#7fic

Dick sleeps as much as he can that weekend, nullifying any spare hour. He always heard that you really can catch up on sleep. Pay off your deficit in one fell swoop. Dick has been digging himself deeper and deeper into the red for a decade, and he has plenty of debt to balance.

It goes like this: sleeping, rising when he has to, eating when he’s fed, and sitting, and laying, and thinking. A new morning has come and gone, but “today” keeps going.

Bruce deposits him in the sun room, saying something about where he’s going that isn’t important enough to comprehend. This isn’t a bedroom, so Dick is content to curl up in a cushioned wicker chair, thumb the file on his lap, and stare out the giant windows.

The garden is dying. The trees around it are already dead, frost-bitten branches doing nothing to hide the muddy grass beyond. Gray lighting washes the whole scene out. Gloomy and cold Gotham winter, and this year hasn’t even given them snow to dress it up yet. Only the pine trees around the edge of the property still look alive, blocking any view of the world outside Bruce’s land.

The thing that looks like Jason is his current minder, over on one of the plush lounge chairs. Another good reason for Dick to keep his eyes on the outside.

The last time they were alone...Ha. Dick thought it might talk to him. Thought there was finally a little brother who wanted to confide in him, or at least that they’d get the belated reunion that had been constantly undercut by hidden identities and crime sprees and urgent distractions. Thought wrong. He was stupid, and he paid the price.

If it tries to lead him somewhere else he won’t go, he tells himself. He can’t do that to Tim. He has to stop letting himself be led. If not to stop his own undoing, then at least to prevent Tim’s.

Tim isn’t here, though. Just Dick and his minder, exactly where Bruce left him, and Dick isn’t getting up to go look. He’s supposed to protect, and he doesn’t...want to. Doesn’t want to get up, to get close, the risk the discovery he’s failed. Again.

yes!! i have been wanting to write something with these two for ages, so thanks for the request!

this is sfw because I wasn’t sure how explicit and/or dark you were looking for, but there is some blood, injury, non-consensual touching, and of course ra’s being a creep. and also it's longer than intended because i'm really bad at keeping myself to short word counts. enjoy!

He can’t feel his fingers anymore.

The bite of metal into his wrists is still sharp and vicious, so that’s delightful, but the painful tingling that rocketed through his fingers has died off. If he focuses hard on twitching them, he gets the dullest blip of sensation, but that’s it. Otherwise, his fingers might as well have packed their bags and run away, leaving him to this shit show.

He should probably look up to make sure they aren’t turning black or something. Check on his wrists, too. The scrapes weren’t deep last he looked, but it’s still a less than ideal place to be bleeding from.

His head is just so heavy, though. The damp hair clinging to his face only seems to weight it down further. He doesn’t even have all his pounds of gear on, no cape nor cowl, not even a shirt, but his body has never felt so heavy. In hindsight, giving up on balancing on his toes was a bad decision. His shoulders and wrists are probably unionizing to lodge a formal complaint about having to hold up the entirety of his body.

He’d just...slipped. And he was tired. And he didn’t have the energy to straighten back up.

Tim has been here for...for long enough he’s not quite sure how long he’s been here. Long enough he should probably check on his fingers again, instead of staring at the blood trails down his legs and under his feet. Probably why he slipped. The bright side of being shirtless is he won’t have to throw a stained shirt away, because these pants are definitely goners.

It’s not much of a bright side.

It’s also, Tim won’t lie, kind of insulting that he got stabbed in the abdomen again, in the exact same spot. At least he doesn’t have another spleen to lose, so it’s fine. Probably. Maybe.

He really hopes it’s fine, because dying so soon after he had a beautiful recovery movie-moment of deciding he wanted to live after all would be a little bit annoying. Plus, of everyone to die to, Ra’s so does not deserve the satisfaction.

Speak of the devil.

“Detective.”

Tim jerks in his bonds—not the most well-thought out move. He hisses as the pain in his wrists flares up. For the first time in uncountable hours, he’s struck by enough energy to force himself onto his toes again. He’d rather not look so pathetically dangley in front of Ra’s.

He didn’t even notice the door open. He might be a little light-headed. Probably, he deduces, from all the blood loss and dehydration. (They don’t call him a genius detective for nothing.)

“Good evening,” Ra’s says. When Tim pulls his head up, there’s a hint of amusement to his expression. Bastard.

What did he say, evening? Is it evening now? Tim would have hoped to either come up with a clever escape attempt or be the subject of a heroic rescue by evening. Unless Ra’s is lying about the time to...be a liar. And fool Tim. For nefarious reasons.

He might be over thinking this.

“Could be better,” Tim rasps.

Ra’s looks perfectly put-together as he meanders closer. This has got to make the top five list for Most Fucked Up Tim Has Been, but for all Ra’s’ expression betrays he might be sightseeing in a rose garden. Tim has studied up enough on captivity and torture to know that’s exactly the point, exaggerating the power dynamic, but it’s still fucking irritating.

