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green-eyedfirework · 4 months

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Dick slowly pulled the longsleeve on, keeping his movements even to avoid flinching or showing a grimace of pain on his face. His teammates wouldn't care if he was injured--would, in fact, sneer at him worse, though Dick could feel Desmond's eyes on him, relentless in smug satisfaction.

The Bludhaven Blockbusters had lost, not that it mattered much to them in the standings. It was a well-fought game--the Blockbusters had a great offense, courtesy of Dick, but the Jokers' defensive lineup was no, ha, joke. The score had been close, no team getting more than a two-point lead, until the last period, where Desmond let in an astonishing number of goals.

Almost like he'd been paid off to do so.

"Ready to make up for our loss, Grayson?" Someone wolf-whistled from the other side of the locker room. "You have to be good for something, and clearly winning isn't it."

Dick had scored four goals despite the Jokers' defensemen attacking him like a school of piranha on chum. The fact that they'd marked him so closely had let the rest of the line-up score as well. Desmond was the one who lost the game.

Not that Dick was stupid enough to say that out loud. He was well aware he had no friends here.

Dick finished changing into the longsleeve and sweatpants and closed his locker before walking out of the room. His side throbbed with fierce intensity on every step and he had to force himself not to limp. He was pretty sure he'd broken something when he'd been shoved against the boards, elbow slamming into his side, but there was no way he was going to go to the medic to get it checked out.

He'd get this over with and ice it in his hotel room. Along with the rest of his injuries. And whatever else he picked up along the way.

"What took so long?" Redhorn barked the moment he stepped out. "Come on, they're waiting." He marched off, not looking to see if Dick was following, and Dick had to jog to keep up.

His whole body ached, but nothing as much as the hollow inside his chest. Dick loved hockey. He loved the ice. He loved the game, as brutal as it was, didn't mind limping away with a broken rib or five in exhilaration. He'd been prepared to accept the messy politics of the game, the omnipresent corruption, the money, the paparazzi, and even the more unsavory aspects, like the winner's room that was all but an open secret in the league.

Dick didn't think he liked hockey any more.

The ice was no longer an escape, winning didn't bring any joy, and Dick could feel a part of himself get leached away as he fell over and over in the same trap, stuck in the mire instead of skating above it. And all because of one scorned woman.

"Richard," the low voice called out from the darkened corridors. Dick flinched, but he managed to suppress the hiss as his chest tightened. Redhorn paused as the woman unfolded herself from the shadows, striding forward with a bright red smile. "Mi amor, you played so well today," the woman hummed, catching his face and kissing both cheeks. Dick didn't move, carefully frozen still. "It's such a shame we lost, no?"

Dick didn't say a word. In a world of sharks, Catalina Flores was the biggest one in the shiver. Desmond's orders had probably come directly from her.

"It is a shame," Catalina murmured, voice dropping even lower as a manicured fingernail stroked down his cheek. "I wish you did not have to do this, Richard." Lie. "Won't you change your mind, mi amor? Come with me and I promise you'll never have to do this again."

Dick stepped back, controlled so it didn't look like he was jerking himself free of her grip. "No," he said, the same thing he said every time she made this offer. Even the first time he could tell she was bad news, but he didn't realize how bad until he'd seen the consequences of spurning her.

Catalina's smile dropped away to a hard look and flashing eyes. "Very well," she said, voice cold. "Enjoy your time with Wilson, then."

Dick had to fight not to blanch. Wilson? Slade Wilson? One of the oldest players in the league, still at the top of his game, strong and fast enough that rumors of doping had swirled unconfirmed for years? The Jokers' star defenseman, and the very same defenseman that Dick had outwitted with a flashy trick to get his fourth goal?

He could still remember the seething fire in Wilson's eyes. The man had checked him twice as hard after Dick had shot the puck through his legs, and he was the reason half of Dick's left side felt like it'd been crushed. And that had been Wilson on the ice, with restraint.

Dick felt faint. But Redhorn was moving so Dick had to follow behind him, leaving Catalina and her burning glare behind. The numbness was coming on fast this time and Dick welcomed it, cocooning himself in the fog so he didn't end up hyperventilating.

It had been a couple of weeks since the Blockbusters had lost a game, since Dick had been on the receiving end of hatred and not just scorn, and a part of him wondered how long he could survive this.

Catalina wasn't going to stop. She clearly wasn't getting tired of him, and his frequent rejections were just making her angry. Maybe he should give in, accept whatever protection she offered and sell his soul.

He was already in hell anyway.

They approached a plain door and Dick suppressed the panic and hung on to the numbness. It was getting easier and easier to draw himself down into it, and harder and harder to come out. "Get to the hotel when you're done," Redhorn growled, turning away without a glance. "The team's leaving at six in the morning."

