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Dick grunted as the blunt side of a sword slammed into his side, nearly toppling him. Slade’s mask had come off, cracked and weakened by Dick’s escrima–which meant Dick could see the anger on his face as clear as day. His teeth were bared in a snarl, and Dick’s lips drew back to match it, flashing his fangs back at Slade with a growl.
It didn’t start as a challenge fight. None of their fights did–this one began as Dick keeping Slade from his target–but all of them ended as one.
Slade slammed into him, and Dick sacrificed both his escrimas in a move that ended with Deathstroke’s sword skittering over the edge of the roof, though not before it scraped across his back, cutting through his suit and leaving a thin line of red in its wake. Still, it left them hand to hand, which–
Maybe wasn’t the best idea. Slade’s teeth were still bared as Dick’s ribs creaked under the force of his fists. Dick snapped his teeth, the instincts of the alpha inside him urging him to fight, prove his strength.
As a vigilante, Dick and his inner alpha had learned to distinguish between a regular old ‘stop the bad guy from wreaking havoc’ fight and an actual challenge fight. Usually, this was helped by most villains and assorted antagonists wearing scent-blocks. Slade’s were in his mask, but even past that, that learned knowledge had never seemed to apply to fighting with him. Even when they were both working to defend their own interests, it was a challenge.
Which was why Dick bit at thin air as he twisted around, using what leverage he had to push Slade down and slamming his foot on his hand. Slade hissed and yanked it free, but left his glove behind. Not that it mattered–with his healing factor, a bruised or cracked knuckle didn’t slow him down for a second. Dick knew what it took to hurt Slade, and it made him more vicious.
They didn’t talk; Dick was an expert at banter, but this was beyond that, somehow. Something intense was in the air, and Dick was breathing it in. Slade’s eye was gleaming and dark, and Dick felt his own flash in return. Without looking away from Slade’s gaze, he flipped up, spinning over him, ready to land on the other side. Slade reached up to grab him, but the knuckles of his exposed hand just barely brushed over the tear on Dick’s back, a half-second to slow.
Dick’s skin burned. Frothing and deep, spreading over his back like someone had slathered hot wax over his skin, but more. Dick knew what it was instinctively; this kind of shifting pain that went soul-deep could only mean one thing.
A soul mark. Etching lines that he couldn’t even see into his skin. Dick turned to see Slade’s expression echoing his own, widened eyes and naked disbelief. There, on his bared hand, were dark, jagged lines, running across his fingers, along his forearm, like Slade had been hit by lightning.
How could they–they were both alphas. Alpha and alpha soulbonds, as well as omega and omega, were nearly unheard of. Sure, there were a few instances, more urban legend than anything else. It wasn’t the kind of thing he expected, let alone with Slade. And he’d thought–after the few rough fucks they’d had, he figured the slim chance of somehow discovering a soulmate in Slade was gone. After all, they’d touched, but–they hadn’t even stripped entirely, now that Dick thought. And it was the right place at the right time. Most people just reached right place, right time before they’d fucked half a dozen times.
Slade moved first. He always did. He reached for Dick with his newly marked hand, teeth bared, but it wasn’t a snarl anymore, just–possession, almost, and Dick felt a surge of his own rise to match it. His.
They clashed again, slamming into each other like their fight wasn’t long over, Slade’s target forgotten. Dick’s teeth clicked against Slade’s, vying to be the first to draw blood. His instincts were roaring, urging him to do–Dick didn’t even know, but the sharp edge of his fangs nicked the inside of Slade’s lip, and he grinned against his mouth. Slade growled and bit back. Dick clung to him, and when Slade’s arms settled around him, tight and grasping–the touch of Slade’s hand against his back felt electric, and Dick couldn’t deny the jolt of arousal that followed. He rutted against him, and Slade made a low, guttural sound.
Dick didn’t remember the journey from that empty rooftop to a surprisingly nice bed in an apartment that was probably one of theirs, but it certainly happened. The fire between them hadn’t dampened at all–quite the contrary, actually. There was a renewed burst as Slade threw him on the bed, blood beading on his shoulder from a bite Dick barely remembered Slade giving him. Dick attacked Slade in a flurry of torn fabric and scattered armor, and then, like suddenly stepping into the sun, they were skin to skin.