“Yes, I must admit you look a little pale,” Ra’s says sympathetically. Considering he’s still wearing the body of his sacrificed albino son, even with the dye-job on his hair, it’s just a little bit ironic.

“Probably all the blood loss,” Tim says, out loud this time. (Genius detective.)

Ra’s stops in front of him. Tim has to lift his head all the way up to a normal level—a near insurmountable task—to see the infuriating little smile on his lips as he observes Tim’s wound. He kind of regrets looking when Ra’s takes his gaze on the scenic route up Tim’s torso before meeting his eyes.

Tim scowls. It would probably be more impressive if he didn’t almost forget to hold his neck up for a second.

“If you’d like to come down...”

“I'm not working for you,” Tim snaps.

He can’t feel his fingers. He knows the cuts are shallow, but his wrists still feel half a second from slicing through. His arms periodically zing up and down with pain; his shoulders are screaming; his head is near-impossible to hold up. His toes hurt. His legs shake. The stab wound on his torso has dulled to an ache, which is probably bad news. Honestly, his lungs aren’t feeling swell either. He’s cold in this little stone room, and he has a bit of a sore throat too.

There’s still zero fucking chance he’s letting Ra’s Al Ghul get his claws in.

The Demon’s Head doesn't blink at his denial, used to it by now. If anything, his face softens. “My work is for a better world, Detective. I would never make you do anything immoral. No murders to mar your conscience, if that’s how you prefer it.”

Liar. Tim says nothing. It won’t help him.

Ra’s takes his chin delicately between fingers. Tim is embarrassed to note he’s holding up most of its weight. The rest of his body stays at a thankfully safe distance, though Tim suspects that may have more to do with Ra’s not getting blood on his robes than any decency.

“There are plenty of ways to serve,” Ra’s says. Like spindly legs of a spider, fingers splay over Tim’s chest, palm tantalizingly warm against the bare skin.

Tim tenses. Knowing exactly how much it will hurt and deciding on it anyway, he shoves himself back.

Pain surges along his arms. Tim grits his teeth, barely hearing the rattling chains above over the roar in his ears. With the way he dangles, he rocks back into place right after, feet scrambling for purchase—but his point is made.

Ra’s’ hand drops. For a split-second, Tim swears he’s going to return it and push the issue, but it stays down.

Tim catches his breath as the man steps back. There went all his remaining energy for the day. Or month. He’d like to go back to his dead dangle again. Well, okay, he’d really like to curl up on the floor. He’s just not willing to make a deal with the devil to get it.

Not yet.

Tim blinks, raising his swimming vision just enough to see Ra’s has backed up to the door. His expressions are hard to read regularly, more so when he’s all blurry. Tim gives up.

“Perhaps next time,” Ra’s voice says, distant and annoying—and just a tiny bit beguiling, as Tim hangs and shivers.

Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con

Relationship: Tim Drake/Damian Wayne

Additional Tags: Reverse Robins, Mental Breakdown, Bondage, Collars, Gags, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Belting, Dark Damian Wayne

Damian is more than ready to take on his father's mantle. He just has to destroy the competition.

-

“I though you would know better by now,” Damian says, frowning at the trickle of blood down Timothy’s hand. Damian had checked the wound, ensured it was not deep or dangerous. Then he left it.

Bruce is typing behind the desk in the study when he approaches. Dick's heart has been stuttering for days, but his hands don't shake. Either he mastered the fury and fear, or he's been so overwhelmed by it his body can no longer conjure a reaction. It doesn't really matter which.

It seems fitting to do this here. This is where Bruce conducts all his non-Batman work in the manor (not to mention a significant part of his brooding). Granted, Bruce's WE “work” most often entails playing up the airheaded rich boy persona, but sometimes he does real work: signs forms, pushes through his charitable measures, juggles stockholders. Negotiates deals.

Bruce doesn't look up when Dick enters, even as the door clicks shut behind him. It's such a petty power play. Dick would roll his eyes, were he capable of sparing an emotion for anything but the conversation ahead.

He stands by the door for a second, in which it becomes clear Bruce intends to continue ignoring him. Dick almost lets him have it. He can sit quietly, try not to chafe under the tension, wait for Bruce to be done. He dismisses the idea right after. If he cedes Bruce the upper hand before they even speak, he has no hope whatsoever. Dick spent one whole semester attending college for the business degree Bruce always wanted him to get, so he knows you're supposed to negotiate from a position of strength.

That's funny.

“Bruce.”

The typing stops. Bruce finally deigns to look up. “I'm working.”

His tone says this is a bad idea. Dick knows this is a bad idea. After the roof, he'd be stupid not to.

“I can see that,” Dick says, proud to maintain a level voice.

“I thought you would have left after Tim,” Bruce interrupts, before he can continue.

“I did.” Dick holds back irritation. He isn't sure which voice is louder: the child in him upset Bruce didn't notice, or the adult in him annoyed Bruce surely did notice and is pretending otherwise. “I just got back.”

