#tauriawritessmut

Maybe if it was his life alone that was on the line, he would. But it isn’t. He has people to protect.

Up through the ribs, straight through his heart, Jason thinks. Surely even Slade can’t survive that.

He takes a deep breath—

—and then he strikes.

Slade gasps, his eye snapping open as his body arches, twisting, trying to get away from the knife. Jason pursues. His heart is in his throat—the hilt is growing slick with blood. He can feel it seeping into his shirt, between his fingers. Death is such a messy, brutal thing. Slade chokes, blood bubbling between his lips and dripping down his chin. His eyes dart around wildly before landing on Jason. The way his eye widens makes Jason want to puke.

He keeps his face expressionless. “I’m sorry.”

Slade convulses again, and Jason lets go of the knife, backing away. He collapses into the other seat, the one opposite of Slade.

A terrible gurgling sound comes from Slade’s throat as his mouth twitches. It takes Jason a moment to realize that Slade is—laughing?

One of Slade’s hands come up to grip the hilt of the kris. With a sickening, wet sound, he pulls the blade from his chest. Blood splatters over the seat. It keeps gushing—but then it starts to slow, bit by bit. Healing, Jason thinks.

Well… fuck. He should have stabbed him through the eye after all.

Slade spits more blood from his mouth.

He spins Jason’s kris in his hand; twirling it over his knuckles before holding it properly. Then he moves, faster than Jason expected—fast enough he has no time to move, to counter, to even blink before Slade is looming over him.

The knife sinks into the cushion between Jason’s legs, centimeters away from his manhood—and then Slade’s hand is around his neck. It’s a tight, steady grip; Jason can still breathe, but his breaths are strangled. He grabs Slade’s hand on reflex, trying to pull it away.

It doesn’t work. He might as well be trying to bend iron.

Jason swears his heart is going to beat right out of his chest. His mouth is dry—his skin clammy. It’s been years since he felt fear like this.

He doesn’t remember that fear causing his cock to swell in his pants, though. He hopes Slade doesn’t notice.

Slade’s face is inches from his. “You get one free attempt, boy. Try anything like that again, and next time… I won’t be so friendly.” His low voice is full of dark promise.

Jason swallows—the pressure of Slade’s hand makes it difficult. “Yes,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Yes, I— I understand.”

Slade’s grip tightens. Jason can’t breathe—his mouth gapes uselessly—and then Slade lets go, pulling away from him entirely to sit on the opposite bench. Jason couldn’t have been without air for more than second but he gasps like it had been minutes instead. His head spins.

When he meets Slade’s eyes again, the man smirks at him, and nods towards his crotch. “Aren’t you going to take care of that?”

“Wh—” Jason’s face burns, only to burn even hotter when his eyes land on the kris still sticking out between his legs.

Oh, right.

That.

Slade just laughs.

I also really like this bit that takes place a couple scenes after. (Theoretically. I've written this one but have not written all of the stuff before it yet, so again, details might change.)

“You’ve been eyeing me like I’m going to eat you all night.” Slade’s body brackets Jason in. Jason’s heart races—but under the fear is something else. Something… hungry.

“I did try to kill you,” Jason points out.

“Mm. You did.” Quicker than Jason can track, Slade moves, grabbing his jaw with a grip like iron. Jason’s breathing stops. He thinks his heart does too, his eyes wide, mouth open. “Marrying a man, only to try and kill him while he sleeps… I didn't realize you had it in you to be so ruthless, princeling.”

Jason swallows. He can feel the pressure of Slade’s hand on his throat. . It sounds… cruel, when Slade puts it like that. Like it had been intentional, deliberate from the start. “There's a lot you don’t know about me,” he says softly, proud when his words come out even—if a little strangled.

Slade laughs, low and dark. Jason’s eyes flutter. His body sings with arousal. “True enough.” He squeezes a little tighter, completely cutting off Jason’s air, making his vision swim. Then his grip loosens. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, too.” His thumb strokes the side of Jason’s throat. The gesture is tender, gentle, and so utterly out of place for the intensity of Slade’s gaze, the tension singing between them. That makes it all the more intoxicating. “Do you want to know something, little prince?”