Dick could only make a high, keening sound as Slade dug his hands into Dick’s back, the tender, sparking skin where Dick was–marked. He didn’t even know what his soulmark looked like, but the feeling of Slade touching it was as vivid as Dick could dream of. If Slade had damaged his back before that, Dick couldn’t feel it at all.
They fucked like they fought–like one would think two alphas with a fresh, pulsing bond between them would. Vicious and without surrender, a clashing of strength and passion. But this time, they were not opposing sides; they were one.
Dick didn’t know where his skin met Slade’s, where one of them began and the other ended. It was just Slade, surrounding him, bloodied teeth and blazing eye. It was–utterly unexpected, their bond, but utterly perfect. It felt right, and Dick knew what all the stories were about now. How could he have lived without this?
In the end, Dick lay panting beside him, limbs tangled in the sticky sheets. Slade reached, slow, to tangle a hand in his hair, and Dick let him. Rolled over to press his cheek to his shoulder as Slade’s other hand came to run up and down his back, slow and soft, leaving tingling sensations in its wake. The intensity of it had faded with everything else, but Dick could feel the connection, new and undeniable.
They didn’t speak for a long time. Maybe Slade was just on the verge of sleep–Dick, however, couldn’t keep his mind from running. His soulmate was Slade. Slade, who had tried to kill him countless times, who only had a moral backbone when it suited him, who hurt people and didn’t care. There were bruises on his hips, and Dick found he didn’t mind. Slade had hurt him, regularly and for all the wrong reasons, and Dick didn’t care.
All of it was–Slade was something he shouldn’t want. Shouldn’t need. But now, loose-limbed and sated, he felt safe. It was something that shouldn’t be happening, but it was, and Dick could only press closer to Slade’s side. The asshole wasn’t even breathing hard, like their several scuffles and very thorough fucking hadn’t even worn him out. Fucking enhancements ruined all their fun.
(Though the way he could hold Dick down like Dick couldn’t lift a grown man was slightly more than enjoyable.)
Slade traced the mark on Dick’s back, long, curved lines in both directions. Dick hummed. “What is it?” he said, breaking the silence. He hadn’t exactly had the chance to look in a mirror. Slade was good at describing things when he wanted to be, and Dick–wanted to know what he would say.
Slade was quiet for a while, his touch gentle, and for a moment Dick thought he simply wouldn’t answer, but he did, eventually. “Wings,” he said, his voice low and edged with something soft between them. “Wings, little bird.” This time, when he traced the lines, Dick could picture them–no feathers, but the curve of the edges, flourishes on the ends and arching length, like he could fly.
He felt like it, right now, if he was being perfectly honest. He felt like flying.
“Oh,” he said softly, and turned his head to catch one of Slade’s fingers between his teeth, not hard enough to break skin, but with the prick of his fangs against them. Slade raised a brow, and Dick leaned forward enough to suck his thumb into his mouth.
“Little bird,” Slade rumbled. “Don’t start something you won’t finish.”
Dick bit down, just enough to draw blood, but huffed and withdrew a moment later. Slade might have quite the refractory period, but Dick was rather worn out. He pulled back, and Slade chuckled, a rumbling sound deep in his chest. “I’m not an omega, you know,” Dick said, just in case Slade was getting any ideas.
Slade smirked, glancing at the marks Dick’s teeth had left, healing still but visible by the dried blood they’d left. “Oh, I’m aware.”
Dick grinned, sharp and toothy. “Good.” He pressed closer, halfway onto Slade’s chest, and let himself relax. Slade stroked down his back, and Dick sighed. “Didn’t see this one coming,” he said to Slade’s shoulder.
“Hardly perfect soulmates,” Slade said, and both of them stiffened in time. He thought Slade hadn’t meant to say it, maybe. And–sure, Dick had been thinking it, but to hear it said aloud–soulmates.
Dick bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. His own, Slade’s, all mixed up. “But we are–we’re soulmates,” Dick said, looking up at him.
“We are, little bird,” Slade said, and Dick was leaning up to kiss him on instinct alone. It was soft–no teeth, just the press of their lips together.
“Yeah,” Dick said, and let himself settle, eyes half-shut. “‘M hungry.”
Slade laughed, low and gentle. “Go to sleep. I’ll make breakfast.” Now that was downright domestic, but Dick drifted off before he could comment, drawn under by the warmth of Slade’s skin against his, his breath ruffling Dick’s hair.