That was it. No instructions on how he was supposed to get to the hotel, or what would happen if he was late, or any kind of support at all. Just abandonment in the middle of the Jokers' stadium. Dick luckily knew his way around Gotham, but he wasn't sure how many pieces Wilson would leave him in.

Dick waited until the sound of Redhorn's footsteps had faded away before he reached out and knocked on the door.

The sound felt muted. Disconnected. Everything was moving a step behind his mind and Dick blinked when the door opened to a silver-haired man nearly twice his size.

Part of Dick was fascinated by the disparity. As a winger, Dick was smaller than his teammates, built for agility and not so much for slamming people against the boards. Wilson was clearly built for his job, a steel wall of muscle towering above him, with ice blue eyes scanning over Dick before settling on his face. "Come inside," Wilson said.

The room was tamer than most others Dick had seen, looking more like a hotel room than a sex dungeon. There was a drawer set next to the bed that was clearly for supplies, and a mini fridge, and what appeared to be an attached bathroom. Dick followed Wilson all the way to the bed and stopped when Wilson turned to face him.

"So, Bludhaven's hotshot new left wing," Wilson said. This time, his scan was more of a leer, gaze dragging over his body. "Think those flashy tricks of yours are cute, kid?"

Dick didn't answer. He knew better than to engage. Wilson already wanted a punching bag, he didn't need to make things worse.

"I'm surprised no one's beaten that out of you yet," Wilson mused. "Though I suppose it's my turn to give it a go."

Dick didn't back away as Wilson stalked closer, no matter how much he wanted to.

"You shot four goals," Wilson said, eyes burning. "How about we start with payback for each one?"

Wilson's grip was stronger than Catalina's, easily shoving him back against the bed as he bent down. His kiss was equally aggressive, harsh and plundering, and Dick retreated deeper into the fog and let it happen.

There was no point to the fear, it wouldn't save him, it didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. All Dick could do was try to brace for the pain that was going to follow.

Wilson shoved, hard, and Dick fell back on the bed, sinking instantly into the soft material. He barely managed to struggle up on his elbows before Wilson crawled on after him, straddling his thigh and shoving him back down, big hands wrapping around his ribs.

Dick couldn't help the gasp of pain.

The grip disappeared immediately, but the throbbing pain was high and searing and Dick instinctively, ineffectually, tried to curl up, hand pressed to his ribs and blinking against his prickling eyes. Fuck, that hurt, and Dick was suddenly concerned about his ability to take this punishment. They hadn't even gotten started.

"What happened?" Wilson demanded, still straddling Dick. "Are you injured?"

"I'm fine," Dick said thickly, or tried to say, the pain made everything even more disconnected.

Wilson just scoffed, tugging at his shirt. "Get this off and let me see. I don't want your team to accuse me of damaging their precious star forward."

The numbness made it hard to muddle through that sentence as Dick obediently tried to pull his shirt off. Was Wilson saying he wasn't going to injure him? Clearly he didn't know the priorities of Blockbusters' management very well, which was great for Dick if it meant Wilson wasn't going to be that rough.

Dick hissed as he tried to pull the shirt up, it was more difficult when he was practically pinned to the bed, and he ended up letting go and trying to breathe past the black spots in his vision when the pain grew too large to ignore.

"Christ, Grayson," the harsh voice said as Dick stared at the ceiling and tried to blink the stars out of his eyes. "Why didn't you get this treated?"

"It's fine," Dick said, and had to stifle a gasp as Wilson pressed down against the throbbing ache.

"You're black and blue all over, and you haven't applied anything. Why didn't you go to the medic first?" There was something approaching alarm in Wilson's voice.

"I'm fine," Dick repeated. Amy would've slipped some painkillers in his bag and he could ice it when he got back. "Why do you care?" Dick couldn't stop himself from saying. "You're the one that caused it."

Silence.

That was a stupid thing to say. Especially when he was flat on his back underneath the defenseman, utterly at his mercy. A slow, creeping cold slithered in past the numbness and Dick couldn't even shiver.

Wilson hadn't moved. His fingers were still resting lightly on what was probably a black splotch on Dick's chest, just waiting to dig in. Dick had the sudden--and chilling--realization that the state of his body probably gave Wilson a very clear picture of how little Blockbusters' management cared about his injuries, as long as he could still skate.

"Look, can you just get on with it?" Dick said, brain-to-mouth filter completely on vacation.

The fingers moved up, skating across his ribs up to his collarbone. "I didn't cause this," Wilson said, quiet.

