Archive of Our Own

It never really leaves Jason's mind. It's kind of hard for it to, with the… 'package' Deathstroke sent him now living in a very locked drawer, and very much out of the package itself. It's not that he's actually, like, getting ready or 'practicing' or anything it's just… It's good quality stuff, and it seems like a shame to just let it sit there and collect dust. (And no one will ever know any fucking differently, if he has anything to say about it. He is not warming up for Deathstroke the fucking Terminator's next visit to Gotham. He's not doing this for any other reason than because it feels good, and anyone that suggests differently can fucking fight him.)

It makes him a little twitchy, out on the streets. Granted, last time he directly chose to get involved with Slade's business, but there's still a wary part of him that's convinced that if he doesn't watch his back, he's going to end up ambushed and pressed up against a stairwell on the top of some roof before he can do anything to stop it. It's not hard to imagine how inescapably powerful those hands would be, pinning him to the concrete, or how teeth would sink into the back of his neck, holding him till he didn't have any choice but to give in and surrender. Take him down, gloved fingers rough on his skin, arms twisted far enough it aches…

Fucking hell. It's unfair, how thoroughly Deathstroke has taken over his imagination. That's all that's ever there anymore, when he closes his eyes in the shower, or laid out in bed. Even when he actively tries to imagine something else (Kori, or Roy, or Dick when he's feeling particularly like torturing himself), that voice slips in, rumbling, "Good boy," right into his ear, nipping at the shell hard enough to sting, scraping teeth over his neck till they find a place they like, and—

Jason groans, scrubbing his hands back over his face and through his hair as he folds over, dropping his head against the kitchen table. He can feel the prickles over his upper back, the restless twitch of his shoulder blades as his memory supplies that way-too-accurate sense memory of hot breath against the back of his neck.

He can't get away from it. It feels like every time his mind starts to wander, even a little, it runs straight into the specter of Deathstroke. Waiting, standing there with that predatory grin, his brain fully ready to replay every second of that night until he's half-hard and any chance he has of concentrating on something else is blown.

The seemingly eternal rollercoaster of word association inevitably leading back to some form of sex doesn't help, either.

What would it be like to… blow, Slade? He never got a real look, but the way that thing felt between his thighs, it seemed… big. It's not like his experience contains literally anything relevant, and it's not like he has a single fucking clue how easy or hard it might be to have that thing in his mouth. (Well he'd bet it would be hard, at least.)

Fuck.

Jason bares his teeth at the table's inscrutable surface, glaring at it. This is unfair. It's all unfair. He's not supposed to be getting this fucking worked up over another alpha, let alone someone like fucking Deathstroke. Old. Assassin. Self-assured and massive.

His cock twitches.

Jason shoves away from the table to glare down at his crotch instead. "Shut up," he hisses, staring down the treacherous fucking thing. "Just shut up."

It's been almost three months. Surely, if Deathstroke was planning on actually following through with his little harassing 'gift,' he'd have shown up by now. Surely there's plenty of contracts in Gotham he could have taken, or he could have just shown up without one to come after him, instead. Jason hasn't seen a hint of him, though, and no one else in the family has mentioned him, either. (And he's not about to bring it up with Dick and see if he has any idea where Slade is. Bringing up Deathstroke means he has to have a reason for bringing up Deathstroke, and Dick A) tends to take things about him personally, and B) has an immensely good sense of when people are lying to him about their intentions. He's not walking into that minefield.)

It doesn't matter, anyway. It was one fucking night and it's not like it was— Okay, fine, it was the best sex he's ever had, but his list of experiences consists of exactly four times so that's really not fucking impressive, if you think about it. It still doesn't matter. Deathstroke's gone, he's obviously not coming back, and Jason is not going to let this shadow of a memory rule his fantasies for the rest of his life.

He's done. It's fucking done.

He needs a distraction, is what he needs. Maybe Slade just seemed that good because Jason doesn't know any better; it's not like any of his other experience has been with alphas, so maybe it just felt that way because it was different. He already knew he was a little into getting held down, and more than a little into pain, but maybe it's just that sex between alphas is rougher by nature. Maybe that's just his thing in general.

He should… go out. There are gay bars in Gotham; he knows where they are, thanks to some various related cases. He can try his luck finding an alpha, or something. See if it's maybe just… like that, all the time. It can't be that hard to pick someone up, right? And he'd be the one getting 'picked up,' in this scenario. Theoretically.

Okay. That can be the plan. Wait till sunset. Get dressed up. Go, and… see what happens.

He's not waiting anymore.

Jason has maybe miscalculated. It hadn't really occurred to him, before he pulled on his best-fitting jeans and a black shirt that was starting to get too small, and headed out into lower Gotham, that he's… big.

He's big, and muscled, and apparently the vibe he gives off does not say 'please throw me around' so much as, 'I could throw you around, easily.'

It's kind of nice, having these alphas come up to him. Four or five at this point, all smiles and a challenging glint in their eyes, and… smaller. Thinner. Flashing skin. Jason can recognize that they're attractive, in their way, but it's just not what he wants. At all. Not right now, anyway, and… maybe not at all. It's flattering, though. Makes him actually feel kind of good about his looks, which is sort of new.

A beer and a half in, Jason turns away number five (or six?) with an awkward smile and the nicest way he can think of to say no. He sighs heavily once the alpha's gone, as he leans back into the wall.

Maybe he's doing this the wrong way. Maybe there's some… some signal, he doesn't know, to tell people that he's not interested in what they apparently think he is. It's not like he's particularly knowledgeable on gay subculture. He'd known that he wasn't exactly straight for a long time, but he hadn't gone hunting for information until, well, Deathstroke. It was just never a part of his life that he ever had time for.

There's a prickle, at the back of his neck. He lifts his gaze, scans the club with a sharp gaze till he finds a man looking at him. Tall as he is, if not as big, but he's watching him with something that looks a lot like interest. Jason shifts, feeling that prickle spread out across his shoulders. It doesn't feel like… danger. Exactly.

The man heads for him.

Jason watches him come closer, taking a look. In shape, but not like he is, obviously. White, maybe early thirties, in a black jacket and red shirt, paired with dark jeans. There's a beer in his hand, and his hair is black, short. Brown eyes. Attractive, he thinks. Objectively?

He comes up close, leans against the wall next to Jason, near close enough for their shoulders to touch.

He can hear the, "I'm getting the impression that they're not your type," not-quite-shouted under the music.

Jason takes a look at that crooked grin. "No," he agrees, "they're not."

The man looks him up and down. "New to all this?"

The flush seems like it's out of his control, heating up his cheeks. "More or less, I guess."

Feels like the guy sees right through his non-answer, but all he does is lean a little closer. Jason somehow isn't expecting the, "Want to get somewhere a little quieter?"

He swallows, and nods. A hand takes his free wrist, pulling him along when the man starts to head for one of those side doors Jason had noted but not explored. It leads out to the alley next to the bar; not an emergency exit, but the fences on either side of the alley would definitely discourage anyone trying to get in through this route. There's still a knob and everything on the door, and it doesn't click like it's locking, when it falls shut behind them. There's still the bass beat of the music coming through, but it's definitely a lot quieter out here. And empty.

Yeah, okay.

He doesn't fight, when the guy presses him up against the wall of the alley. Meets the press of a kiss easily enough, as the guy presses his upper arms into the brick. It's… something. A twist of his arms and an elbow to the side of his skull would have him down.

"I'm Jack," the guy says against his jaw, when he pulls back a bit. There's a little scrape of teeth after he says it, and a flex of nails into his arms. It stings, a bit. Nothing that he even fully registers, before it's dismissed. He could shake that grip off in a second if he needed to.

"Jason," he answers, turning his head to search out another kiss. He gets one, with a testing slip of a tongue and a small bite to his lip. Doesn't hurt, but he thinks he likes it.

Jack pushes closer, knee edging between his legs. Close enough that Jason can lift his lower arms and get a grip on either side of his shirt, near his waist. Jack lets go of his arms then, sliding a hand back through his hair, gripping tight near the back of his skull. It tugs his neck into a shallow arch, and Jack ducks his head to press the edge of teeth in under his jaw.

Jason lets it happen, trying to puzzle out his lack of… interest. Like, he's interested. That was a nice kiss, and the hand in his hair is… nice. The lips sucking just under his jaw are… nice. 'Nice' doesn't mean his cock's invested though, apparently.

Fuck.

