"Prince Richard," said the cold, cruel general, mouth twisted into a smirk and one blue eye icy cold, "Well, I suppose you aren't a prince anymore."
Dick kept his mouth shut, and hoped that the others kept their mouths shut too. Jason, who was the first one he'd worry about, was gone, disappeared into the night with Tim on the hunt for ghosts. Cass was halfway across the land, too far to be hurt, which left Damian and Stephanie. He could trust Steph to keep Damian in line. He had to.
"If only looks could kill," Slade laughed, and his men laughed with him. The hall was full of them, of his warriors, menacing the remainder of Dick's paltry court. The representative from Nanda Parbat was watching intently. Dick wasn't imagining the smile on his face. "What's the matter, Prince Richard? Not enjoying yourself?"
Dick felt sick. Sick and numb. He had been castellan of Gotham for a few paltry months before losing it. Bruce would be so ashamed.
"It appears that the prince has lost his tongue," Slade laughed, beckoning Dick closer. Dick knew it wasn't worth it to disobey.
Slade waited until Dick was within arm's reach of the throne before grabbing him and forcing him closer. Dick struggled for an instant before he remembered where he was, and let Slade drag him forward.
The kiss was savage and domineering, Slade's mouth hot and devouring as he pulled Dick fully into his lap, forcing him to straddle the general as he submitted to the kiss. His cheeks burned when he felt the hands on his ass.
"No, tongue's there all right," Slade called out when he finally pulled back. "And I now I definitely know why there are so many odes to the prince's ass." He paired it with a pinch. "A big castle and a pretty prince in my lap, what more could I want?"
Slade's men were jeering, and Dick didn't dare turn around to look at Damian and Steph. If Slade wanted—better him than them. Please not them.
~#~
Dick shifted on his knees, hands balled into fists by his side, not looking up as the general conducted the final preparations for seizing the castle. Dick didn't want to see Slade. He didn't want to acknowledge any unspoken order the man would give with Dick here, kneeling between his legs, inches away from his own throne.
Please let Damian not be watching this. Please, please, let Steph be covering his eyes, Damian shouldn't see this, he was just a child—
"I have to say," Slade mused, loud enough for the whole hall to hear, "I could get used to a sight like this."
A hand tightened in Dick's hair and he let himself be pulled up, pliant. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't cry.
The man's expression was more inscrutable this time. "All done taking your kingdom," he said, voice heavy with implication. "Now just to take its king."
Dick locked his jaw. He would not cry. He would not cry.
"Someone go fetch a crown," Slade got up, dragging Dick up with him. "I've always wanted to fuck a prince." The jeers in the hall grew louder. "The rest of you can take whatever spoils you like. We won't be staying long."
They never did. They conquered, they looted, and they went on their merry way, a vicious band of mercenaries with no code, no honor, no loyalty.
"Please," Dick finally unstuck his mouth to say, "my siblings. Please don't—"
"The little prince and his handmaid will be fine," the general snorted, still dragging Dick along. "You really aren't very bright, are you."
Something hot and thick crawled into Dick's throat at the insult given so bluntly. If Dick had been smarter, he could've protected Gotham, if Dick had been a better leader, if Dick had just crowned himself king—
He could feel himself start to go numb. Distant. He barely registered Slade reaching his bedchamber, or shoving him inside, or the man locking the door behind him.
Overkill, Dick thought dazedly, at the numerous locks on the door.
Dick stumbles back. Away from Slade. From the man who will—who was planning to—who—
There was a crown in Slade's hand. Dick didn't know who gave it to him. Slade steps forward and Dick steps back, until he hits the edge of the bed, until there's nowhere to run.
Slade drops the crown on his head with a sardonic smile. It's the actual crown. Gotham's crown, to be worn only by its ruler. It's of Gotham, the weight heavy on Dick's head, it's the literal symbol of his country. And Dick is going to get fucked wearing it.
It feels....really heavy. Dick is actually developing a headache. He raises a hand to take it off but Slade catches it and forces it down. "No," the general says sharply.
Dick should obey. Dick has to obey. But it's getting acutely painful and he fights against Slade's grip, trying to free his hands or toss the crown off or something to prevent this searing pain.
"It hurts," Dick gasps, vision blurry. The room is spinning.
"Maybe if you'd just bloody crowned yourself at the start, it wouldn't have to be this way," says an unsympathetic voice, before the whole room goes dark.