“Yes,” he breathes—the only answer he can give.

“I like my boys dangerous,” Slade breathes, his breath fanning out over Jason’s mouth like the ghost of a kiss.

Boys. Jason’s a grown man, in his twenties. Far from a mere boy. He isn’t little, either. He’s nearly of a height with Slade, give or take an inch or so.

But then, he’s having a hard time focusing right now, so… maybe those are arguments for later.

“Makes life a hell of a lot more interesting,” Slade continues. “Though, like I told you earlier. The next time you try to kill me, I won’t be so lenient.” He gives Jason’s neck another squeeze before letting go.

Jason sways, caught off balance by the loss, and even more at how bereft he feels. When he meets Slade’s eye again, there’s a knowing glint there. Unwillingly, heat rises to his cheeks.

“You look like I’m going to eat you,” Slade says—and then his nostrils flare as he takes a slow, deliberate breath, “but you smell like you might not mind at all.”

Tim shows up five minutes earlier than they agreed, letting himself in through the front door. Dick sees him pause for a moment, eyes darting around warily, anticipation clear in the lines of his body.

The trap he’s waiting for never comes. As fun as their little game is, Dick had disabled most of them. He’d kept up his usual security, of course, but that was all. He feels a little bad about it when Tim’s brow furrows. Not too bad about it, though, because the expression is adorable.

Before Tim can comment, Dick swoops in to greet him. “Hey there, baby bird.” His voice is a touch softer than usual.

Used to be he had to tilt Tim’s face up on his own. Now, though, his baby alpha knows exactly what Dick wants. He tilts his head back, face already flushing pink. Dick doesn't keep him waiting. He rubs noses with him first, lingering a little longer than is strictly necessary for a platonic scenting, before rubbing their cheeks together—first one side, than the other. At the same time, he smooths his wrists down the sides of Tim’s neck and over his shoulders.

It’s not enough to smother Tim’s scent—though it does let Dick breathe him in. The milky scent of puphood is nearly drowned out by Tim’s newly presented alpha scent; something warm and nutty, with a hint of alpha musk beneath.

It makes Dick’s mouth water.

It’s tempting to chase the scent to the source; to coax more of it out, and wrap himself in it until it’s impossible to tell where one scent ends and the other begins. Dick makes himself pull away instead. His belly cramps as if in protest, but he ignores it.

By now, Tim should have gotten a lungful of Dick’s own scent and the tinge of preheat in it—not enough to be noticeable, not yet, but enough for an alpha’s own instincts to start responding.

After a scenting, Tim usually ducks away, adorably pink-cheeked as he excused himself to put away his things, or whatever other task he makes up for himself.

Not today.

Today, Tim’s lashes flutter. He looks… almost dazed, the blue of his eyes hazy. His blush darkens. He steps forward, into Dick’s space, putting them so close they’re almost touching. Dick can feel the warmth radiating off of Tim. He swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He thinks Tim watches it, thinks his gaze lingers on his lips, but he can’t be sure.

It might just be a desperate, foolish hope.

Tim scents him, dragging his wrists slowly over Dick’s cheeks, hovering them over his neck, and then smoothing them down his shoulders. He does it twice; thorough and deliberate in the way he lingers, making sure that Dick is coated in his scent. It’s nearly enough to drown out Dick’s omega scent. Definitely enough to cover up the scent of preheat.

It feels wonderfully possessive, like Tim wants to leave no room for doubt as to who Dick belongs to.

More wishful thinking.

Most likely it’s the mark of an inexperienced alpha. Tim is a pup still. He’s had, what, two ruts? He’s still far more likely to be scented than to do any scenting of his own.

Still… Dick clings to the fantasy.

If all goes well, after all, it might just become reality.

Tim steps back finally. His face is more red than pink now—and whatever boldness had carried him forward leaves him. “I’m thirsty. Hope you went shopping this week,”” he says, turning and walking quickly toward the kitchen. It’s just shy of a run, and Dick has to work to keep his mouth from twitching.