So, apparently, that only happens when Deathstroke the Terminator flings him around like he's weightless, pins him against a wall, ties him up with his own zipties, and fucking mauls him. Great. Good to know that 'only into alphas when they're metahuman jackasses' is a defining part of his sexuality. That's just fucking fantastic, really. He's thrilled.

Okay, so what now, then? Does he stick it out, see if it gets better? Jack's attractive enough, and it's… nice. Oh yeah, that's great. He's always wanted to have sex because it was 'nice.' Alright, he just has to chalk this up as a big fucking failure of an experiment then, and stop leading this guy on before he gets any more invested. Cause this is definitely not going anywhere. Jason's real sure of that, at least.

Jason shifts an arm up, pressing it across Jack's chest. He seems to pick up on the message, because the hand in his hair loosens and Jack pulls back a bit, meeting his gaze when he looks back down. There's a question in his eyes. Fair enough. Jason's the one that agreed to come out here, and didn't protest being pushed up against this wall, or kissed, or… well, any of the rest of it.

"Sorry," he says, trying not to look quite as awkward as he feels. "I'm just not... I'm not feeling it."

Jack blinks. For a second, Jason thinks he's going to have to shove him off or something, before he lets go. Steps back. "Oh. Sorry. I— Did I do something?"

Not unless not being Deathstroke is an active choice.

"No, I just— I guess I'm just looking for something… specific? Sorry."

"No, it's alright." Jack takes another step back, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, self-consciously. "Good luck?"

Nothing comes to mind to answer with except, "You too," and it sounds so fucking lame but thankfully Jack is already heading back into the club so he doesn't see Jason's grimace.

Great. So that went well.

He eyes the door for a second, considering going back in there, but… Jack's going to be in there, and apparently the only other people that were interested were people that definitely were looking for something that he wasn't. Jason kind of hates the idea of going back through that door to try and like, ferret out someone else that might actually be what he wants. As if he has any idea what he actually wants, apart from that Deathstroke apparently encompasses it. That's the fucking problem, isn't it?

Fuck. Fuck.

Yeah, tonight is a wash. He just needs to go home and clear his head. Take a shower, get suited up, go out. Maybe find somebody that deserves having him vent a little frustration on them; some scumbag's gotta be out and about tonight, right? Maybe he can take a pass through Lower Gotham and see if anyone is giving the street corner ladies he knows a hard time. Most people aren't that dumb, not since he made it clear that he took a real dim fucking view of that, but there's always some asshole.

Yeah, that sounds good.

Jason sighs, pushing off the bricks and heading down the alley till he hits one of the fences. Tall, but no wire at the top or anything, easy enough to scale and jump down from the other side. He heads around the building to the parking lot, gets on his bike, and guns it towards home.

Park the bike, up the stairs to skip waiting for the elevator. Fourth floor, and he flips through his keys to get the right one in hand as he heads down the corridor. Unlock the door, disarm the alarm as he steps through, and shut the door behind him. All automatic, all with his head already in Gotham's streets, thinking about the best route to take.

He rakes a hand back through his hair, tossing his keys into the little dish Roy bought him that one time. Garish and red but he's never actually thrown it out; just… never got around to it. One more step, flicking the lights on and turning to head towards the shower.

"Find what you were looking for, kid?"

Every muscle locks tight.

Jason breathes in after a suffocating moment, shallow and sharp as he turns his head to look at the heavily shadowed area of his kitchen. It should be empty — his alarms were in place, everything was locked — but it's most definitely not. Not with fucking Deathstroke leaning against one side of the kitchen island like he belongs there, half in shadow but not near enough to make him disappear. Especially not when he straightens up and steps forward, the light from near the door finally finding him. If he looked big on that rooftop, holding him against that wall, he looks like a fucking giant contained inside Jason's apartment.

He's not wearing the suit. No orange and black armor, no weaponry, just a pair of dark blue jeans and a white button-up shirt, and maybe that should make him look more like Slade Wilson and less like Deathstroke but it fucking doesn't. The forearms the rolled-up sleeves show off are thick and corded, and as he moves forward it's a stalk, not something as mundane as walking. Jason feels his breath quicken.

Just a couple steps and Slade's close enough to tower over him, looking him over with a lingering, long drag of that single eye down his frame and back up. He swallows thickly, when it pauses a moment at his throat, and there's a twist of something in his gut when he can see Slade's gaze follow the bob of his Adam's apple. His breath freezes in his lungs when Slade leans down, head tilting to come way too close to his neck and draw in a long, slow breath.

Oh. Wait, shit—

"Someone got their teeth on you," Slade comments, with a low, amused hum. "Didn't get as far as sex though, did it, boy? Just a little nibble, a little kiss… Not enough for you, was it?"

Jason flinches when a hand brushes his other shoulder, sucks in a sharp breath, but that doesn't dissuade it from lifting a little further and wrapping around the side of his neck, forcing his chin up with one thumb hooked under the corner of his jaw. He chokes, just a little. Grabs at the wrist but he might as well be pulling at a fucking steel bar for all the effect his tug has. It doesn't stop Slade from leaning closer to him, teeth grazing just under the opposite side of his jaw.

"Your little alpha friend had no idea what you wanted, did he?" The words come out in a low rumble, dark and filled with promise as they vibrate through his throat. "How about I give you a real mark, kid?"

Jesus, fucking—

He jerks when Slade's teeth close on his skin, covering what feels like half that side of his whole fucking neck as he bites down. Jason grabs for him with his free hand, ends up with a fistful of fabric and a groan trying to claw its way up his throat like the pressure of Slade's teeth is forcing it out of him. He bares his teeth in pure instinctive reaction, digging his nails into Slade's wrist as he heaves in a breath still made shallow by the way the teeth at his throat press even harder.

There's a dozen competing reactions fighting for his attention. The scream of all his training, telling him that he has to get this bite loose right now before it rips his throat out. The instinctive balance of fight or submit, teetering back and forth (it's a bite but it's not a submission bite, not placed like that) between wanting to hang his head back and give in, or growl and claw and punch his way out of this. The fucked up, newly discovered part that feels every sting of those canines as a spark right down into his pelvis, and wants to just press into it and make it hurt.

The teeth let go before he can settle on anything, scraping hard over his neck and finally wrenching that groan out of his chest before they pull away. He's got no fucking clue whether it's from pain, or the tight, coiling tension in his gut and lower.

"That's better," Slade rumbles, as he sucks in one hard breath after another. He doesn't seem to care that Jason's still got nails pressing into his wrist. "Boy like you deserves someone that knows how to treat you the way you want. Give you everything you can handle." Slade shifts far enough back to look him in the eye, mouth curled in a sharp smirk. "And a little more."

Jason swallows, staring up. The thumb hooked under his jaw is an inescapable pressure, the hand strong and solid around the side of his neck, fingertips pressing at his spine. What the fuck is he supposed to do? What does he say to any of that? He’s not— Fuck, he can’t—

“What’s the matter, Hood?” Slade mocks, through that smirk. The hand at Jason’s neck pushes till he has to take a step to keep his balance, and his shoulders come up against a wall. “Lost your nerve?”

Jason bristles, lip curling back before it can occur to him that might be a bad idea. Then it's a little too late to do anything but stick with it, because Slade's meeting his snarl with a grin, and the only thing that manages to get between his teeth is a, "Fuck you," that isn't nearly as strong as it should be.

Slade's chuckle is dark and quiet. "That's not the point of tonight." The thumb presses a little harder against his throat, making his breath catch. "You remember what I promised you last time, boy?"

Yes. Fuck, he— Yes. He remembers.

("Going to get you stripped all the way down. Take my time, figure out what makes you beg.")

He swallows, his next inhalation shaking slightly. "Yes," he manages, roughly.

Slade hums, gaze sliding down his throat. "Then tell me what I'm going to do to you, little alpha."

His fingers flex around the shirt twisted between them. He feels the heat of that gaze like a brand. "Why? You forget?"

He feels the laugh almost more than he hears it, but it sinks sharply to the background as the hand at his neck shifts, fingers sliding up the back of his skull and then drawing tight in his hair, pulling his neck into a slight arch as he strangles the moan that builds in his chest to a grunt, instead.

"Forget that night? Forget everything I've imagined doing to you, since then? Not a chance, Hood." The fingers tug, forcing him another inch back, and Deathstroke leans over him, teeth flashing as his voice drops way too close to a growl not to make all Jason's instincts, born and learned, kick into high gear. "Say it, kid."

