#generatorkitty

“Are you really that desperate?” The sneer dripping from Slade’s words shouldn’t turn Jason on, but it does. “Can’t even wait till we get home for me to fuck you?” His hand tightens around Jason’s throat with the words.

Jason gasps, unsure whether to nod or shake his head.

Slade understands anyway. “Fine,” he growls. He bypasses the traps on Jason’s tac pants. Normally, that wouldn’t be very impressive—except, Slade does it one-handed; the other still gripping Jason’s neck, holding him in place.

Jason’s cock throbs.

Slade yanks his pants down, over the swell of his ass, down to the thickest point of Jason’s thigh where they catch. Jason’s ears burn. Slade leaves them there. He also leaves Jason’s jockstrap, and it’s built in cup. “Lube,” he demands, before tearing one of his gloves off with his teeth.

Jason’s stomach swoops. His hands hands shake, fumble, as he retrieves one of the packets he keeps in his inner jacket pocket. Slade snatches it from him, and tears it open. Lube splatters onto Jason’s exposed thighs—he cries out at the chill of it. There’s just enough left to coat Slade’s fingers.

Slade doesn’t bother with any build up. He smears the lube over Jason’s hole. He gasps, muscles clenching, fluttering—only to damn near shriek when Slade spears him with two fingers at once. There isn’t nearly enough lube to help with the burn. Not that Jason cares; planting his heels on the the concrete and working his hips, riding Slade’s fingers as best he can.

Slade completely ignores Jason’s prostate. He pumps his fingers hard and fast, scissoring them every couple of seconds. The message couldn’t be clearer: Slade doesn’t give a damn if Jason gets off on this or not.

He is, though. His cock strains in the confines of his cup. He has to shove his fist in his mouth to muffle the sounds in his chest, to stop himself from begging. The last thing he wants is for someone to come running and find the Red Hood, fucking himself onto Deathstroke’s fingers like a whore.

Or—

Fuck.

The way his cock throbs—

Maybe part of him does want that.

He shudders, tucking the thought away for later. (Or never.) It’s not like he can examine it now, with his brain steadily dribbling out of his ears as Slade preps him.

Until—

He stops, pulling his fingers out of Jason’s hole and wiping them off on his inner thigh. Jason whines into his fist. The whine turns into a yelp when Slade slaps his thigh—the sound of the impact echoes over the rooftop, even before the sting hits.

Jason barely has time to feel it, because at the same time, something presses against his hole. Cold—hard—not bigger than the circumference of Slade’s fingers. He looks down as best he can with Slade’s hand still around his neck, and just barely catches a the glint of metal.

His eyes go wide.

A gun.

Slade’s pushing the muzzle of a pistol past Jason’s rim—the muscle gives easily, swallowing it as greedily as it would Slade’s cock. Jason whimpers. It’s not a sound of protest.

His gaze runs over Slade’s body, but— All of his weapons are still in place. So where—

His thigh holster.

That’s his gun. And not just— That’s his favorite gun.