Work Text:
The kid is getting far too good at hiding shit.
Slade almost misses the old days, when they first started training together. Though, there hadn’t been much ‘training’, then. The boy had needed to do a lot of healing, first—both physically and mentally. The latter had been the hardest, especially since Slade wasn’t a paragon of mental health himself… at least, not if you asked Billy or Adeline or any of his children.
Still, back then Jason had been too weak to hide anything from Slade. That’s not the case anymore.
Part of Slade is proud. Jason has come a long way from the broken, angry bird he found bleeding out in the bowels of Arkham.
The other part is pissed.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” His tone is harsh enough that, had Jason been conscious, he would have flinched—then tried to hide it by getting right back in Slade’s face. Neither happens. Instead, Jason’s head lolls limply against his arm. Unwillingly, Slade feels a harsh tug of concern.
At least the training yard is deserted. Slade had just dismissed the men to the showers. The plan had been to remind Jason he needed to eat before they sat down to review their next steps.
Instead, when the last man had left the yard, Slade had turned to Jason just in time to see his knees buckling. He’d barely managed to catch him before he hit the ground.
They can’t stay here. As much as he’d like to whisk the kid off to the medical bay where he can be seen by the compound’s chief medic, he knows that Jason will pitch a fit if his ‘moment of weakness’ is observed by too many people. Slade hoists him into his arms, bridal style. Jason mumbles something, but even Slade’s enhanced hearing can’t pick out what it is through the distortion of the modulator.
“It’s alright, kid,” he says anyway, pitching his voice low and soothing. It’s not a full alpha timber, but it’s close enough. He thinks Jason relaxes a little more in his arms, but it’s hard to tell through the layers of body armor.
As soon as he opens the door to Jason’s den, he knows exactly what the problem is. The stench of heat permeates the air. Slade steps inside, quickly kicking the door shut behind him.
“Dammit, kid.” It’s only years of rigid self-control that allows Slade to swallow his growl.
He’s always known the kid was an omega. Living with Joker, Jason hadn’t had the luxury of scent blockers. While the clown’s own scent and the general reek of captivity might have been able to overpower it, Slade wasn’t exactly most people. He’d known what Jason was as soon as he’d walked into that room.
It hadn’t mattered. Jason had a shrewd, tactical mind and a willingness to hone it even further under Slade’s tutelage. Getting him fighting fit had taken time, but Slade had managed—and every day, the kid awarded that effort with far more than the money he was paying him to stick around. Jason was one of the best students he ever had.
In the back of his mind, though, Slade had always known this day was coming.
Despite that, he feels entirely unprepared to handle it.
He takes a slow breath—not that it helps clear his mind any. He keeps breathing, in through the mouth and out through the nose, trying to acclimate to Jason’s scent. It’s been a long time since Slade was around a heating omega, and even longer since he’d been around a heating omega he had some degree of fondness for. He’d almost forgotten what it was like. He remembers enough to know that it’s not generally like this. Jason’s heat-scent isn’t as sweet as it should be, soured by misery and loneliness. That makes it even harder to fight against the instinctual desire to protect and defend (and claim).
Slade has always had strong instincts. They’re part of what makes him such a skilled hunter. The other part is his control of him; the ability to listen to what they tell him without being a slave to their whims. It’s been a long time since he had to fight this hard to keep hold of himself.
Once he gets himself under control, Slade starts moving again, crossing the room to Jason’s nest. It’s… not much of one. Just a cot with a thin blanket and a solitary pillow, surrounded by weapons in easy reach. His instincts urge him to ‘fix it’, railing against setting Jason down there, when he should be surrounded by soft, comforting things that smell like pack and safety, and not heat and misery.
When Slade sets him down on it, Jason makes another noise. The modulator again renders it unintelligible, but Slade murmurs something comforting anyway as he kneels beside the cot and makes quick work of removing Jason’s helmet.
Initially, Jason had been resistant to anyone other than himself knowing how to remove the Arkham Knight armor, but Slade had stood his ground. The last thing they need is the Knight’s paranoia leading to his death—though not for lack of trying on the kid’s part.
As soon as the helmet is gone, heat-lonely-misery-stay-please hits Slade like a tidal wave. It’s fresher, stronger this time, forcing Slade to go through the breathing exercises again as he tamps down on his instinctual desire to comfort. Jason might appreciate it now, but he won’t when lucidity returns—and the last thing Slade wants to deal with is one of Jason’s tantrums.
He forces himself to evaluate the situation.
Jason’s face is flushed, sweaty, his hair plastered to his head. His eyes are open, but hazy and unfocused. His breathing is shallow, his mouth open as he pants softly. Heat sickness, Slade thinks. Jason’s heat definitely didn’t start today—or even within the last twenty-four hours.
Slade resists the urge to pinch his nose. Alright, the first thing he needs to do is get Jason back to some degree of lucidity. He stands—but he barely manages to take a step away before the boy whimpers, hand shooting out to grab Slade’s wrist. His scent sours even further with distress.
Jason’s hold is weak. It wouldn’t take anything for Slade to break it.
He doesn’t, stilling in place.
“Shh,” he says. “I’m going to come right back.”