His heart's pounding, he can feel the shake of his fingers and the pure fucking adrenaline in his veins.

Jason bares his teeth. "Make me."

Slade grins right back, and Jason startles when something touches his side, taking a second to realize it's just the other hand. Not that his jerk does anything to free him from the grip of his hair. "Oh, kid…" The fingers slide up under the edge of his shirt, along his ribs. "You have no idea what you're asking for."

No, but he didn't have any fucking clue what he was getting into the first time, either. He just knew that there was some clawing, needing, thing in his gut, and it needed out.

And it's there again. Brimming up through his chest, threatening to choke him as it spills up through his throat, right up to the back of his teeth.

He presses his shoulder blades into the wall, bracing against the solidity, and snarls.

Slade’s eyelid lowers, eye dark and heated beneath it. The scoff is barely a breath. "Loud little alpha pup, all challenge and teeth. No one ever teach you manners, boy?" The fingers on his side press into the tender points of his ribs, just hard enough to make him try and twist away from them. "Last chance. Say it."

He digs his nails hard enough into Slade's wrist that he feels that slight give of skin, the thick, copper scent of blood winding into the next breath he takes. "Fucking make me."

"Love to."

Jason is still looking at that grinning mouth when Slade's grip tightens and suddenly he's being dragged away from the wall. He digs his heels in against the fake wood floor, leans against the pull, but it doesn’t matter. Slade throws him across the room like it's easy, like it barely even takes an effort to send him rolling across the floor, only stopped by his back cracking into the side of the couch. He gasps, catching a flash of black boots heading towards him before he starts to scramble up.

He gets his feet under him just in time to jerk out of the way, dodging the fingers grabbing for him by what feels like centimeters. He backpedals to the tune of Slade's laugh, rapidly trying to remember what's at his back as Slade comes at him with long strides and an unconcerned relaxation. He turned, so it's the kitchen, which means—

His leg clips the corner of something, and he stumbles. Slade's on him, just like that. He swings, but fingers close around his wrist and twist it away without even a pause in the way Slade grabs him by the shirt with his other hand, yanks him up on his toes, and shoves him back. His ass hits something and he topples halfway backwards over it before his free hand can slam down and catch his weight. The island. It's the island.

He tries to roll off but Slade shoves him back down hard enough that his braced hand doesn't stand a chance. His shoulders hit the wood.

Slade grabs his other wrist despite how he jerks it away, and just like that they're both being pinned down above his head, Slade pressed right up between his thighs and leaning over him. Too far up to bite, or headbutt, or any other defense that he has. Jason snarls, twisting his wrists against the calloused fingers wrapped around them. All it gets him is the both of them being dragged together, grip swiftly and obviously expertly swapped from both hands to just the one massive one, wrapped around both his wrists and still just as completely inescapable.

He pulls his legs up, getting one in under the gap of Slade's outstretched arm and pressing with his shin and knee to try and force him back. If he can just force him back a little further then he can get his other leg up, get enough space to kick, and Deathstroke or not there's no way Slade just shrugs off a kick to the gut. He just has to—

Slade's free hand grabs his knee. Jason grunts as his leg is forced up and then dragged over, twisting his whole waist as his knee is pressed down against the opposite edge of the island. It's not a stretch that he can't manage, but it shortens his breath a little, pulls his shoulder a little bit off the wood to try and follow the stretch, even though he can't get it that far up with Slade's other hand still pinning his wrists down.

"Not a bad height," Slade drawls, and Jason jerks at the hard press of hips up against him, baring his teeth reflexively. "I'll keep that in mind."

The flash of imagery in his head is vivid. Him pinned down on his stomach, Slade layered over him. His breath catches.

Maybe it's the moment of distraction, or maybe Slade's just that fucking fast when he wants to be, but suddenly Jason finds himself face down on the island, stretch eased but his back now to Slade, wrists still somehow pinned down by that one hand despite the rapid flip. His cheek slides against the wood as he struggles, trying to find anything, but there's not even an inch of give in the grip on his wrists, and there's not anything he can do with his legs now but kick blindly backwards into thin air.

A hand grips the back of his shirt, just between his shoulder blades. And yanks.

Jason chokes out a protesting noise as his shirt rips. The fabric is pulled right out from under him, and there's an odd, sharp spark of sensation as it tugs past his nipples that he has to bite down on voicing. He hears it rip further, back behind him somewhere, and then there's the fall of cloth against his low back. A second hand closes around his wrists, easily pulling them apart and then down to his back. He jerks, and it gets him fucking nowhere.

His breaths come harsh against the wood of the island as Slade winds fabric around his lower arms, tying them together with clearly practiced efficiency. Wrist to each elbow, with the shreds of his fucking shirt. It's not cuffs or a ziptie or anything sturdier but it's not like he went out to the bar expecting to have to cut his way out of restraints. No knife on him right now, and somehow he doesn't think that Deathstroke is going to give him enough space to wiggle his way out of this without being caught.

One last tug that draws tight around the middle, and Slade gives a rumble of satisfaction above him that nearly makes him shudder. Hands close on either side of his waist, thumbs digging into his low back with just on the edge of painful pressure. "That's better."

He pulls against the restraints, and there's some slip, but not enough to get out of without a decent amount of work. Slade's hands flex a little harder on his waist, enough to pull a small grunt from between his teeth before he swallows the rest. Slade pulls him up with an easy tug, his back and tied arms coming right up against Slade's shirt. One hand coming up and closing around the front of his throat, pinning his head back against a solid shoulder, forces his back into a shallow arch, too.

There's nothing he can do about the arm that circles his waist, pulling his belt open one-handed with a few easy pulls. He struggles anyway, but the fingers wrapped around his neck hold him still, and the pressure of Slade's hips pinning him against the edge of the island won't let him move in any way that matters. The button goes next. The zipper comes down tooth by fucking tooth, it feels like. He's not really aware of how quick his breath is coming until Slade hums a deep, rumbling note right into his ear and makes it catch.

"You don’t have any idea what I could do to you, do you, kid?" Slade murmurs, fingers scraping up his stomach, inch by inch. “The things I could show you… You’d never be satisfied with anyone but me again.”

Jason swallows against the hand compressing his windpipe, fighting back a shudder. “Ego a little inflated, there?”

“No.” Slade’s hand tightens slightly, pushing his head just a little harder into the arch. "You know what I like most about alpha boys like you?"

He can't clench his hands, tied like they are, but he can dig his nails into his own skin and try and ground himself in that sensation instead of any of the others. "Fucking them?" he spits, with a jerk of his shoulders.

There's a chuckle against his ear, teeth scraping along his earlobe. "Vanilla," Slade says, like the word's supposed to embarrass him, or something? An amused breath, and a sharp nip that makes him flinch. "I like that moment when you all hit your limits. Where you fight, and struggle, and all it takes is a breath to make you tip over the edge. When you become mine."

There’s nothing he can do about how he shivers, reacting to the growl of that last word. And the word.

“I’m not yours,” he manages to get out, even if it’s a little breathless.

“Not yet.” A deep rumble, skin sliding against the outside edge of his ear in a way that almost feels like scenting. “But we’re about to fix that.”

He gets one deep breath when the grip on his throat eases, but a second later those same fingers are closing around the back of his neck and shoving him forward over the island. He grunts at the impact, tosses his head and twists his shoulders to try and get that grip to lighten up a bit. Jason's been trained his whole life to shrug off submission grabs, but that doesn't mean they're not intensely uncomfortable, especially when the fingers are this strong, and curled just slightly to dig the end of nails into his skin. Asshole.

"Let go," he snarls, twisting again. No give.

Slade just laughs.

The other hand grips his thigh and pulls upwards. He's got strong fucking legs, and he knows how to force his weight down, keep himself steady, but it doesn't mean anything against that hand. It pulls, and his leg bends up completely against his will.

The hand at his neck squeezes hard enough to make him jerk. "Stay, boy."

He's got no intention of obeying when Slade lets go, but then his leg is pulled higher, bent at the knee and forced to curl up, and the broad grip of that hand on his thigh and the clasp of an arm over his calf might as well be steel. He can twist his shoulders around, snarl into the wood his face is pressed against, but he can't do anything useful.