Tim’s bags stay where they are, dropped haphazardly by the front door.

Dick doesn’t bother moving them, instead trailing a few paces behind Tim. “A guy forgets to go grocery shopping one time and no one ever lets him forget it…”

Tim throws him a capital-L Look over his shoulder. It’s ruined slightly by the blush still on his face. “It wasn’t just one time and you know it,” he scolds. Baby alpha or no, he really does have the chastising tone down. Bruce gives him plenty of practice, Dick thinks, suppressing a smile.

“I’m a busy guy.”

Tim sighs, put-upon, and opens Dick’s fridge. He scrutinizes it a lot longer than it should take to get out a bottle of water, and doesn’t even bother to open it before he starts rummaging through Dick’s cabinets.

Dick leans against the doorway to the kitchen, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.

He knows exactly where this is going.

Sure enough—

“We need to go shopping,” Tim announces.

“I just went,” Dick says, mostly because he knows Tim expects it of him. Inwardly, he purrs in satisfaction. Tim is reacting just as Dick had hoped he would.

“Well, we need to go again. Go put your shoes on.”

Dick’s mouth twitches. “You’re so bossy, baby bird.”

“Dick.”

He thinks about dragging his feet a little longer, testing the boundaries of Tim’s patience. Trying to cajole him into waiting and relaxing a little. But… he’s curious. Besides—the sooner they go and come home the better. It won’t be long before Dick will be reluctant to leave his den let alone his apartment, and on top of that… He’s a tactile person already. During a heat, all he wants to do is wrap himself around the closest pack member and stay there. He can already feel the urge to bundle Tim off into his nest.

Still—he can’t help dragging his feet a little, amused at the way Tim huffs at him before finally, finally, he allows Tim to drag him out the door.

“So, Jason,” she’d said sweetly—which was all the warning they’d needed, really. “Has Tim told you about the big, fat crush he had on you as a kid yet?”

Tim had turned red to his ears—redder than Jason had ever seen up to that point—clearly embarrassed. “Steph,” he’d hissed. He hadn’t let go of Jason’s hand, but he’d squirmed in his seat.

Jason had wanted nothing more than to kiss the breath from him, but he’d held back, letting the matter drop. Well. After some light teasing, anyway.

But the comment had never left his mind.

See, the thing is… Jason doesn’t think most people realize how many Robins there have actually been.

In fact, he knows they don’t.

There’s a lot of speculation—at least among those who actually care about vigilantes and superheroes—with assumptions ranging anywhere from three to ten. (Or more, but that’s not a conspiracy Jason looks that deeply into.) But, even among other heroes, he’s not sure how many of them realize that Tim is the third Robin, and not the second.

He doesn’t blame them, really. He didn’t patrol nearly as often as the others, limited to weekends and school breaks. He pretty much never patrolled solo, or worked any cases on his own—and none of the cases he did work, alone or not, were very high profile. He was only tangentially involved with the Teen Titans… and on top of all of that, he did everything he could to try and emulate Dick.

Which, in hindsight, he was really too small to pull that off. But, it lines up perfectly with Tim—who was already taller than him even at just twelve years old. He was so tiny when he died. It would be easy to conflate his time with Tim’s, assuming they were one and the same.

Jason had been forgotten; his only legacy a case in the Batcave and his name used as a cautionary tale for new sidekicks—if it was brought up at all.

Knowing that, somehow, Tim had wanted him back then—had known enough about him, had seen him… It was exhilarating. He’d wanted, desperately, to know more, but he’d swallowed his curiosity for fear of making Tim uncomfortable. Just knowing it was true, or could be true, had been enough to warm him.

But then it had been brought up again. Damian, this time, after some ribbing about his new crush: “Not everyone is fortunate enough to date our boyhood heroes, Drake.”

Tim had just rolled his eyes, barely fazed by the comments. They’ve been together months now—long enough, it seemed, for Tim’s embarrassment to have faded.

Jason’s interest had been renewed. He hadn’t brought it up immediately, letting a few days pass as he both gathered his nerves and waited for the right moment.

That moment is now.