Jason shakes his head. “Stay,” he says. “Please.” His voice is always some degree of hoarse and broken—a year of nearly non-stop screaming would do that to you—but the way it breaks around the second word…
Slade sighs. When did he get so fucking soft? He kneels by Jason’s side again, gently breaking Jason’s hold so he can tug off one of his gloves. He cards his fingers through Jason’s sweat-damp curls. Jason melts under his touch, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
It’s… sweet.
“What am I going to do with you, kid?” he asks, refusing to pay any mind to the way something almost fond leaks into his voice.
Jason doesn’t answer him, too busy pushing into his hand like a cat. Jason’s hunger for touch had been more prominent in the early stages of his healing—though the boy had done his best to hide it, pulling away from Slade as soon as he realized he might be showing any hint of weakness.
He’ll do the same now, too, Slade knows, internally bracing for the bitch fit Jason is going to throw as soon as he’s lucid again.
Slade sighs again. He taps his ear, opening up one of the secure comm channels.
“Doc,” he says, “send one of your boys up to Knight’s room with some rations and a case of water, and then let everyone know the area is off-limits until one of us tells you otherwise. Lieutenant Vasquez can handle training for the next couple of days.”
There’s a moment of silence, punctuated only by the soft, barely-there static of the open comm link before finally, the Doc replies, “Understood, Deathstroke. One of the medics will be along shortly. Please let me know if you need any further supplies.”
Slade grunts in reply before shutting the channel again. He looks down to find Jason watching him, though he doesn’t seem overly concerned by Slade’s conversation. The trust is as heart-warming as it is concerning. The sooner he gets the boy lucid again, the better.
It’s not long before Slade hears footsteps. There’s a soft ‘thud’, followed by two soft raps against Jason’s door.
“Brought the boss’s stuff, sir.”
“Good. Leave it,” Slade says, raising his voice a little. He waits until he’s sure the man has left before he stands. Jason whimpers again. “It’s alright,” Slade soothes. “I’ll be right back—you’ll have eyes on me the whole time.”
The words don’t seem to help much, but at least he stops trying to cling to him.
(That might also be worse in a way, the way Jason just… gives up. As much grief as the boy’s stubbornness causes him, it’s Jason’s willingness to fight for what he wants, to climb back out of the closest thing to literal hell Slade can think of, that has Slade sticking around. Well—that and the money.)
Waiting for him outside is a case of water and a box. The box is plain cardboard, not the simple box of protein bars Slade had requested. He frowns, but hefts both anyway, kicking the door shut behind him. He almost regrets it when Jason flinches at the sound.
Jason’s eyes stay on him as he crosses the room. Beside the cot—Slade can’t bring himself to call it a nest—he sweeps a few of the weapons aside to make room for the supplies. He tries to be a little gentler when he sets them down. As soon as he kneels again, Jason greets him with a chirp. Slade’s mouth twitches. He hums, stroking Jason’s forehead with his thumb in lieu of swiping over it with his wrist.
There’s a note taped to the top of the box.
Deathstroke,
I have been anticipating Jason’s heat for some time now—as well as the fact that he likely wouldn’t tell anyone when it had occurred. I have done my best to procure all the supplies you should need, as well as a few you hopefully won’t. A few of the men caught on as well, and contributed items of their own. Please be assured that we will all work to keep the compound running as smoothly as usual while the Knight recovers.
Below the message is an itemized list of the supplies contained within—a heating pad, 12 dry cloths, protein bars, fruit cups, mixed nuts and dried fruit, chocolate, three different types of sexual aids, pads, and a cooler containing cold packs and ice.
Slade huffs. Should have known the Doc had a plan for this. As chief medic of the growing militia, he was the one who oversaw Jason’s continuing recovery. If anyone could have seen this coming, it would have been him.
He folds the note and then makes quick work of opening the box. Inside, there’s also something that wasn’t on the list—a stuffed bear. Slade is almost amused by the fact that it’s missing one of its little button eyes.
“You sure have a way of inspiring loyalty, boy,” he says, tearing open the plastic encasing the water. “Over half of these men would die for you, you know that?”
Jason doesn’t answer him. His eyes have gone heavy-lidded again, now that he’s no longer worried about Slade taking off and leaving him. There’s no curiosity for the box or its contents—though Slade should probably count himself lucky that there’s no wariness either.
Slade opens a water bottle, and uses the contents to wet one of the cloths. Jason wrinkles his nose when Slade starts to dab at his face. He doesn’t bat him away, but he certainly looks disgruntled. Slade is tempted to call it cute.
Once he’s mopped up the worst of the sweat, he wets the cloth again, and drapes it over Jason’s forehead. Then he raises the bottle to Jason’s lips, dripping a little water onto his tongue.
Jason swallows automatically. Slade drips a little more in, slowly feeding him what’s left of the bottle before reaching for a piece of ice instead. Jason opens his mouth for it, letting Slade set it on his tongue so he can suck on it.
As soon as he’s given Jason his second piece, he says, “Alright, kid. I’m gonna need to get you out of that armor.”
Jason huffs and holds out his arm.
“Thank you.”
Just like with the helmet, Slade is familiar enough with the catches and traps built into the suit that it doesn’t take long for him to get it off of him. He leaves Jason’s undersuit where it is. It's thin enough that Jason shouldn’t be at risk for overheating in it. He could probably use a little more skin-on-skin contact, but Slade’s not about to start stripping him while he’s out of it.