He feels tugging on the laces of his boot, then fingers digging in behind his heel and pulling it off his foot. His sock follows quickly enough; he can hear the thump of the boot and the lighter impact of fabric on the ground somewhere to his right. That leg comes down, and his toes have barely even touched the floor before his other leg is being pulled up the same way. Boot, sock, and down it goes. There's one second where he thinks he can try struggling again, both feet on the ground and only a light touch of fingers at his waist, but he's barely tensed before they slip an inch down, curl under the waistband of his jeans and briefs, and tug them right down over his ass.

He jerks, kicking back automatically with a snarled, "Fucker!"

Slade's too close to hit, and the hands that settle against his ass — calloused, warm, and fucking big — grope him with an easy possessiveness, rolling his cheeks and pulling them apart like he's got any fucking right—

"Very nice," comes to his ears, low and heated. "I can see fairly well in the dark, but an ass like this deserves to be admired in proper lighting. Much better this way."

Jason feels the rush of blood into his face, and it feels like he nearly chokes on his next breath. "You— Fuck off."

He jerks when a thumb slides in, brushing over his hole and it shouldn't— it shouldn't fucking feel that good to just be touched. It catches, tugging at the rim with the lightest pressure but his breath catches anyway.

"Been practicing, kid? Using that gift I sent you?"

He squirms, baring his teeth against the embarrassment. "No!"

"Really?" The tip of the thumb presses in just a little bit, and he has to strangle back whatever the fuck the sound that would have come out of his throat was. "So that brand new bottle of lube in your drawer is unrelated, then?"

Fuck. Fuck, he'd just run out of the one from the package, hadn't he? He just got a new bottle, different brand, and he— Shit.

"It wasn't practice," he forces out, through the tightness of his throat. "It wasn't for you!"

The, "Liar," is just an amused drawl, but it cuts through him like a growl. "Go ahead and keep telling yourself that, kid. Maybe someone will believe you, if you say it enough."

Slade drags his pants down in one hard pull. To knees, then ankles, hobbling him for a second before both feet are pulled off the floor to tug it all free. It doesn't fully connect that that means he's naked till Slade is standing again, dragging him off the table by his bound arms and back up against him. His shoulders rub against the shirt, buttons scratching at his spine. He can feel the jeans too, coarse and insistent against his ass and thighs, and the buckle of the belt above that, digging in against his low back. His toes press against the wood as he shudders.

Slade's rumble is dark and appreciative, and his voice is low enough to match when he murmurs, "I'm going to take you over to that couch now. I'm going to put you over my lap, and I'm going to see how much it takes to bring out that squirming little alpha I found last time."

A hand closes on his hip, fingers almost bruisingly tight and making his instinctive jerk useless.

"You've got one chance." A nose brushes his ear, then teeth. "You tell me what I promised to do to you, and we can skip straight to it. Submit, kid; save yourself some pain. You know you can't stop me."

Jason doesn't think he could find the words to respond to that if he tried. There's the soaring adrenaline in his chest, the fire coiling up in his gut, stoked by every hot rush of breath across the side of his neck. And all around him Slade's scent, smoky and overpowering, burning into his lungs every time he tries to breathe like he's standing too close to a campfire. His head spins, the grip around his bound arms a solid, aching point in the middle of everything else. It centers him, where everything else overwhelms.

Save some pain…?

He can fucking handle pain.

His teeth bare as he turns his head and growls, deep and low as he can as he fixates on the part of Slade's face he can see at this angle. Beard, ear, just a bit of an eyepatch…

He catches the edge of a smirk.

"Good."

The yank to his arms has him instantly off balance, staggering across the floor as Slade tows him across his apartment with no apparent regard for the fact that Jason has to stumble backwards to keep up. There's a scraping sound (his coffee table? They're almost at the couch), and then another firm pull with a distinct downwards trajectory. Before his legs can bend, before he can even try to keep his feet, a knee shoves its way between his and knocks one leg right out from under him with a firm outwards shove.

He falls backwards. Hits with a grunt, sitting on his— his couch, but Slade's under him, thighs spreading wide between his and forcing his legs wide, too.

No, no he doesn't fucking think so.

He struggles, snapping his head back to try and nail Slade in the face as he pulls his legs up to brace his feet on the edge of the couch.

His head hits a shoulder, and then there's an arm around his throat. Tight enough to make him choke before he presses back to give himself air. The other hand closes around one of his ankles.

"Thanks, kid," comes the mocking drawl in his ear, as his ankle is pulled back far enough to force him to press up and brace on his knee instead. "Let's just keep that here, shall we?"

His foot is pressed to the back of the couch, and something settles on top of it before his ankle is released. Warm, covered in fabric, but solid and he can't— can't get his foot loose. Is it Slade's shoulder? His side? He only has a second to wonder before the arm around his neck pulls back to let fingers take its place, and his other ankle is grabbed, too. He snarls, but it doesn't change anything. In just a couple seconds he's balanced on his knees, ankles trapped, his back curved in a sharp arch from the angle.

Then the hand at his throat slides around to grip the back of his head, and shoves him forward.

Jason yelps as he topples down, nothing to break his fall, no way to stop it with his legs pinned and arms bound. And jerks to a halt, held up between the spread of Slade's thighs. There's a grip on each of his biceps that slowly slides, lowering him the last couple feet as he breathes through the prickles of that flash of panic. His forehead touches the floor, and the hands let go.

He's— He's fine. His knees are still on the couch, even if they are spread wide by the sprawl of Slade's thighs, and his hips and thighs are supported by those legs being under him. It's just his torso that's hanging down in between Slade's legs, head and shoulders touching the ground. Which means…

Slade's hands slide up the back of his thighs in a firm sweep, fingers squeezing his very, very upturned ass, laid out right in Slade's lap.

Fuck. He's got nothing. His feet are pinned, and even if he can wiggle them free he can what, slap Slade with the tops of them? Oh, that'll go fucking great. He's got no leverage to get back up on the couch with his arms tied up, either. Maybe he could brace a shoulder, try and use literally nothing but his core to bend up far enough to stabilize, but then all he's got is his back facing Slade. Not an improvement. At best he could maybe wiggle his feet free, shove off the couch, and hope that Slade doesn't grab him before he can roll and immediately crash into the coffee table. Which would leave him at Slade's feet, anyway.

He's… fucked. He's completely fucked.

He closes his eyes for a second, cheek sliding across the too smooth surface of the fake-wood flooring as his shoulders tremble in a faint shiver.

Fingers stroke up around his hips, teasing the crease of his groin as Slade says, "I'm going to enjoy every bit of this, kid. You go ahead and just let me know when you're done, hm?"

Jason jerks even knowing it won't do anything, baring his teeth against the floor at that condescending tone. "Fuck you, you bas—!"

The slap catches him off guard, the surprise cutting his words short far more than the actual sting of it. It's heat more than anything else, spreading out over the right side of his ass from that point of impact like some kind of fucked up blush.

"Careful with that mouth, boy. I might decide I need to teach you manners, too.”

Another smack, opposite side and a little harder. Nothing more than a sting, though; it's all surface impact. The next isn't anything worse. Or the next. There's a growing heat under his skin that makes him want to squirm a bit, but it doesn't feel like more than the start of a sunburn or something. It's annoying, more than anything else.

Fuck it.

Maybe Slade can't see the bare of his teeth from up there, but he'll hear the, "You don't scare me," Jason follows it with, nearly in a growl.

There's a pause, then a deep chuckle. The slap across his ass yanks a yelp out of his throat, hips jerking down like there’s anywhere they can go to get away from the sharp ache of that blow.

"Forget who I am, kid? I could hear your heart pounding when I had you up against the wall; smell it on you, under the scent of that little alpha you let touch you." A hand settles over the ache, fingers squeezing just hard enough to make him grit his teeth and strangle a groan. "Adds a nice, sharp edge, doesn't it? Knowing I could snap you right in half if I wanted to? Knowing how helpless you are?"

The other hand settles on his thigh, as Jason shuts his eyes against the floor and tries not to shudder. His wrists twist against the bindings. "I'm not helpless," he tries to spit, but his voice wavers in the middle and he doesn't even believe it himself. He's not— Slade—

"No." Fingers stroke up his thigh, sure and firm, but not painful. "I know how dangerous you are, Hood. You could have put up a real fight, if you'd wanted to. Grabbed that handgun you keep in the drawer by the door. Or one of the knives in the kitchen; they were within reach for a bit. Probably would have done some decent damage before I laid you out." There's a deep chuckle, fingers sliding down between his legs and — Jason sucks in a breath, jerking — wrapping around the weight of his cock, hard and hanging. "But that's not what you want, is it, kid? You just want to put up enough fight to get taken down, nice and hard. I've known boys like you before."

