sweat-damp hair against Dick's back. "Oh, Grayson," he gasps, and Dick isn't sure it's a point to make Slade breathless or points off that he's blushing because of the reason. "An owner's tag?"

"It's a---" No, Dick can't say, 'mole', even before Slade looks up at him again, cheerfully dubious. He doesn't even say, 'please!'; he just waggles his eyebrows, smirking, and Dick is way too old to blush like this.

"Actually," Rough callouses scrape over Dick's damp skin as Slade shifts his hand, pressing his thumb to the tiny shape. "I'm a bit surprised this doesn't have 'return if found' underneath." He rubs it, smirking wider. "Maybe 'Cash reward offered', eh?"

Dick's blush pours down his neck and over his chest, leaving him hot and shaking and pissed off, fists clenched as tight as his ribcage. He won't do himself any favors by trying to kick Slade; instead he growls and twists away, sliding along the wall and skipping back. "It was a teenage whim," he snarls. "My whim. That's all."

Slade is still snickering as if Dick's the funniest thing he ever saw. "You sure about that, kid? No one else has one? Checked your little brother's neck lately, or that pixie Batgirl's shoulder? Or maybe you've all got matching tramp stamps." Dick's still struggling after a better comeback than, 'how would you know?', not least since he really doesn't want an answer to that, when Slade shifts out of his easy posture, sitting up a little straighter on his knees, back stiffening just enough. He sets his jaw, and Dick knows what's coming, but he's looking right at Slade, disheveled and damp from the spar. It won't work. Dick crosses his arms skeptically, feeling better than he has in hours. Maybe he'll even get some sleep tonight.

So Slade winks at him and says, low and deep, "close your eyes." Dick's eyelids were heavy already, and if he let himself rationalize that'd be why they drift shut. But he doesn't give himself excuses anymore, not until he earns his life back, and he's already steeling himself to shove them open again when he hears, "Come here." And he knows Slade is the one waiting for him three steps away, using a voice that is--- that isn't his. But Dick still twitches from his head to his feet to his cock, so hard even boxers feel binding, and he still takes that step.

Whenever Slade uses this voice on him he twitches down to his soul, which is really nothing less than he deserves, as Slade grabs his hips in big hands --- bare hands, he makes himself feel --- and pushes him against the wall, curving broad calloused fingers around his ass, peeling down his pants and shorts. "Mine," Dick hears, in a growl that shouldn't be as perfect as it is; he reminds himself the hair under his hands is the opposite of black, he deliberately finds the eyepatch strap and tugs it. It's Slade's chuckle over his belly, Slade's hot breath and hotter tongue on his thigh, and when Dick hears "My boy," he clamps his teeth on the 'yes' in his throat. Even if his groan is as bad as an assent, even if Slade chuckles all the deeper around him, even if Slade's trigger fingertip presses hard over the bat on Dick's back.