He gives the kid another piece of ice before he starts to work on his own armor. Jason watches him with renewed interest. He can see the boy’s nostrils flaring—the initial wrinkling of his nose when all he gets is his own scent before Slade’s finally starts to come through.
Just like with Jason, he leaves his undersuit on.
“Alright, kid,” he says. “I need you to sit up for me.”
It takes a second for Jason to get with the program. He moves too quickly at first, and Slade has to steady him, but soon, both of them are in Jason’s cot, with Jason sitting between Slade’s legs, chest-to-back. He’s thankful there’s no desire, even now that the distress has mostly faded from Jason’s scent. His cup would only hide so much, and he’d rather not find out if his enhanced healing would save him from castration.
Slade pulls the supplies a little closer, so they’re in easy reach, and then settles down, one arm wrapped securely around Jason’s waist while the other alternates between stroking his hair and feeding him ice.
He has a feeling they’re going to be here for a while.
After several more pieces of ice and part of a second bottle of water, Jason falls into a doze. Slade keeps the cloth on his forehead damp, wetting it again any time it starts to dry. It’s almost peaceful. He had almost forgotten what it was like to just hold someone.
Nothing can last forever. The sun is starting to set when Jason stirs. Slade hears his breathing change first; deep breaths becoming shallower as consciousness takes hold. His heartbeat follows, ticking up a few beats. Then—Jason stills. His breaths slow again, automatically. Someone without enhanced senses never would have noticed.
Slade lets the boy have his ruse.
It only takes a moment for Jason to put the pieces together. He growls, low and menacing enough to take a lesser man out at the knees. His scent spikes with shame before he suppresses it.
“I take it you’re back with us again,” Slade drawls.
Jason’s growl deepens. He finally pushes away from Slade, the cloth falling from his forehead. He catches it before Slade, the growl in his chest stuttering as he looks at it, brows furrowed.
“What happened?” he asks finally.
“You collapsed after training,” Slade says. He keeps still—no sudden movements, and his hands where Jason can see them. “Just you and I were on the field. I took you back here, realized you were on the verge of a critical heat, and took steps to get you lucid again.”
Jason sweeps the room, eyes landing on the supply kit by the bed. He paws through it. Slade knows he’s found the heat aids when his ears turn red. He half-expects him to kick the box and send it skittering across the floor, but instead, he lets it be, continuing to rummage.
When he sits back up in the cot, Slade is surprised to see him clutching the one-eyed teddy bear. He turns it over in his hands before looking up at Slade. His eyes widen slightly. Still clearly heat-brained, despite his lucidity if he’d forgotten Slade was there.
There’s a moment of hesitation before Jason sets his jaw, glaring like he’s daring Slade to say something about it.
Slade keeps his mouth shut. About the bear, at least. “Speaking of, there a reason you decided working through your heat would be a good idea?”
“I don’t have time for this,” Jason snaps. “You and I will be returning to Gotham soon. If something as simple as a heat is all it takes to bring me down, then our plan is doomed.”
He can see Jason’s point, at least somewhat. Now that his body is strong enough to support heats again, this won’t be the last. After over a year without one, his cycle will be irregular and unpredictable. There is every possibility he could have another heat in a matter of weeks instead of months—or that he could start one in the middle of a fight.
But—
“You say that like we didn’t hire a very capable doctor. Even after we return to Gotham, it will take time for us to set up your plan. By the time we’re ready to move, the Doc’ll have some kind of suppressant ready for you.” Slade sees Jason’s mouth open, and continues, more forcefully, “And if he doesn’t, then I have other contacts. I promised you that you would get your shot at the Bat, and I intend to keep that promise.”
Jason snaps his mouth shut. A muscle twitches in his jaw.
Slade presses his advantage. “In the meantime, you need to be in peak physical condition. If that means taking a few days off to deal with your heat, then that’s what it means. Pushing yourself to the point you end up in critical heat will only put undue stress on your body and undo the work you’ve already done. And that will set us back.”
Jason growls again, but Slade doesn’t rise to the bait. He just waits until it slowly peters out and Jason’s shoulders slump.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll… ride it out.” His nose wrinkles as he says it, disgust plain on his face.
“Good.” Slade pauses. This next part will be trickier. “Heats pass easier when they aren’t spent alone.”
Jason’s hands tighten on the bear. “That wasn’t in our contract.”
Slade shrugs, carefully casual. He’ll leave if Jason insists on it. It won’t be easy. Slade’s instincts have already responded to the kid’s heat, and rejection could send him spiraling.
It won’t be the first time Slade’s gone through it—but having gone through it before doesn’t make it any easier to bear.
“What do you want from me?” Jason’s eyes narrow.
Slade is being judged, measured. “The same thing I’ve always wanted—to help you take down the Bat. This won’t change anything.”
Jason swallows.
It takes effort not to visibly track the movement—and even still, Slade can’t help but be hyper aware of the movement. Jason’s neck is obscured by the high neck of his undershirt and likely a protective collar beneath that but Slade knows what’s hidden under it.
A collar formed of scars left by barbed wire, just barely seated over his scent glands. The mating gland on the back of his neck wasn’t so lucky. Every tug, every pull of that collar had sent waves of submission rolling through Jason’s body. These days, he barely responds to a scruff at all.