Jason grinds whatever sound it is that tries to escape his chest between his teeth as Slade squeezes down lightly on his cock, thumb sliding just beneath the head and sending sharp sparks of sensation zinging back into his pelvis. "I— I'm not—"

"Rough being into that when most people can't hold a candle to you, isn't it, boy? All this height, all this muscle, all that training your whole life to hone you into a weapon this deadly… Not a lot of people in the world that can bring you down, not unless you let them. Not the same, letting someone, is it?"

Is that… Is that it?

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to let me do anything.” Slade’s fingers let go, knuckles stroking a firm line along the inside of his thigh. “You can fight all you want, boy; you can’t beat me. I’m going to take everything I want, and the only way this ends is with my teeth in your neck and this pretty ass wrapped around my knot, little alpha.”

His breath catches, and he can’t help the reflexive clench of his thighs and his ass, the way his hips try to buck and can’t. Slade laughs.

“Oh, kid. I’m going to wreck you.”

The spike of desire is dizzying, and Jason’s got no clue how much of it is the rush of blood to his head from this damn angle and how much is the insistent throb of his cock, as hard as he thinks he’s ever been. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He wants— He wants.

The next slap to his ass only hurts in a distant way. Warm with a slight ache. And the next, and the next.

Then a defined crack of skin to skin, and his back arches as he yelps, cheek sliding against the floor as his neck twists. The sting has just enough time to ease into an ache, and then another strike wakes it back up. It— It hurts, and it doesn’t, and he didn’t know— he didn’t know it would feel like this.

His breath comes in pants, sweat gathering on his skin, sliding down the dip of his spine. His face slips against the floor with every strike that's hard enough to jar, warm where it's been pressed to his skin, shockingly cool when he slides far enough to get away from that. He feels… He feels distant, and dazed, but somehow so fucking aware of every inch of his skin at the same time that he can't reconcile the difference. Can't even try, with each aching, stinging slap driving the thoughts right back out of his head.

He's been beaten before, gotten shot, tortured (and on and on), but somehow the simple blows of Slade's hand feel drastically different than any of that. The pain is a warm, glowing thing under his skin, lighting up with every crack, jagged like lightning and fading to an afterimage just as fast. It's easy to fall into it, to let his eyes shutter, his weight be supported by the solidity of the thighs on either side of him. To… feel it.

The whine slips from his throat before he's aware of it existing. Quiet, stuttering out in the wake of one particularly sharp blow.

The next doesn’t immediately come.

Jason breathes in slowly, shoulders shifting to pull lightly against the ties around his arms. They're still solid, tight with only the slightest slip to them. He shivers, faintly.

The pleased-sounding rumble from up above cuts through enough of the haze to get his attention. Hands stroke up his thighs, skirting right up to the edge of where his skin is hot and aching and pausing there, fingers wrapped around the jut of his hips.

"There we are," Slade says, low and deep.

Jason's not sure why his breath catches, but it does.

Slade shifts. The weight comes off his feet, and the hands at his hips loosen and slip down. One wraps around to press against his collarbone, and then he's being lifted, his weight heavy against that single hand but there's not a second he doesn't feel supported. He wavers slightly when he's balanced up on his knees, but Slade's hands steady him, one stroking up his back and squeezing lightly at the nape of his neck. His eyes slide closed as his head lowers a little further. It's a broad palm, warm pressure and he doesn't… mind. That's nice.

The fingers release his neck, wrap over the top of one of his shoulders and pull back, slightly. It doesn't occur to him to do anything but let the minor pressure of Slade's grip guide him back and down, legs folding as he sits back.

The first scrape of jeans against his skin makes him flinch. Take a startled, sharp breath.

"Easy," Slade murmurs almost immediately. "Come on."

Another light pull, and Jason exhales that breath and lowers himself, settling firmly in Slade's lap despite how much the rough texture of the jeans stings. It aches, deeper, but Slade rumbles a low, "That's it, boy," just next to his ear and Jason finds himself relaxing back in the next moment, anyway.

Fingers slide in underneath his chin, tilting his head back and arching his neck. They linger there; light pressure against the column of his trachea. He swallows on reflex.

"Good. Just like that."

The shudder that shakes through him is completely out of his control. So is the low whine that escapes, his hips pressing back and down into Slade's lap and chasing that ache of pain, all at once easier and somehow harder to bear with every passing moment. A hand skates over his side, palm pressing flat against his chest and pinning him between that pressure and the solidity of Slade's body, behind him. Jason shifts just to feel the restriction, and the soft moan that slips from his lips feels like a sigh more than a sound.

Slade chuckles, just as quietly. "Told you I was going to find you, boy." The palm shifts just enough to rub a thumb over the edge of one of his nipples, make him suck in a breath. "Pull away a couple layers of that front and there you are; sweet alpha boy, just begging to be taken advantage of. I remember you.”

Jason can't help shivering again, and he's not even sure why he does. It just…

"Yeah," Slade murmurs, just to his side. "Sank deep, didn't you, kid?"

The fingers on his throat shift to grip it, palm big enough to cover the whole front, touch light on the sides of his neck but so there. It's not— It's not a bite, though. It's not the sharp prick of teeth, and heat, and the low rumble of sound vibrating in through his skin, and he wants that, suddenly. He shifts and whines, softly, trying to turn his head, bare his neck just a little more.

"We'll get to that. There's something I want you to do for me first, kid. I'm going to let go of you, and I want you to turn around. Can you do that for me?"

Jason manages a small nod, under the restriction of Slade's grip.

"Alright. Go on, then."

The hand at his throat lets go, the one at his chest slides away, and all of a sudden there's nothing holding him back against Slade's chest but his own arch. He breathes in deeper, eyelids flickering open.

Turn around. He needs to… turn around.

It takes so much effort to pry himself away from the solid heat of Slade's chest, but Jason pulls himself straight, balances up on his knees and slowly works it through. One foot up, then down on the ground. Cold floor under his toes, balancing just long enough to get the other foot down and then push himself up to standing. He barely needs the steadying touch to his waist. Second breath, turn, face Slade and slide the first knee onto the couch. Then the second, straddling the sprawled open thighs and bringing himself down to sit there.

Slade just watches, arms spread out across the back of the couch, as he shifts the last few inches. Pulls lightly against the binding around his arms and breathes out, settling into place.

One arm lifts, reaching forward and cupping the side of his face, a thumb sliding close to the corner of his mouth. "Good boy."

He doesn't have the words to describe the liquid heat that rushes through his veins at those simple words. Can't even begin to understand why he leans into the touch and keens, quiet and pleading, like he's wounded. But the thumb strokes over his cheek and Slade rumbles something deep and approving and the why ceases to matter.

"Look at you, kid," Slade says, thumb stroking along the ridge of his cheekbone. "What a natural." There's a darker rumble that draws his gaze back up to the heat of Slade's eye, the slight flash of teeth that makes his breath catch. "Someday, kid, I'm going to get you in my lap just like this, and you're going to ride me. We'll work those pretty thighs till they shake, leave you sore for days after."

The imagery is a vivid flash. He whines.

Slade chuckles. "Not this time. We've got work to do this time, boy. You remember?"

Yes. Yes, he remembers. Slade—

("I'm going to get you all the way stripped down. Take my time, figure out what makes you beg. And then I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to take it. Every inch.")

"There it is." Another stroke of the thumb, down towards the part of his mouth. Slade's gaze follows it. "If you were a little less down I'd make you say it, but you're a quiet one, aren't you? We'll skip that part."

Slade lets go of the side of his head, tracing down his chest to wrap around his waist instead, heavy arm tugging him close. The other one joins it, coming down to grasp the back of his thigh.

"Legs tight, kid."

Jason doesn't understand that command until Slade rocks forward and up with a low grunt, lifting them both to standing, pulling him just high enough that the automatic clamp of his thighs closes around Slade's waist. Oh. Fuck. Fuck.

Slade adjusts his grip slightly, fingers clasping more firmly around his thigh, spreading out across his low back. Jason leans his head down into a shoulder and tries not to whine too loudly at how he can feel the bulge in Slade's jeans rubbing up against his ass at every shift of movement. Even harder when Slade starts to move, and each step drops his weight just a little against it, making him feel the heat and size behind the rough fabric as it scrapes against him. He feels dizzy, breath coming in pants against Slade's shoulder and every lungful soaked through with smoke and rich, overpowering arousal.