He'd sat at the start of the runway after the jet left, like a forlorn puppy waiting for it's family to return. Thirty seconds late, just seconds—

After two hours, it finally occurred to him there was no reason to wait when he'd already lost, and plenty of reason to leave before Bruce returned alone. Jason had apparently already left as well, announcing his own departure for the weekend while Dick wasn't around, to Alfred's clear disappointment. It hadn't been any easier to sleep in Blüdhaven, but at least he'd been able to teach all his classes yesterday and this afternoon.

Tim texted him from the Tower. Safe and sound in San Francisco, surrounded by nigh-invulnerable metas who loved him.

It didn't help any.

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage

Relationships: Damian Wayne/Slade Wilson, past Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, past Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, past Tim Drake/Slade Wilson

Additional Tags: Daddy Kink, Anal Sex, Painful Sex, Size Difference, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Bottom Damian Wayne, Top Slade Wilson

This—this is not supposed to happen. Not to Batman’s heir, not to the Demon’s Head’s. Certainly not to Robin, which is why Wilson is clearly lying.

Dick flips his channel.

“O, do you have a location on Batman or Robin?” Barbara has her own team to manage and tasks to complete, so it's not like she takes a consistent managerial role. They usually only broadcast locations to her when it's a major all-hands-on-deck sort of situation, but it's still possible someone has checked in. Dick can hope.

“No hello?” Babs drawls in his ear. “No 'how's the prettiest hacker in Gotham tonight'? Just a 'snap to, computer girl'?”

“Sorry,” Dick says. He's off his game. Things are just getting back to normal between him and Babs post-breakup, and now is not the time to be taking her for granted. “How is the prettiest hacker in Gotham?”

“Annoyed. Batman and Robin, you say?”

“Yeah.”

Dick should apologize again, but he's too busy holding his breath.

“They're working on their own stuff tonight,” Barbara says, making his shoulders sink, “...but I do have the Batmobile near Fifth and Rogers.”

“You're the best,” says Dick.

“And don't forget it. Anything I should be worried about? Want me to ping 'em?”

“No, definitely not. Thank you.” Dick hangs a hard left, swerving towards his new destination.

“You sure you're alright, Hunk Wonder?” He can hear the tapping of keys, slow and casual like she's just messing around. At least someone's having a nice night.

“Yeah,” Dick lies. “Listen...I'll talk to you later, okay, O?”

for the WIP game. Thanks for asking!

The first D is for Dick, because Dick is so important in my esoteric system of abbreviations that he only needs one initial. DtT is for ‘Deathstroke the Terminator,’ because S or SW conflicted with already claimed names, and he was first introduced to the esoteric system of abbreviations when I started reading new teen titans, back before they quietly dropped the “the terminator” after a certain popular movie came out. (These asks now also come with random comics trivia.) So this is sladedick that is consensual but not particularly healthy or safe, probably because Dick likes hurting himself...

Contrary to popular rumor, Dick is neither promiscuous nor stupid. In his better days, he's a devout monogamist. And you don't become Robin, don't go through years of Batman's intensive training, without the smarts to back it up.

He's had some dumb ideas, though.

Slade flings him down with inhuman strength. Another day, this would be the start of a new fight in their unending antagonism. It should be the start of a fight; that would be the only rational explanation here. But today, Dick is being flung onto a cheap motel bed, springs creaking loudly as he bounces, and all he does is yank Slade down after him. The sharp pain of teeth in his lip as Slade lands on top of him is viciously satisfying, spiteful towards no one.

Dick slams his elbow into the nearest face. It hits harder than strictly necessary, but somehow he can't pluck up any sympathy for the poor little human trafficker. A broken cheekbone and rough collision with the ground are more than deserved. The fight wraps up quicker than he'd like, with a few more good hits from him and absolutely no good hits against him. Dick tells himself he's not upset about that.

When all the bastards are out cold, tied up, or both, he grapples to the nearest roof and sends in a call to the police for pick-up. Dick still wouldn't trust cops for any more sensitive situation—certainly not Blüdhaven cops—but after his brief foray as a spy-of-sorts on the force got the more corrupt half of officers fired, he can at least count on them to arrest the guilty.

Dick takes a deep breath, drinking in the sounds of the city. It's midnight, but he's already five hours into patrol. All the cases he planned to tackle tonight are wrapped up, nothing to do but swing on and search for the next danger.

He doesn't teach any classes on Monday. Seemed like such a great idea at the time. Dick was lucky to find a trapeze-related job in Blüdhaven at all, and that they were only hiring part-time was a bonus. Trying to work full-time, watch over Blüdhaven alone as Nightwing, and run his team almost killed him.

He's doing better now. Making healthy choices. Finally had the good sense to step back from the ill-fitting Outsiders team, finally put aside his pride to avoid a full-time job when Bruce's money is happy to cushion any fall, finally prioritized things like sleep and food and personal well-being. He let himself spiral for months after—after everything that happened. Blockbuster. Tarantula. Himself. It's been a breath of fresh air to make healthy choices again.

Right now, Dick would rather be working himself to death.