Steph snorts, swatting him lightly. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” She’s wearing a purple turtleneck and black skinny jeans tonight, both tight enough to emphasize her curves, and her hair is braided, falling down her back in a single golden rope. Her only accessory, at least that he can see, is a necklace: a silver key, dangling from a leather cord. Just the sight of it makes his stomach fluter. She takes off her shoes before heading further into the apartment; her purse left by the door, but a bag still slung over her shoulders.

Jason approaches to take it—but she stops him. “Have you eaten yet?” she asks lightly.

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Steph doesn’t look surprised. “Is it done?” she inclines her head toward the kitchen. At his nod, she says, “Plate us up some food, then. And don’t forget the water… you’re going to need it.” His face heats, and she grins like the wicked thing she is.

His cock also twitches, traitorous thing that it is.

Steph laughs at him. “I’m going to go put my stuff in your room. I’ll join you at the table when I’m done.” Her tone is gentle, polite, but her words are unmistakably orders—the same way her text about tonight had been. Rather than rankle him, though, it settles him; something in his shoulders loosening as he nods again.

“Okay.”

Steph kisses him briefly before she leaves to head upstairs, to his bedroom. Jason catches himself smiling on his way to the kitchen… but for once feels no reason to wipe it away.

He makes two plates and brings them to his small dining room table. It’s lighter fare than he's used to, and vegetarian for Steph. Stuffed portobello mushrooms and spinach, slightly wilted with a bit of lemon zest. Plus a side of garlic bread, because he tends to bake when he’s nervous.

He pours them both a glass of water, too; the nice stuff he keeps in the fridge in a pitcher, infused with strawberries, lemon, and a little mint.

Steph comes down just as he’s lit a couple of candles. He hears her coming, but the kiss she lays on him still surprises him. It’s not as brief—or chaste—as the first one. “It looks great, Jay,” she says. She’s got that starry-eyed look—the look that says How did I get so lucky? more clearly than words ever could. Jason has to turn away from it. His blush is back, and deeper than before.

“It was nothin’,” he says… and knows his mistake as soon as the words have left his mouth.

She clicks her tongue, and tugs him to face her again. The stars in her eyes are softer now; not so hard to look at, but still overwhelming. “It wasn’t. You put together a romantic dinner for us, and I appreciate it.”

His stomach squirms. The muscles feel tight. But there’s warmth, too, prickling under his skin. He doesn’t know what to do with praise, never has. As a little kid he could snap off a retort and it was still cute, but the older he got the less that was an acceptable option. Not that it stopped him, usually, but Steph is… different.

And also determined to undo him in as many different ways as she’s able.

“It really wasn’t…” He lets the sentence trail off when he sees her mouth twitch. “I was happy to do it,” he tries instead. “I—like when we can stay in. Have a nice night.”

Her face softens further, somehow, and it gets him another kiss. Kissing, he can do. It’s so much easier than talking.

Steph pulls away first—reluctantly, judging by the way she lingers in his airspace; her breath warm on his mouth. “The food’s gonna get cold.”

Jason hums. “We’ve uh. We’ve got the whole night ahead of us.”

She grins at that, the wicked glint back in her eye. It makes him squirm in a different way than the stars—but he prefers this. This kind of heat is so much less embarrassing to get worked up to. “Hell yeah we do.”

They sit at the table. Steph moans at her first bite of mushroom. Jason shifts, adjusting himself surreptitiously under the table. Every shift of his clothes against his skin sends a tingle up his spine. “God, so good,” she says, one hand half-covering her mouth, still full of food. “Seriously, I cannot believe someone didn’t snap you up before me. Good looks and you can cook?”

Aaaaand that terrible, wonderful squirming feeling is back again, feeding into his arousal in a way that make him want to duck and hide. He settles for taking a bite of spinach before drawling, “Yeah, that was probably because of all the murders.”

Steph pauses halfway through raising her drink to her mouth, cocking her head. “Hm. Well.” She shrugs. “Nobody’s perfect.” She shoots him a cheeky smile and a wink before taking a drink—and then making a bright, delighted noise. “You spoil me.”