Slade carries him across his apartment, darkness shading what little he can see with his head ducked down before fingers pull away from his back and there's the flick of a light switch. He catches carpet under Slade's boots before they're moving again, and it takes him as long as it takes Slade to cross it to realize it's the bedroom. His bedroom.

"Going to set you down," Slade says, as his mind spins futilely around that fact. "Here."

Slade's hands pull him slightly back, and somehow between that sure grip and Slade leaning down, Jason finds his shoulders meeting fabric, his back arching slightly as his arms press down into it. His head turns against the blanket, cheek sliding against the softness of it. His eyes shutter for a moment, hips rolling up as palms stroke down the backs of his thighs, pushing his knees up and apart like it's nothing. There's a faint thought that he should be embarrassed, but he's just… not. Not with Slade's scent heavy in his lungs and the warm, solid breadth of a body pressing between his legs.

He arches his neck further back, whining softly.

"Easy, boy," comes Slade's voice, low and amused. "The toys; you get to the last one?"

It takes a second for Jason to parse that, distracted by the deep timbre of Slade's voice and the stroking fingers high on his left thigh. The toys…? Oh, the toys. The ones that Slade sent him, the ones he's been using, and—

A flush burns into his cheeks, eyelids opening as his gaze turns up towards Slade. He swallows, nods.

Slade's mouth curls in a smirk. "All of it?"

Jason takes in a shaky breath, and nods again.

"Overachiever," Slade comments, but it's a dark, amused rumble of a word. "Good. We'll start there, then. Roll over, kid; I'll be right back."

His legs are released as Slade steps away, going unerringly to the drawer on the other side of the room that he keeps the set of toys in. Jason swallows, staring as he opens it, pulls out that biggest one, black and thick and with the hard swell of a knot at its base. He shudders, and his gaze stays caught on it as Slade comes back. There's the bottle of lube in the other hand, too. The almost-new one that he picked up when the first ran out, right after he finally managed to get that last toy in him for the first time.

Slade tosses them both down to the bed next to him, standing there just past the spread of his legs. His mouth is curled in a lazy grin as he lifts his hands, fingers coming to the buttons of his shirt. "I said roll over, boy."

Jason hesitates, gaze drawn to that slice of skin being revealed down the center of Slade's chest. Hard muscle, white curls of hair…

He whines in reluctant protest but pushes himself over onto his front, hips at the edge of the bed, face pressing down into the blanket. He can still hear the rustle of fabric behind him, though. Hears the soft fwump as what must be the shirt hits the ground. Then a clink of metal, the rasp of a zipper. He bites down on another whine, unable to stop himself from imagining those jeans sliding down even as Slade chuckles.

"Want a look, boy?"

His hands clench, and from somewhere in his chest Jason manages to rasp a rough, "Yes."

He never got to see Slade the first time, pinned down in that dark office. He was at his back almost the whole time, and even when he wasn't it was so dark that all he caught was a hint of pale skin and powerful shoulders in the slices of moonlight. He felt it, though. He felt the inescapable power of Slade's hands, and arms. He felt the strength of those legs pinning his own in, even through the suit. He felt every inch of Slade sliding between his thighs, huge and hot and undeniably alpha.

A hand grabs his upper arm, flipping him over in one sharp pull. Jason sucks in a breath, and promptly loses all of it when his gaze falls on Slade. Standing over him, naked and massive. Defined muscle, white hair on his chest and at his crotch, surrounding…

Slade's hand wraps around the heft of that cock, and Jason can't keep his eyes off it. It looks proportional in the wrap of those fingers, but he knows how big those hands are. He's felt them. Seen them against his chest, wrapped around his arms. His imagination wasn't exaggerating a thing; every fantasy and dream he's had has been underestimating, if anything.

Slade is… He's…

"Everything you expected?" Slade asks, and it's a low, smug, drawl of syllables.

Jason can only stare, desire and nerves twisting up his chest and stomach into tight knots. Slade's going to… fuck him. With that.

Molten heat and a flash of prickling cold slice through him at almost exactly the same time, jerking his shoulders into a reflexive shiver.

Slade steps forward, smirking the whole time as he takes hold of Jason's arm and — like it's nothing — flips him back onto his front. Then fingers wrap around each of his biceps and pull him upwards, and he can't do anything but try and keep up with the hands that drag him up into a high kneel on the edge of the bed, his feet hanging off the edge, Slade close enough to his back he can feel the heat.

"Legs apart," is the first order, as one hand dips to press his thighs open with easy strength. He shivers at the plastic snap of a cap being opened. The bottle of lube. The remaining arm wraps around his waist, easily keeping him steady. "Relax for me, boy; let's see where you're at."

Jason gasps at the first touch between his cheeks, cool and slippery as a finger teases his rim, the very edge of a nail tracing right around the edge. A stuttering whine escapes when it pushes in, smooth and easy and utterly alien. No one's ever— It's only ever been his own fingers or the toys, never anything controlled by anyone else. Never— Never someone else's finger, sliding and thrusting into him with deliberate force. He's barely managed to gasp a breath before a second is pushing in alongside it, just as easy, nothing but the purely physical stretch of it registering to him. No pain, no discomfort, no sting.

He can feel the slightly uneven push of the second set of knuckles as they bury themselves deep in him, curling to thrust and bring him that slight bit higher on his knees with every push.

"You have been practicing, haven't you, boy?" Slade murmurs, the thumb on his waist stroking a tiny circle on his skin. He can feel the shift as Slade leans down against him, feel the press of lips just below his ear. "Did you think of me, kid? All those nights, here in your bed, did you imagine it was me filling you up?"

Yes. Every time, and he couldn't help it. No matter what he tried, no matter where his thoughts started, Slade was waiting at the end of them.

"Tell me, kid." Slade's voice dips down towards a growl. "Say it."

Jason shakes, back arching as his head presses back into Slade's shoulder, the sound clawing up his chest till he has no choice but to gasp, "Yes. Yes, Slade. Please."

Teeth close on his neck.

Jason can't find a breath. The arm around his waist is tight, the fingers in him ruthless in their rhythm, and when Slade growls into his throat, dark and possessive, all he can do is give the last of his air in a breathless moan.

The teeth worry at him, canines digging in further than the rest and stinging, sharp and bright even through the overwhelming pressure of the rest of it. Jason rolls his head away from it, baring his throat to that bite and offering everything. Anything. Anything Slade wants from him. He wants it, too. Wants to just keep floating here, feeling every beat of his pulse as it pounds past those teeth, held and secure under the wrap of that arm.

Jason has no real concept of how long Slade's teeth stay in his skin. Only that it feels like a rush when they come loose, like blood coming back to a restrained limb but happening all at once, all up his neck and into his skull. He gasps in what might be the first deep breath he's taken in hours, for all he knows. Blinks open his eyes and comes back to himself just enough to shiver at the gentle brush of lips over that aching, still damp part of his neck.

"That's good, kid," Slade murmurs. "You ready for more?"

The nod feels more like a jerk of his head than anything coherent, but Slade seems to recognize it all the same.

The fingers in him slide free (was it two? Three?) and he hears the click of that cap again. Slick noises, then there's something back between his legs, cool and slippery where it presses against him. It's familiar. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly and lets himself go loose as Slade rumbles a low, approving sound next to his ear. It pushes up into him, big and thick, silicone sliding easy but insistent right up to where that fake knot swells out the base. He can feel the stretch of it as Slade pushes it up against him, feels his breath catching.

It pulls back. He barely has a moment to gasp at the slide of it pressing against all the right places before it's shoving deep again, right back up to that knot. Then again, and again. A harsh rhythm, only giving him tiny fractions of space to try and manage it, and he can't even begin to. And every thrust pushes the swell of that knot a little harder against him, pushing him open a little further.

"You're going to take this, boy," Slade rumbles, right up against his throat. "All of it."

He can't catch his breath to answer that. Doesn't think he'd have anything to say even if he could. Yes, he wants it. Wants all of it, and—

Slade's teeth press into his neck and everything goes tight for one sharp moment, lungs freezing mid-gasp. Then it's gone, and he's going loose under the touch, under the vibration of a low snarl into his throat, digging right into his skull and feeling like it hollows out everything about him for one incredible moment.