Dick didn't know what he was pointing to. He tried to crane his neck past the balled-up fabric of his shirt to see, but the movement just pulled at his ribs.

"The one that looks like someone tried to take a bite out of you," Wilson clarified. "What the hell, Grayson? Got a vampire partner you haven't mentioned?"

"Don't have a partner," Dick exhaled, flinching as Catalina's image popped before his eyes. He thought he knew what Wilson was pointing to, but a lot of the Blockbusters liked to use teeth. Liked to mark him.

"Then who the hell did this to you?" A pause, and Wilson's voice grew darker. "The Blockbusters haven't lost a game in weeks."

Dick exhaled and reached for the numbness again. It flooded him, stronger than before, until it no longer mattered that he was pinned underneath a man that intended to fuck him as payback for scoring past him. "Doesn't matter," he said, voice light and almost floaty.

"What doesn't matter?" Wilson sounded thoroughly pissed off now, but that was a problem for Future Dick. Present Dick was dissociating too hard to care.

"Winning or losing," Dick said. Introduce the idea of sex for punishment, normalize it, and people would twist it for all manner of things. Winning just meant that Dick would go to the person on the Blockbusters' line-up that wanted him, and there were a lot of people that wanted him.

Wilson's fingers disappeared and his weight shifted off. Dick waited for him to come back, another hard kiss, more bruising touches, more pain. He wondered if he could get back to the hotel before six. He wondered about how Bruce was doing, whether he watched Dick's games or just blocked out all mention of him after Dick had left his coaching to make it on his own. He wondered if it would be this bad on any other hockey team.

He wondered if he could go back in time, to little eight-year-old Dick Grayson who loved the ice, and shake him and tell him not to go into hockey.

Wilson was taking an awfully long time. Dick lifted his head up, and lifted all the way up to sitting when he didn't spot the defenseman anywhere in the room.

A bang of the door showed where he’d gone. Wilson was glowering now, fury roiling off of him like a stormcloud, but Dick could only stare, unconcerned. He didn't even flinch when the man advanced on him.

"Get up," Wilson ordered harshly, pulling Dick to his feet and tugging his shirt back down. "Come with me."

Dick didn't try to fight the casual manhandling and merely trotted after Wilson.

They were leaving the room. Dick didn't understand why, and everything was moving too slow for him to form the words to ask. Wilson seemed to know where he was going, darting frequent glances back as if to check that Dick was still there, and Dick followed him, confused and unable to care.

The hallways weren't familiar, but they were starting to get noisy and when Wilson pushed through a door to the sound of loud conversations, Dick realized he'd brought him to the Jokers' locker room.

The thought should've caused shrieking alarm. Instead, all Dick could feel was a dull pang as he obediently followed Wilson inside.

"Done that quick?" someone jeered as they strode further into the locker room--the majority of the team was still here and Dick's gaze skipped past faces, deliberately not counting them. "Oooh," there was a chorus of wolf whistles as they spotted him behind Wilson. "Did you bring him to share?"

Everything felt so far away. Even the ground. Dick felt like he was falling and falling.

"Shut up," Wilson snapped. "And go get Fries." Wilson turned back to Dick and pushed him back to an empty bench. "You, sit down."

There was another round of heckling. "Did you break him already?" someone laughed, followed by crude comments about their relative sizes.

Wilson ignored them, crouching in front of Dick. "Can you raise your arms?" he asked. Dick started to lift them but they started trembling the moment they reached shoulder level and Wilson grabbed his arms and pulled them down. "Never mind," he said, "lean forward and duck your head."

Dick did as he was told, forehead hovering next to Wilson's shoulder as the man curled his fingers in the back of Dick's shirt and pulled it up. He managed to get it off without any input from Dick, and Dick watched as his arms speckled with gooseflesh.

He didn't feel cold. He didn't feel anything.

Dick didn't hear laughter anymore. There was a low whistle and footsteps and suddenly a small crowd surrounding Dick and Wilson. Their faces were all blurry. Dick didn't try to make them out.

"Damn, Wilson, what did you do?" someone asked, hushed, and there was a minor scuffle when Wilson aimed an elbow at the speaker.

"Fries is on his way," another voice called out.

"Why didn't you just take him to his own team?" someone else muttered.

"Couldn't find them," Wilson said, voice hard and flat.

More silence.

Another voice, quiet. "Jones said that he didn't see any of them still here when he left."

A round of sharp inhales and low what the fucks. "They just left him?" someone asked, sounding horrified.

Wilson was watching him, stare narrowed and intense. Dick held his gaze, still and quiet, waiting pliantly. His eyes were a cold blue with flecks of gray. He had wrinkles on his face. His hair wasn't actually all gray, some of it was a blonde so light it was indistinguishable at first glance.