Slade could bite it.
Could cover those scars with his own—make Jason his, instead of the clown’s.
—but that’s just instinct talking.
Jason doesn’t want that from him—wouldn’t want that from anyone. His independence was hard won and he guards it fiercely.
As he should. As he deserves.
Jason is a weapon, now. One of the finest Slade has ever seen.
“Give me your word,” Jason demands, ice-blue eyes bright and fierce. “Swear to me that after this, you won’t—” He cuts himself off.
By now, Slade knows Jason’s insecurities well.
“You have my word,” Slade says. “No matter what happens during your heat, when it’s over, I’m still going to treat you like the Arkham Knight.”
Jason nods jerkily, but the intensity of his stare doesn’t let up. “No mating bites.”
“No mating bites,” he agrees.
Jason bites his lip, finally breaking eye contact to stare at the floor to their left. “If we— I want to be on top.”
“Okay.” His easy acceptance has Jason looking at him again, eyes darting over his face. “What if you change your mind, during? Only about positioning—not biting.”
Jason’s tongue runs over his teeth. “That’s fine,” he says, finally. “Just— I don’t want—”
“Not from behind,” Slade assures him.
He finally loosens his death grip on the bear. “Okay. Then—you can stay.”
Slade had expected to do a lot more negotiation to get to this point. For Jason to capitulate so easily speaks to how bad of a state he’s in. (Or, perhaps, to how much he’s grown to trust him—but Slade’s not holding his breath on that.)
Jason shifts—and then grimaces. “I need… I think I need a shower.”
Slade nods. “Do you want company?” He keeps his tone and expression mild. Unsurprisingly, Jason shakes his head. Slade nods again. “Alright. I’m going to get a few things from my den. I’ll be back before you’re done.”
“Okay.”
It takes Jason a moment to move. Slade watches him for any sign of unsteadiness, but other than some initial wobbliness, the kid seems fine. This wing of the compound only has two occupied rooms—Jason’s and Slade’s. The showers are between them. Slade parts ways with Jason there. He hears the soft 'click’ of the lock after Jason enters. He’s long past taking offense to it, even if this time his instincts rail against losing sight of his the omega.
Slade sighs.
The first thing he does after entering his den is change into a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. Then, he turns to his nest. He’d fastened two cots together to build it, giving himself a little more space to stretch out. Most temporary locations, Slade wouldn’t have bothered building one at all, but they’ve been at the compound for months. It’s still hardly the best nest he’s ever built, but it’s serviceable—and easily dismantled when it comes time to leave the compound. He takes two of his blankets and three pillows back to Jason’s den.
While Slade is willing to ignore a lot of social etiquette, even he isn’t willing to disturb an omega’s nest without permission… particularly a heating omega’s nest. But after seeing the way Jason had latched onto the bear, he wanted to make sure he had the options.
Then, he settles down to wait.
Jason returns from his shower wearing a t-shirt and sweats virtually indistinguishable from Slade’s own, and looking very uncomfortable with it. His neck is bare. Slade doesn't let his eyes linger, no matter how much part of him wants to. Jason already looks one wrong word away from spooking.
“So, uh. What now?” He isn’t fidgeting, but the way he holds himself perfectly still is just as much of a tell.
“Well, first, we should probably eat,” Slade says. “And then…” He shrugs. “We don’t have to do anything yet. We can just sleep.” They could just stay in the nest and rest through the whole thing, if that’s what Jason ends up needing. Not every heat is about sex.
Jason nods again, setting his jaw. “Fine.”
He sits on the cot, by Slade’s legs. Before reaching into the box, he rearranges the weapons around the cot. There’s no discernible pattern to it that Slade can see, but he’d felt the same way about a few of Addy’s nesting habits as well. Every heat saw subtle, or not-so subtle, rearrangements of their den. She’d undo and pull apart their nest at the start before putting it back together (sometimes in exactly the same order). Then she’d reorder photos and trinkets, sometimes several times before she was happy with them. By far the oddest thing was maybe the way she’d strip the couch of its cushions. Not to add around the nest, but to leave beside it. They didn’t have enough to fully surround it, so she’d substitute with any extra pillows. Slade had messed with it exactly once. Never again.
Once Jason is happy with the placement of his weapons, he starts pawing through the rations. He picks one, and hands Slade another. They eat in silence. It should be more awkward than it is, especially since Jason is still sitting stiff as a board. But it’s not, really. Jason is a hell of a lot more at ease around people than he was a year ago—although it might not look like it, if you were to observe his interactions with, well… anyone—but Slade still remembers when every moment spent with him was like this. Wary, tense, always watching. Waiting for a hand to strike, or the illusion to shatter.
He also knows that the more he behaves as if everything is normal, the more Jason will relax.
Maybe.
He supposes they are navigating uncharted waters tonight.
After they finish eating, Slade moves to give Jason room to lie beside him. Jason doesn’t lie down, though. Instead his eyes fall on the pillows and blankets Slade brought.
“Those yours?”
“Yeah. Thought they might be nice to have nearby just in case.”