Slade pushes, and the knot stretches and slips and then it's in. Settling just inside him, heavy and filling and undeniable. There's a noise caught in his throat, something he can't describe or name, and Jason barely hears it anyway. Distantly, he's aware of the sound, the catch in his throat, the way his back arches, but there's nothing in his head but buzzing silence.

Not until the shift of the toy in him pulls back, and the knot comes free in one intense slide.

The gasp of air almost hurts, and awareness comes back in a sudden overwhelming rush. Slade's teeth are off his neck, breath warm and damp against the side of his forehead. The hand pressed to his waist is a solid, flat press, grounding in its solidity. Everything shy of the knot rests in him still, thick but not nearly as present and insistent as the width of that knot. He— He did it, didn't he? Just like Slade wanted, just like he demanded.

The question is answered a bare moment after it comes to him, with Slade's low murmur of, "Good boy. Just like that."

Jason tilts his head into the brush of skin against his, the breath fanning out across his forehead. Feels a small rumble start somewhere in his chest, low and warm.

Slade's fingers shift just enough on his waist to stroke down a couple inches, coming just to the sensitive skin at the crease of his hip. There's an answering rumble, equally low, sliding down his spine like a rush of warm water. "Alright, boy; you get the real thing, now. You can take it, kid. I know you can."

He inhales when the toy slides free of him, feeling like it goes on forever till suddenly the tip comes loose. It's a more familiar sensation, now, being slick and open in ways he never even thought about before Slade put the idea in his head, but it feels like more now with the breadth of Slade behind him, surrounding him. Slade's hands push him forward, guiding him further onto the bed. He can feel it dip as Slade joins him on it, too, pressing close to his back. Then a hand grips his shoulder, the one at his waist pulling just far enough back to wrap around his hip.

With one steady push, Slade hinges him forward till his cheek rests on the blanket, his collarbone and the tops of his shoulders just enough to balance his weight. His hips are raised, and it's with a burning flush and a thin whine coming free from his lips that his mind finally recognizes the position Slade's put him in. Hands wrapping around his hips, thumbs at his low back pressing to curve him into a shallow, presenting arch.

Jason shudders, hard.

"That's it," Slade says, somewhere up above him. "That's perfect, kid."

One hand comes off his hip, and the plastic snap of the bottle's cap ricochets across his senses like a gunshot. The wet, familiar-sounding schlick of lube across skin curls his fingers to fists, eyes squeezing shut for the moment it takes the harsh, hot rush of desire to slam through him.

"Deep breath, boy."

He obeys on reflex. Then there's pressure, hot and slick, and a rolling shove that stretches him open all at once. The breath stills in his lungs as Slade slides, and slides, and just when he feels there can't possibly be any more room, settles deeper inside him than he knew things could be. Hips press up against him, fingers returning to his other hip and pulling him firmly back into the cradle of those hips, as if there's any more space between them.

Slade rumbles a low, thick sound of satisfaction, hips rolling against him with firm, powerful pressure that makes his whole ass wake up with remembered ache, hands keeping him still despite that. The thumbs press down again, pushing him a little further into that arch. He can feel— He can feel it all. All that heft buried, somehow, inside of him. All of it.

"Let it out, kid," Slade orders, palm sliding up his side.

Like that jars it free, the breath in Jason's lungs comes out a cry. Overwhelmed and loud, his toes digging into the bed and his arms flexing against the cloth still wrapped around them. He moves, and pulls, and opens his mouth just to pant heavily against the blankets as Slade stays just behind him, immovable and inescapable even if he really wanted to. His neck aches in time with his pulse, and it’s echoed where Slade's pressed to him, the heat of the body pressed to him almost a match for the inflamed tenderness of his skin.

The next solid breath is when Slade starts to move; shallow, rolling thrusts that keep him deep and close. Jason pants against the bed, the ache of bruises and bites melding with the zinging, sharp shocks of pleasure as Slade fucks into him, lighting up underneath his skin till it feels like it might somehow burn him. He doesn't have any option but to just take it; Slade's fingers pressing just hard enough into his skin that it rides the edge of hurting, keeping him at his mercy.

Slowly — but so fucking fast — the thrusts pick up speed, driving harder into him, sliding further with every movement. Jason writhes against the bind of his hands, keens into the blanket. Every slap of Slade's hips into him is an explosion of skittering sensation.

The growl of, "Feel good, boy?" cuts right through all of it like a blade. He takes one sharper, clearer breath before Slade continues. "This is what you needed, isn't it? Someone to get you down, take you apart. Make you theirs." A thicker growl, dragging a shiver out of him. "No little alpha in a bar is ever going to match me, boy. I’m going to fuck you, knot you, fill you up. Soak you so full of my scent you never wash it off. You're mine."

Yes. Yes.

Jason tries to curve his back a little more, let his thighs slide further open, invite Slade closer and deeper and anything he wants. Anything. He just— He— He needs—

Slade grunts, fingers flexing and bursting twin aches deep into his hips for just one flare of a second. "You're a dream, kid. You feel that?"

And the moment Slade asks him, he does. The slight swell at the base of Slade's cock, the minor stretch every time he presses all the way in. The knot, just starting to swell.

He can only keen.

Slade laughs, low and just slightly breathless like Jason's never heard before. Then the thrusts are slowing, turning to deep rolls as Slade's hand comes off his hip. It presses to the bed right beside his head as Slade leans down over him, chest to his back and the tied length of his arms. It sinks to be a braced elbow as Slade's teeth find the line of his shoulders. Not fully biting, but digging and sucking marks onto his skin just like last time. Except now Slade can get to his shoulders and the upper portion of his back with nothing to stop him, and every scrape of teeth feels like lightning straight to the base of his skull.

"Take it, boy," is pressed against the curve of his shoulder and throat. "Take it."

There's a strange pressure, a pull and push that feels for a breathless moment like it won't fit. Like he can't. Then Slade's weight presses down on him, hips rolling down against him and he can feel the almost-sting of the stretch give, all at once. Slade groans into his skin, thick and low, pressing into him in shallow, circling movements. Jason can feel it; the pressure, the heat so utterly unlike the cool rigidity of the toy, the— the rush, up inside him, where—

He jerks, when a hand closes around his cock. Suddenly, he's sharply, vividly aware of how hard he is. Aching, a breath from coming even though he somehow missed all of the buildup. His gasp catches in his throat, and the fingers wrap around the base of his cock and squeeze, warm and firm enough there's just the slightest edge of pain, and—

The world whites out for a blinding second. There's just the rush of everything, the harsh grate of whatever sound he makes — or yells, or screams — through his throat, the wave of sensation and pleasure so intense he can't distinguish it from any of the pain.

He comes back to a tilted world, the blurred landscape of his bedroom visible through just the one eye, the other's vision mostly obscured by the mountains and valleys of the bunched blanket.

There are lips and teeth at his throat, a low ache building as they scrape and suction a spot just under his jaw. Every inch of him feels loose and boneless, heavy and warm and good. He can't imagine moving.

A sigh leaves his chest, his head tilting just an inch to offer more room. The resulting, lazy rumble of approval makes everything hazy again, and he feels his lips tug into a smile without his control. He shuts his eyes, lets the waves of pleasure slide through him like the tide, pushing and pulling his awareness with each crest. He doesn't feel any need to be… present. Everything is good.

He's not entirely sure whether he actually dozes off or not. Only eventually there's a hand sliding up his side, the barest hint of teeth at the back of his neck that pulls him awake with a sharp inhale. It's not quite adrenaline, but his eyes open again and instinct and training push him to take quick stock of his surroundings, his state.

(The hand gone from around him, his knot down, the warmth of a body big and solid at his back and pressed against him from shoulders to calves. Breathing close to his ear, everything else silent. Hands still tied at the small of his back. A slick, wet feeling between his cheeks that immediately brings a harsh flush to his cheeks. Oh, that's— Oh.)

There's a deep chuckle, lazy and relaxed. Then a hand at his waist, and a slide that pulls out of him, wet and open and sparking sharp against all his nerves. He sucks in a breath, squirms as there's a— a trickle that makes his cock twitch, trying solidly to rise again despite how it can't possibly manage.

It feels like there's barely a tug before suddenly the cloth tied around his arms is coming loose, finally releasing them. The breath of relief is automatic, the slight strain of his shoulders eased as his arms are allowed to come apart. Fingers rub up each limb as he shifts, getting his hands under him, flexing his fingers into the blanket.

