Title: An Ecstacy of Fumbling
Summary: Slade hasn’t killed anyone yet. Not that he knows of.
Character: Slade Wilson, pre-Deathstroke
Rating: R
Word Count: 1824
AN: For
Katarik, whose enthusiasm about converting others to Slade-love ought to be rewarded. Title, predictably enough, is taken from Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est.”
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An Ecstacy of Fumbling )
Comments 14
He's so... oh, Nokomis, he's so *young*. He's a baby. (He's Jason in a more obvious war.)
In his mind his fingers went much, much higher on her thigh than they ever had in that soda parlor booth, and even if he wasn’t quite sure what a woman felt like he knew it had to be as sweet as caressing the trigger on a M1.
The Slade in my head first had sex when he was thirteen or so, with the sixteen-to-nineteen-year-old girl down the block, but I believe this, too. And !!! to the trigger. !!!
He thinks, briefly, of the silence of an empty church as he enters the blanketed-off partition in the makeshift brothel, where a girl who only knows ten words in English, all filthy or about money, mechanically teaches him about instinct and lust and hot pleasure.
She doesn’t make him a man. The war’s already done that.
*SHRIEKS*
Oh, honey. Oh, *Slade*.
“Why don’t they get the fucking Flash to come over here and take out the commies? It’d only take him a minute,” grumbles one soldier ( ... )
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With her *smile* and touching him like she touched his father and APPLE PIE, DUDE, I may have actually let out a small shriek of "American as apple pie!" and also *home*. Too-small bed and the kicback and the bullets and and and.
Yipes.
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And, well, if it wasn't disturbing it wouldn't be right, let alone written well.
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I will spend the rest of my writing career figuring out how you did that with one fucking word. Made it clear that the bed not fitting has nothing to do with size.
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Thank you so much! I'm glad the progression of the story allowed for that sentence to take the connotation that I was aiming for. :D
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