Jason hums in acknowledgment, leaning forward to grab one of the pillows. He fluffs it experimentally before handing it to Slade, who takes it bemusedly. Jason passes him the other two pillows before grabbing the blankets as well. Slade moves, allowing Jason room to work.
It doesn’t take him long to adjust the nest to his liking. The little bear is the last thing he adds—though not in the nest itself. He gets set up atop one of the weapons, face pointed toward the door like a little sentry. Slade’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t laugh.
The cot is still far from a proper nest, but it’s better. Something loosens in Slade’s chest, soothed by having ‘provided’ for his the omega in some small way.
He settles down again. After a moment of hesitation, Jason lays down too, his back pressed to Slade’s chest.
Now that he can’t see him, Slade allows himself to look at his neck. He winces internally. The boy’s scent glands are reddened and swollen. No wonder he forewent the collar.
Slade drapes an arm over Jason’s waist, resisting the almost-instinctual urge to kiss the back of his neck. Jason is somehow even more tense than before. Slade can hear his heart racing—and this close, he can smell the anxiety on him, despite the way Jason is still trying to tamp down on his scent.
Here, Slade allows instinct to guide him. A low rumble builds in his chest. Jason's breath hitches at the sound. Slade hears him swallow, feels him tremble. He says nothing. He just traces slow, careful patterns over Jason’s abdomen and dragging his wrist behind, leaving trails of scent over the boy's middle.
It doesn't take long for Jason’s breaths to sound wet—for the trembles to turn into shakes. He can smell the salt in the air. Slade presses his face into the back of Jason’s head, breathing in the scent of soap and sweat and Jason. It’s addictive, that scent. Slade wants to wrap his lips around one of Jason’s glands, to coax more of it out with lips and tongue, until the last of the distress-lonely-fear scent fades from Jason’s den, and all that’s left behind is safe-want-need-breed-please.
Jason’s hand grips his forearm. It’s a tight grip, but not restraining. He just holds, like he needs something to ground him.
Slowly—so very, very slowly, Jason begins to relax. He fights it. For every muscle loosened, it's as if three tighten back up again, but then, finally, Jason lets go. Even his death grip on Slade’s arm lets up. His heart calms. It's still faster than it should be, but it’s no longer trying to beat right out of his chest. His breaths come easier, more evenly.
Slade wants to reward him, but he doesn’t know how—not without risking all of their progress being lost. So he doesn’t; he just keeps rumbling and scenting him, hoping that now Jason can enjoy it properly.
Night has well and truly fallen. The room has been thrust into shadow, the only illumination coming through the lone window by Jason’s desk. Slade’s purr subsides to something near subvocal, his hand stilling on Jason’s stomach. Jason is still clutching his arm, though his grip is loose now.
Neither of them sleep. Slade doesn’t dare to, not now. Instead, he enters a trance-like state, honed through years of meditation. It allows his mind to turn placid, still, but remain aware of everything around him. He notices immediately when Jason tenses again, a barely audible whimper in his throat. Cramp or need? Slade scents the air. Pain tinges Jason’s scent. Slade moves his hand lower, rubbing slow circles over his gut. He rumbles louder, pressing a little more firmly against Jason’s back without really thinking about it.
Were Jason any other omega, he’d drape himself over him—let his weight and his body heat and the rumble of his purr soothe the aches and pains of heat away. But Jason isn’t any other omega. He’s the Arkham Knight. Boxing him in would hurt more than it would help, and Slade knows that.
Jason makes a high, omegan noise. Slade can’t tell if it’s from pain or pleasure. He stills immediately, pulling off of—
When did he wrap his mouth around Jason’s scent gland? The taste of him sits on Slade’s tongue, still, thick and sweet like honey. His lips tingle.
Jason makes another noise. This one, Slade knows. It’s a cry of need. “Don’t… Don’t stop.” His voice shakes, trembles. It’s more breath than sound.
Slade latches back on immediately, groaning when he tastes him again. He bets his cunt tastes even better. His cock, too. He can feel his own throb with need, already half hard. There’s no way Jason can’t feel it, the way it’s pressed against his ass. Desire fills the air. Jason shifts, adjusting his hips, his thighs. Every movement rubs his ass against Slade’s cock. His teeth itch to bite down on Jason’s scent gland—to leave a scar where the clown failed to. His jaw aches with the control it takes to hold back.
Slade drags his wrist down Jason’s belly, fingers creeping under the band of his sweats. He pauses, giving Jason the opportunity to refuse. He shifts instead, hooking his leg around Slade’s to give him access.
The first brush of his fingers over Jason’s cunt has him growling before he has a chance to think. Jason shudders in his arms—Slade feels more slick drip out of him. Encouraged, he growls again; low, possessive, a pure alpha sound of mine-want-claim. Jason’s grip tightens on his arm—his head tips back, throat bared to the room.
“Slade—” His voice is wet.
Slade drags his tongue over Jason’s scent gland and then all the way up to his jaw. He presses his nose against Jason’s cheek—feels the raised edges of the ‘J’ scar there. “I’ve got you,” he promises, voice rolling with his rumble.
Jason shudders again. “I— I— I need—” His voice breaks.
I know, Slade wants to soothe. But more than that, he wants to hear it— “What do you need, sweetheart?”