He gets another compliment on the spinach, and the garlic bread too, and then, blessedly, Steph makes a comment about how long it all must have taken, and he’s able to shift the conversation onto one of his favorite subjects: cooking. And then, to further distract them both, he prods Steph about her day, and then vice versa, until, suddenly, there’s no more food in front of them.

The conversation keeps on for a while after that; they chat about everything and nothing at all. It’s not enough to distract Jason from the night ahead of them, his cock staying half-hard the entire time, but it’s… peaceful. Domestic, in a way he never really thought he would have.

Eventually, though, the conversation does trail off, and a content silent reigns before Jason stands up to gather the dishes. Steph helps him pile them up, but when he turns the water on, she presses herself against his back. She’s tall enough that she doesn’t have to rise to her toes to press a kiss behind his ear. “I’m going to go get things ready upstairs,” she whispers, her breath hot on his neck. “Come up whenever you’re ready.”

He shivers, bites his lip, and nods. “Yeah. Alright.” He turns, just enough that she can kiss him properly before she leaves—and so that he can watch her leave.

Then he turns back to the task at hand, trying not to lose himself in thoughts of what’s to come.

Slade pulls away slowly, only to press his mouth to Jason’s temple. “Do you want to talk about it?” he offers, unsurprised when Jason shakes his head in reply. He doesn’t press, only nods. Jason will tell him when he’s ready, when things aren’t as raw. Or Slade will find out some other way what’s bothering his bird. Until then… “Alright. I’m gonna change into something more comfortable. You got anything you need to wrap up?”

It takes a moment for Jason to respond. Slade waits him out, patient.

“The dishes,” he says finally, and Slade nods again. He kisses Jason again, more briefly this time, and then loosens the circle of his arms. He lets Jason be the one to step away first—and doesn’t resist the urge to squeeze his ass when he walks by, grinning at the irritated-amused look Jason throws at him. It pairs so well with his blush.

After he changes, he joins Jason at the sink. There aren’t many dishes. Jason is fastidious, even when he’s stressed. Maybe especially when he’s stressed. Still, Slade slots in next to him to rinse and dry the last few pieces.

When they’re done, Slade dries his hands—barely—before pulling Jason in again to kiss him with a tenderness that, until recently, he’d thought he was no longer capable of. Like before, Jason’s arms wind around his neck as he melts against him, letting Slade take his weight. This time, he’s trembling; coming apart now that there’s someone here to hold him together.

Slade hums against his mouth; one hand splaying protectively over his lower back while the other grips the back of his neck, steady, comforting.

Bit by bit, Jason’s trembling eases.

Slade doesn’t break the kiss until it ceases entirely—and even then, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he guides Jason’s head down to the cradle of his neck and shoulder. The boy sighs and relaxes even more, until Slade is more or less all that’s keeping him standing.

He doesn’t mind.

He slips a hand under Jason’s shirt—splaying it again, touching every inch of his skin that he can. “When was the last time you slept?” he asks. His voice has softened without his permission.

Jason tenses, ever so slightly. “I’ve napped,” he offers. “But… It’s probably been a couple of days.” The admission is quiet.

Unsurprising.

Slade doesn’t permit himself to frown, even if Jason can’t see his expression. He hums instead, and presses a kiss to Jason’s crown—a reward for his honesty. “Bed, then. I’ll make sure you get some sleep tonight.”

Jason doesn’t argue. He nods into Slade’s shoulder instead. He doesn’t make any moves to pull away, though, not until Slade laughs once and nudges him gently. He grumbles, pulling back to squint in the light of the kitchen, and rub at one tired eye. Something horribly soft and squishy fills Slade’s chest—another one of those feelings he thought he left behind years ago.

Jason is content to allow Slade to steer him to the bathroom, where they brush their teeth side-by-side. Slade rinses his mouth, then gives Jason free reign of the bathroom while he heads to the bedroom. It’s just as neat as the rest of the apartment; the bed made with military precision. He shuts off the overhead light in favor of turning on the bedside lamp. It lights the room with a soft, warm glow, made even fuzzier by the thick shade obscuring the bulb. A small nightlight on the other side of the room turns on—something Jason had plugged in when Slade first started coming here on a more permanent basis, a defiant stare daring Slade to say something about it.