"Something's wrong with him," someone said abruptly.

"Uh, yeah, we can see that something's wrong with him--"

"No, I meant, look--" something snapped in front of Dick's face. He blinked but didn't move. "See? He hasn't said anything since he got here. He hasn't even twitched."

"Wilson, what the fuck did you do?!" the tone was higher, harsher. Wilson broke his stare with Dick and straightened to turn on the speaker, an argument of growls and hisses.

Someone else settled in front of Dick, bald, with a crinkled frown on his face. "Hello, my name is Victor Fries," he said, voice slow and calm. "Can you tell me where you're injured?"

Where wasn't Dick injured was a better question. Dick mutely pointed to the giant developing bruise on his side, because that was what had caught Wilson's attention.

Dick didn't flinch when Fries began prodding at the wound, tiny jolts of pain fizzling out in the numbness. Fries frowned, and then frowned even deeper when he met Dick's gaze. Dick didn't realize that the volume of the argument between the Jokers had risen and fallen until someone abruptly sat down on the bench next to him.

He turned, blinking at Wilson. Wilson glowered back. "Well?" he rumbled, turning the glare to Fries.

Fries looked upset. "Richard--can I call you Richard?" He waited for Dick's slow nod to continue. "Do you know where you are?"

Of course Dick knew. "Jokers' locker room," he rasped. There was abrupt silence, which was the only reason he realized how noisy the room was before then.

"That's great," Fries smiled tightly. "Are you feeling cold?"

Dick looked down at his goosebumps. "No," he answered honestly.

Wilson made a low growling sound. There was a scuffle of movement and something soft hit Dick in the face. It was the purple and black of the Jokers' colors and Dick stared at Wilson when the man wrapped it around his shoulders.

"Richard," Fries said, and Dick's gaze swung back to him, ignoring the towel. "Judging by the bruising, I think you have some broken ribs, though we'll need an X-ray to make sure. I've been informed that your team has already left, so I can drive you to the hospital and you can call them to meet you there--"

"No." Dick's fingers were trembling. He stared at them, lost in the shudders.

"Excuse me?"

"No hospital." Dick had to clear out his throat. "I'm fine." He was so tired. Everyone was staring at him, and he didn't know why. He just wanted this night to be over.

"Richard, you really need to get it checked out--"

"I said I'm fine."

Wilson scoffed loudly at that. "You're not fine," he said, daring Dick to argue.

Dick had to let go of the numbness, pushing up to his feet, but exhaustion swooped in to take its place, leaving him ragged and still distant. Clearly Wilson didn't like the bruises, but there wasn't anything Dick could do about that.

"You don't get to tell me that," Dick said evenly, watching Wilson's eyes flash and knowing he'd be paying for that soon enough. "You won. You get the night and nothing else. So either take your spoils or leave me alone."

The locker room was dead silent. Dick realized he had a towel around his shoulders, one of the big, soft, fluffy ones, and he suppressed the urge to huddle further in it. It was cold and he had to fight not to shiver.

There was probably a more diplomatic way to play this, he could've gotten that ride and then ditched them there, but Dick was so very tired. He just wanted it over with.

"Fine," Wilson snapped. Some of his teammates made protesting sounds, but Wilson levered up, shooting them all dark looks. "Fries, give me some painkillers and an ice pack." The medic mutely did as he was told, shooting Dick undefinable looks. "Come on, Grayson, let's get back to the room. Can't miss out on my spoils."

He twisted the words into a nasty sneer. Dick would've felt afraid if he had the energy to, but he didn't even have enough to imagine what Wilson had planned. He just followed the man silently back through the same hallways, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, until they were back next to the bed.

"Take these." Wilson handed Dick the painkillers and a bottle of water. Dick thought about pointing out that Wilson didn't have the authority to drug him either, but lost the impulse under the exhaustion. He swallowed the pills.

"Now get in bed."

Dick crawled up on the bed. "Do you want me to take off my pants?" he asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

"No." Wilson casually manhandled him until Dick was on his back, on a pillow, watching Wilson draw the covers back.

Wilson got in after him, and pressed the folded towel to Dick's ribs--Dick hissed at the sudden shock of ice, but then gradually relaxed as the numbing set in.

"What do you want me to do?" Dick said, or thought he said. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his attention focused on Wilson. The man was shifting on the bed, sitting next to him, drawing the covers over them, a warm, burning presence at Dick's side.

"Close your eyes," came the order. Dick followed it. Maybe it would be easier if he wasn't watching.

He didn't know when the darkness slipped to unconsciousness.

#my snippets #sladick #hockey au #winner's room #dubcon #protective slade

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