Jason’s whimper nearly breaks his resolve; quiet and devastating. His hand flexes on Slade’s arm. “Touch me,” he pleads—and Slade rewards him, dragging the pads of his fingers through the soft folds of Jason’s cunt. Slick smears over his skin. Jason is wet enough Slade could easily slip a finger in if he wanted, but he doesn’t. He keeps dragging his fingers between Jason’s folds, over his hole, feeling the way it twitches and flutters.
At the same time, he keeps his mouth over the scar, the brand. Mine, he wants to snarl. He swallows the word back, instead he traces it with his tongue, working his scent into it. Jason’s breath hitches. His nails bite into Slade’s skin.
“Slade,” he says—and Slade rumbles in response. He presses a finger against Jason’s hole, rubbing tight little circles around it and relishing the way the boy writhes against him. The movement tugs his pants down, until finally Jason has enough of them and kicks them off entirely. His underwear follows swiftly behind.
Slade moves—propping himself up on one arm as Jason falls onto his back. Wide, watery eyes stare up at Slade. Jason swallows. Slade tracks the movement. Dimly he’s aware of his own scent, no longer kept on a tight leash but instead just as thick in the air as Jason’s. They complement each other well, he thinks, in a distant part of his mind; the part that’s always observing, always watching.
He presses his finger inside of Jason. There’s no resistance. He’s so wet the digit slides in easily, Jason’s body swallowing it greedily. He’s even softer on the inside, vaginal walls like silk against Slade’s finger. Hot, too, like a furnace. Slade’s cock throbs with the desire to be buried inside of him.
Patience.
The night is still young. They have time.
Slade presses a second finger inside him, curling and twisting them until he finds it—a spot a little spongier than the rest of him. Jason gasps when he presses against it, hips jerking, a coppery scent tinging the air as his nails draw blood from Slade’s arm. Slade rumbles, pleased, leaving a trail of nipping kisses over Jason’s face, and down the column of his neck when Jason presents it to him, face tipped back as he pants.
The sound of Jason’s pleasure is as quiet as his pain. The lewd squelch of Slade’s fingers inside of him is almost enough to drown out the sound of his breaths, the way he gasps and sighs, the barely-there whimpers and moans. Slade picks them out; using them along with the minute shifts of his body to find a rhythm that has Jason falling apart under him.
“Don’t stop,” Jason whispers. He sounds on the verge of tears.
It’s a request Slade is only too happy to comply with, massaging Jason’s g-spot with steady, firm pressure. The boy clenches around him, his hips rolling, trying to take more, more, more.
As his pleasure builds, Jason’s scent grows even more intoxicating. Slade follows it, until he can wrap his lips around Jason’s other gland, the one he hasn’t had his mouth on yet. He feels Jason swallow. The boy’s free hand tangles in his hair, tugging. It’s not enough to move him, but the dull sensation spreading through his scalp has gooseflesh rising on his skin. Slade shivers, growls. Saliva pools in his mouth, dripping onto Jason’s gland, mingling their scents even further.
“Slade—fuck—alpha.”
Slade snarls. His jaw tightens. Blood fills his mouth—hot and thick and metallic, but he swears there’s a sweetness to it too. Jason shudders, clamping down around Slade’s fingers, his thighs clenching tight as slick squirts out of him, soaking Slade’s sweats and the cot beneath them. His walls spasm around Slade’s fingers; milking his fingers the same way they would a knot.
Slade worries his teeth even deeper before he thinks about it—before he realizes what he’s doing, what he’s done. He slowly, carefully, dislodges his teeth from Jason’s neck. Jason whines. He licks at the wound. It’s part apology, part effort to help it close up quicker. He can feel it working; the way the blood slows to a stop, clots starting to form under his ministrations.
When he tries to lift his head, Jason’s grip on him tightens, holding him in place. Slade allows it, kissing and licking at Jason’s gland until the omega goes limp under him. He slowly pulls his fingers from Jason’s cunt, rumbling when Jason whimpers.
Then, finally, he raises his head.
Jason’s eyes fall on Slade’s mouth—on the blood smeared there, dribbling down his chin. Slade waits with bated breath for his reaction.
The last thing he expects is for Jason to grab his face in both hands and drag him down into a kiss. It’s intense, feverish. Slade kisses back just as fiercely, daring to slide his hand up Jason’s shirt. His torso is littered with scars—his whole body is, really, but his torso had provided Joker with the best canvas. Slade doesn’t mind them. He’d enjoy hunting down all the places where the nerve endings hadn’t been severed. Jason, though. Jason does mind them, to the point that Slade has caught him showering in the dark, to avoid having to see them and remember.
He lets Slade touch him, though.
Slade doesn’t know why—doesn’t know how he’s managed to earn this.
It’s not something he has time to dwell on. Jason’s thighs lock around his waist, and then Slade is being flipped. He could stop it, but why would he, when he could have Jason’s weight straddling his hips? One of his hands rests on Slade’s chest for balance—the other stays on his face. Both of Slade’s hands come up to cup his waist automatically, further steadying him.
Jason runs his tongue over Slade’s lip. He parts them, moaning as Jason chases the taste of his own blood through every crevice of Slade’s mouth. Jason’s hips roll, grinding down on the bulge of Slade’s cock, through his sweats. Slade groans, half in pleasure, half in pain; the confines of his boxers feeling suddenly too tight as his cock throbs, leaking pre.