"Anything hurt?"

The breathless laugh that comes out of him is almost a surprise, but he can't do anything but let it loose.

Slade hums a note that sounds entertained. A hand rests, warm and heavy, at the curve of his waist. "Anything hurt that shouldn't?" he drawls, one of those fingers tapping against his side.

Jason has to take a few more seconds to stop the last of what almost feels like giggles and actually think about that question. His ass aches, in the way that forming bruises do. His shoulders and neck do too, with one sharper edge on the right side of his throat that he thinks might have just barely broken skin. Maybe. Otherwise… No. His shoulders ache, slightly. There's a sore spot on his back he can't quite recall the cause of, but it doesn't feel like anything but a bruise. He's… good.

He says as much, barely recognizing his own voice as he says, "Nah, 'm fine." Rough, deep and just slightly slurring at the edge as if he were drunk.

He's not drunk. He just— He feels—

Actually, he feels kind of drunk.

Slade's arm wraps around his waist, pulling him close. A chin settles on top of his head, weight coming to press slightly on top of him, pushing him down against the bed. "Get some rest, kid. Sleep it off."

"Lights are still on," comes out of his mouth, but his eyes are closing, face turning into the… pillow? Blanket?

"I'll handle it."

He believes it. For some reason. (He can't quite recall why he wouldn't, right now. Well, whatever.) "Okay."

There's no moment of sleep claiming him. Just the deep breaths of Slade, steady and calm, right up till he ceases to hear anything at all.

Jason wakes up slowly. Feeling like he's become one with the bed, like he spent the night on an intense patrol that had him collapsing into the bed the moment he got home. Except he's less clothed than he usually ends up on nights like those, usually not nearly awake enough to get stripped all the way down before he passes out. He hurts less, too. There's some ache to him, but it's in very specific points, and he— Oh.

Oh. Oh fuck, Slade.

His eyes snap open, gaze sweeping around the room as he pushes up on his hands. It's early morning, by the light coming in through the gap in his blinds. Maybe like, eight. Way earlier than he'd usually wake up, but he must have passed out pretty early, too, so it's not totally bizarre. There's no hint of Slade in the room, except the scent clinging to the bed. And — a careful sniff of his own arm tells him — his own skin. He gets a partial view of his shoulder when he does, too, and…

Yeah. Yeah, those are some definite hickeys. And bruises. And bitemarks. Jesus Christ, what does his fucking neck look like, if that collage is just what he can see of his shoulder?

There's the creak of hinges that's exactly the right tone to be his door, and he jerks his head up as it swings open. His hackles raise, shoulders starting to tense before Slade steps into the doorway. Fully clothed. Barely fucking fitting in his doorway, even as he leans against the frame of it with casual idleness. He's got a cup in his hands. That's… That's Jason's mug. The one that he usually doesn't use because the handle is slightly broken and he doesn't enjoy burning his hands trying to carry it.

"Morning, kid," Slade drawls, through a lazy smirk. "How's your ass?"

Jason nearly chokes on his own spit. Coughs, folding halfway over until he manages to suck in a breath past the reflexive hacking.

Slade laughs at him, the son of a bitch.

"Slade," he finally manages. "You—” He doesn't even know what to say. What to ask about what happened, what it means, what will happen now, or— Fuck. What is he supposed to say? "Why are you still here?"

It sounds a lot harsher than he meant it, and he's not even sure he really meant to ask at all, but all Slade does is push off the doorframe and wander towards him, the mug shifting to just one hand.

"You think I was going to fuck you and walk out?" he asks, sounding more amused than offended. Still smirking.

Jason shifts, curling his fingers into the blankets (he was over them when he fell asleep, wasn't he? Did Slade…?) and staring up as Slade comes to a stop at the side of the bed, weight casually leaned to one side. "Yes," he decides to answer. It's… honest, anyway. He definitely didn't expect to wake up to Deathstroke still wandering around his apartment, anyway.

Slade's smirk curls far enough up Jason relabels it to a grin. "I like pretty boys in my bed for all kinds of activities, kid, and I don't half-ass things." He lifts the mug, tosses back whatever was left in it with a flick of his head, then sets it down on the bedside table. "You play games with me, you sign up for the whole thing. So do I."

One hand reaches out as he sits down, and for some reason Jason doesn't stop it curling around the back of his neck, pulling him forward a couple inches. Slade leans in, too; close enough to brush lips over his, then nip at his bottom one just hard enough to sting. He sucks in a breath as Slade hums, thumb sweeping over his neck.

"Brush your teeth, kid. Take a shower. Eat. Drink at least two cups of water. Understood?"

Jason manages a jerky nod.

"Good boy."

It still makes him shudder, makes something hot twist up his stomach in ways he can't explain.

Slade chuckles and pulls back, getting back to his feet. "Left you a few things on your table," he comments, one thumb hooking into the pocket of his jeans. "My number's there. One of them, anyway. When you're ready to do this again, give me a call, kid." Another hitch of the smirk into a sharper grin. "And let me know what you think of the new toys, boy. When you've figured that out."

The flush won't go away. "New toys?" comes out half-strangled.

Slade's gaze sweeps down his chest, raking across him with almost physical-feeling intent. "You'll see." The hand comes free of the jeans, reaching out to slide fingers through his hair, tug him up an inch when they curl to a firm grip. "I'll wait for your call, kid." A flash of teeth, just enough to make him tense. "See you around. One way or another."

Jason thinks there might be something seriously fucked up about his reaction to that flash of teeth. Surely it's not anywhere near fucking normal to think that Deathstroke flashing teeth in his face is hot. Surely normal people don't get an immediate itch to have teeth that fucking dangerous closed around their neck.

Slade grins and leans in, tugging his head back with one sharp pull, breath fanning out over his throat as he grazes his lips across it. Jason expects a bite, braces and curves into it. Instead he gets Slade's voice in his ear, in a low, dark rumble.

"When you jerk off in that shower, kid, I want you to imagine what I'm going to do to you next time." The fingers of Slade's other hand touch his chest, palm sliding up to cup one of his pectorals. "Pay some attention to these," is absolutely an order. "Get them nice and sore, boy. I want you to feel them the rest of the day. Clear?"

Jason swallows, and somehow gets out a breathless, "Clear." And for some reason, some reaction he can't even begin to explain, his mouth adds, "Sir," to the end of that.

For a second, Jason thinks he's actually surprised Slade. He pulls back just enough to look Jason in the eyes, study his expression with a quizzically bemused slant to his mouth. Jason feels his cheeks flush warm in embarrassment, lips pressing tight together as he actually registers what he just said. Calling Slade 'sir' like he's some kind of, of trainer, or—

"Oh," Slade says, bemusement sliding into something wicked, "we'll play with that next time, too."

Jason sucks in a breath.

Slade lets go of him, straightening up and stepping back. "Have fun, kid," he tosses over his shoulder. "I'll see you soon."

Jason just watches him stride out of the room. Hears the distant sound of his locks coming apart, and the clicks of his front door opening and closing again. Then just silence. Him, alone in his apartment. Halfway to hard from just some words and a hand in his hair.

He's so fucked. Jesus. How did he actually get mixed up in this? How did he end up with Slade fucking Wilson in his apartment? In his bed? Surely that level of shitty decision making should make him certifiable, even for Gotham's standards.

He groans, hanging his head for a second before he takes a breath and forces himself to get out of the bed. He grabs a pair of sweats from in a drawer before he heads out to the rest of his apartment, gravitating towards the kitchen. Water, food. Probably in that order. The shower (and everything that comes with that shower) can happen after.

It isn't until he sees the box on his table that he remembers that Slade said he left some things. Wooden, closed with a simple hinge lid, with what looks like a post-it stuck to the top of it.

There's a number on it. And a scrawled, 'Call me when you're ready, kid', that makes Jason have to take a steadying breath.

'Ready.' Ready for what, exactly? He said 'toys,' didn't he? Is it more dildos, like the ones he sent before? Or… Okay, well, that's really about all the guess he has, because whatever all this is, whatever Slade wants, whatever he's planning on, Jason sure as fuck doesn't have a clue what it might be. He's only just realizing how completely ignorant he is of all of this.

("You don’t have any idea what I could do to you, do you, kid? The things I could show you… You’d never be satisfied with anyone but me again.”)

Jason takes a breath, and flips open the box.