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Project Genesis by Silvytabitha
Fandoms: Nightwing (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), DCU, Batman - All Media Types
21 Aug 2026
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Summary
After a night of Slade’s brutal seduction leaves Nightwing marked, he’s kidnapped the next day—and must hide his hickeys and scars before the mercenary realizes his captive and his masked lover are the same man.
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to anyone reading this, this fic was written with generative ai. i know, it sucks to hear. but i thought you should know, so I'm leaving this here until they tag it appropriately.
my evidence: this fic and the only other from this user were posted all at once within days of each other. the comments are moderated. there are several inconsistencies in the story itself that would not have been there if a human had actually written it, as well as repetitive and trite prose that you'd expect from thousands of fanfics slapped into an LLM. oh and also they left a line from the model in the other fic answering the prompt.
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Work Details
Project Genesis by Silvytabitha
Completed: 2026-08-21
Work ID: 91054756Relationship Tags:
Work Summary:
After a night of Slade’s brutal seduction leaves Nightwing marked, he’s kidnapped the next day—and must hide his hickeys and scars before the mercenary realizes his captive and his masked lover are the same man.
(Approximate) Last Read: 2026/08/22
Dick moved through the crowd with the easy grace of someone who’d spent his entire life navigating rooms full of people who wanted him dead. He kept his posture loose, his gait unhurried. A man with nothing to hide and nowhere to be.
“More resistance. More self-righteousness. Nightwing’s reputation precedes him.” Slade leaned against the railing, his posture deceptively relaxed. “The quips. The moral certainty. The way he always has to get the last word.”
“Your heart rate spiked when I grabbed you,” Slade observed, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. “But not in the way it does when someone’s afraid. Adrenaline, yes. Cortisol, yes. But also…” He tilted his head. “Something else.”
The operative sitting across from him was young—mid-twenties, buzz cut, jaw tight with the particular tension of someone trying to impress a legend. His rifle rested across his knees. He watched Dick with the detached attention of a man guarding furniture.
The rhythm was unhurried. Deep. Each thrust a deliberate act of care. Slade's mouth found Dick's—not devouring, not desperate, but tender. A kiss that said you are here, you are safe, you are loved in a language neither of them had ever been good at speaking.