Jason pulls back, lips swollen. He tugs at Slade’s pants. “Off,” he demands, a little growl in the word.
Slade lifts his hips, pushing his sweats and underwear down. His cock springs free—flushed, swollen, pre dribbling down the shaft. He kicks his pants off, letting them fall into a tangled pile on the floor. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls his shirt off too, leaving him entirely bare.
For a moment, Jason is still. He just—looks at him, his chest, his cock. His expression is blank; his body still. For once, Slade has no idea what he’s thinking. He doesn’t even attempt to guess.
Instead, he takes the moment to look at Jason in turn. He’s still wearing his shirt, but sitting up on his knees the way he is, Slade has an unfettered view of his thighs. They’re plush with hard-earned muscle and fat, and covered with a fine dusting of hair. It grows patchy in places, some of the follicles destroyed by the deep scarring. His cunt is hidden, but his cock is just visible under the hem of his shirt; reddened and slick, and small enough that it would disappear completely in Slade’s fist.
Jason’s eyes flicker up to his face again.
His eyes are bright, determined. He straddles Slade’s hips again. Slade slips his hands under his shirt, holding his waist. His hands fit perfectly to the slope of it, like they belong there, like Jason was made for him. Trite, sappy nonsense—but it pleases something in him anyway.
“I’m going to ride you now,” Jason says, matter-of-factly. If not for the staccato beat of his heart, Slade would believe he’s every bit as confident as he seems.
“I’m all yours,” Slade tells him.
There’s more truth in those words than Jason knows.
Jason wets his lips, then wraps his fist around the base of Slade’s cock. He positions his hips above it, so close Slade can feel the moist heat of him. He locks his muscles, restraining himself from fucking up into him.
They’ll go at Jason’s pace.
Jason sinks down until the head of Slade’s cock is pressing against his entrance. He takes a deep breath—and then sinks down.
Slade throws his head back with a snarl. His grip tightens on Jason's waist. It's been far, far too long since Slade last felt the hot clutch of a cunt or an ass around his cock.
Sweat beads on his skin, pooling behind his knees, at the small of his back. It’s the most exquisite kind of torture, being unable to do anything but lie there as Jason takes him in inch by inch.
Jason stops about halfway. His thighs tremble. His face is lax with pleasure, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted. Slade rubs circles into his skin with his thumbs.
“That’s it, kid,” he says, voice gruffer than usual. “Just like that.”
Jason shivers. His thighs tense. He rises up, just a little—and then he lets go, allowing gravity to do the work for him. Slade snarls. His grip on Jason’s waist turns bruising. His hips twitch, grinding up into Jason before he stills them. Jason whimpers, cunt spasming around Slade's cock. It feels so fucking good Slade almost does it again.
He makes himself hold still, letting Jason get accustomed to the feeling of being full.
Logically, Slade knows it doesn’t take very long—by his own internal clock, it’s barely even a minute—but it seems to take an eternity before Jason begins to move. The first, experimental roll of his hips pulls a low groan from Slade’s chest. He grits his teeth, molars grinding together. Jason does it again, and again, each time growing more confident.
The whole time, Slade can feel Jason watching him—can just make out the glitter of his eyes through the fan of his lashes.
“Fuck—Jay.” Slade smooths his hands down Jason’s sides, over his thighs, and then back up again. “Keep going, sweetheart.”
He feels Jason spasm around him at the nickname—can see the stutter in his hips.
“You like that?” Slade feels, sounds, breathless. He doesn’t care. Let Jason hear what he’s doing to him. “Like it when I call you sweetheart?”
Jason doesn’t answer him, not with words. He just whimpers; a soft, pretty little sound Slade wants to hear again, and again.
“‘Course you do,” Slade says. “Been a long time since anyone told you how sweet you are, hasn’t it?”
Jason’s hips stutter again—his breath shakes.
Slade slips his hands down—grabs Jason’s ass and squeezes, kneading the tight muscles. It gets him a low, broken moan. “C’mon, sweetheart. I want to see you come again—wanna feel you come on my cock before I give you my knot. Can you do that for me?”
Jason shivers—nods. “Y-yeah, yeah. I can do that.” If not for Slade’s enhanced hearing, he’s not sure he would have heard the words, Jason speaks them so softly.
“Good boy,” he rumbles.
Slick drips out of Jason, his little cock twitching as he tightens like a vice around Slade’s cock. The words, especially in that tone, are catnip to any omega, but—as expected—they hit Jason even harder.
He gasps brokenly. “Alpha.”
Slade groans. His cock twitches. He knows Jason feels it, based on the way he tightens again, the way he inhales sharply.
“Alpha,” he says again—softly, deliberately, like he’s just now realizing the power in the word.
Slade allows the shudder that rolls down his spine, allows his hands to tighten on Jason’s hips. “Omega.” My omega, he thinks.
Jason hums, something pleased in the sound, in his scent. He shifts, adjusting the angle of his hips before setting a hard, brutal pace. Slade throws his head back—feels Jason’s mouth on it a moment later, feels the scrape of teeth against his skin, right over his pulse. The fangs in his mouth are fake—the Joker had torn his out in the first week of his captivity. Jason’s new ones are wickedly sharp, and far tougher than normal bone. It would be so, so easy for him to rip Slade’s throat out.
That thought only turns him on more.
Jason doesn’t, though; only sucks a bruise into the skin there. The bruise fades quickly—gone by the time Jason latches onto Slade’s scent gland. Slade’s never resented his healing factor as much as he does in this moment.
He decides Jason has had enough time to get used to riding him, and starts meeting Jason’s thrusts with his own. Jason bites, muffling the noise he makes. Slade snarls, feeling his skin open, the dull throb of blood flowing out of the wound and into Jason’s mouth.
Slade bucks his hips up harder, feels Jason tighten around him—does it again, again, until finally, Jason shudders apart, drenching Slade’s lap in slick.
He’s going to smell like Jason for days, weeks.
Good.
Jason slumps over him. He slowly loosens his jaw, pulling his teeth out of Slade’s skin. The dull pain makes him shiver. He rubs circles into Jason’s sides as the boy licks lazily at the wound he left.
They match, Slade thinks, rumbling at the thought.
The wound is slow to close—but it does close, the blood flow trickling to a stop before the skin knits itself shut. Jason makes a mournful little noise before pulling off of him. His eyes are glassy, and even hazier than before.
“Slade,” he whispers. “Slade, I need—”
“I know,” Slade says. “I know. You need my knot, don’t you, sweetheart?” Jason nods, breathing, Please. Slade squeezes him. “Go on, then. Take it. You’ve been so good for me, omega.”
Jason breathes, mustering his strength.
And then he starts to move again.
His pace isn’t as brutal this time. It’s more sluggish, his thighs shaking, his mouth open as he pants, lips and chin slick as he drools. The tears clinging to his lashes have finally begun to fall, leaving glimmering trails down his cheeks. He’s gorgeous—the very picture of heat-drunk omega.
Slade feels his knot swell. The first time it catches, Jason’s hips stutter—he falls back into Slade’s lap with a soft noise of surprise, eyes going wide. He almost laughs. Might, if he weren’t worried about offending him.
Instead, he smooths a hand up Jason’s side, over his ribs, and down again. “C’mon, Jay. Keep going.”
Jason grips Slade’s forearms tightly, holding onto them for leverage as he rises again, trembling from head to toe. He rises up, Slade’s knot slipping out of him with a lewd, wet sound. When Jason drops back down, there’s no finesse—he just lets gravity do the work, throwing his head back when Slade’s knot is forced back inside him.
He manages two more before slipping again. He whines—the sound would be pitiful if it wasn't so goddamn hot.
“Shh,” Slade soothes him, in a tone that’s all alpha. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t flip them like he’d been planning to earlier. He makes use of his enhanced strength instead, planting his feet and lifting Jason up himself, moving his body like a ragdoll. The moan Jason lets out is the loudest he’s been all night.
“Alpha—alpha—alpha—” It’s a soft, quiet little chant that fuels the desire in Slade’s blood. He burns with it. His knot swells bigger, bigger. It grows harder and harder to pull it from Jason’s body until, finally, when Slade tries, Jason lets out a pained cry, cunt clamping down like a vice. Slade growls, pleased, easing Jason down again. He holds him in place, now, rutting up into him instead.
He’s so, so close.
Slade is open-mouthed panting now, the sound harsh in his ears. It starts with a tugging in his spine, his belly. And then—
“Jason—”
His knot blows wide, forcing his cock flush with Jason’s cervix as he comes. Jason gasps, shivering, the muscles of his thighs jumping as his cunt milks Slade for all that he’s worth. For a moment, Slade deludes himself that he can see Jason’s belly swelling with it.
Jason’s cock is still hard. Slade hums, switching so he’s holding Jason up with one hand. His hand swallows Jason’s cock whole, just like he’d imagined. Jason whines at the feeling, hips giving a futile little twitch against Slade’s hold. Slade rumbles, soothing.
“One more for me, sweetheart,” he says, stroking Jason slowly, gently, knowing the boy has to be overstimulated by now. Jason rewards him with soft, barely audible little noises, his head thrown back. It doesn’t take any time at all before Slade feels that tell-tale tightening—he switches to pumping Jason with his thumb and index finger.
When Jason comes, it splatters all over Slade’s chest, his belly.
Then, finally, Slade eases him down, letting Jason slump into his body, his head tucked in Slade’s neck. Jason’s hand curls into a loose fist against his chest. Slade strokes over his spine, resting his cheek against his head.
There’s a low, broken sound—like a misfiring engine. It takes Slade a moment to realize what it is; to connect the rumbling he feels against his chest with the sound.
A purr. Jason’s purring.
There’s a sudden tightness in Slade’s chest—an ache in a place that hasn’t ached in years, that he hadn’t realized was still soft enough to ache.
Oh, he thinks.
He’d known that Jason had wormed his way past his defenses, but he hadn’t realized just how deeply he’d burrowed. The taste of his blood still lingers in his mouth. It’s been such a long time since he’s lost control. That should concern him more than it does.
Instead… Slade finds himself strangely at peace with it.
He’s never been one to shy away when things get difficult. Maybe this will all go tits up before the end, but for right now, at least, he doesn’t have any plans to go anywhere.
He’ll see this through to the end, at the Arkham Knight’s side.