He hadn’t.

He turns the blankets down, too, and double checks that the blackout curtains are closed tight and the security system active before opening the bedside drawer to fish out a bottle of lube and a pair of condoms.

Neither of them are any stranger to nightmares. Slade dreams of cold hospital walls, of slit throats and blood seeping across the floor and almost too lates, of a body turning to ash in his arms and knowing he’d failed, of a bloody hole in a girl’s head and the certainty that it was his fault even if his hands hadn’t been the ones to hold the knife. Slade’s hands have always been too rough with the things most precious to him.

Jason hasn't shared the contents of his nightmares any more than Slade has, but he can guess at some of them. The sound of a clown’s mad laughter, the rough timber of a father you’ll never be enough for, the ghosts of those he’s failed to save.

Nightmares can come at any time, but when Jason gets like this—worn, spread thin—he’s more vulnerable to them. Sometimes all Jason wants, all he needs, is to be held. To be reminded that someone is there. But some nights he needs a little more. Slade likes to be prepared for both.

Then it’s his turn in the bathroom. He doesn’t take long, coming back just as Jason is settling into bed—wearing absolutely nothing at all. It has Slade pausing in the doorway to just look, despite the way Jason pinks and scowls at him.

The scowl’s only halfhearted anyway.

Jason’s gorgeous. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, thick thighs made for biting. He’s not hard, not yet, but even flaccid his cock is well-sized. Slade’s mouth waters slightly. He knows from experience how nicely it fits in his mouth; how it feels to have Jason harden as he sucks him. Slade doesn’t think he’ll be blowing him tonight, but the memory still has his cock stirring in his sweats.

He pulls the door shut—locking it, even if they aren’t expecting any visitors, just for the way it makes Jason’s pulse jump. He toward the bed, leaving his clothes in a trail behind him. He crawls over Jason—Jason’s legs part for him automatically, arms coming up to wind around Slade’s neck and shoulders. The scowl slips from his mouth, and the sound he makes when Slade locks their mouths together is tinged with desperation. It has Slade kissing him just a little harder in response, sucking Jason’s bottom lip into his mouth so he can roll it between his teeth.

Jason moans again. His fingers tangle in Slade’s hair. He keeps it longer these days just for that; the sweet ache that comes as Jason pulls at it. He arches, pressing their chests together. It’s an obvious request for touch. Slade doesn’t even consider denying him. He lets his hands wander, stroking and squeezing Jason’s sides, his chest, his back. Jason makes such soft, sweet noises. Slade swallows all of them.

The arousal builds slowly. Slade can feel it pooling in his gut and dripping down to his groin, his cock growing harder. Jason shifts, and it brushes against his abdomen. Slade moans. Jason’s fingers tighten in his hair before they pull, and Slade moans again, deeper this time. Jason shudders, and rolls his hips. Their cocks brush, and they moan as one, their kiss breaking. Jason’s breathing has turned ragged, so Slade trails a path of kisses down his neck instead.

“Slade,” Jason says, sighs, and it’s such a sweet sound that Slade rewards him for it by sinking his teeth into Jason’s skin and sucking a bruise there. That gets him another sweet noise; this one lower, deeper, pulled from the depths of Jason’s chest.

“What do you need tonight, little bird?” Slade asks, his voice rough from their kiss but still so much softer than he would use for anyone else.

“You,” Jason replies, like he always does. Before Slade can remind him to be more specific, he adds, “Your cock, in me. Want you to… to make it so you’re all I can think about.”

“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.

It’s not that he’s never been trusted with Jason’s vulnerability before. He has, of course he has, and he’s trusted Jason with his own, too. But not like this. Not in a way he can’t easily come back from; not in a way that leaves him unable to hide anything, anything at all.

But he will be, this time. And he will be because he chose to be.

“Alright,” Tim says—and then his voice changes. Deepens. It’s not quite his Red Robin register, but it’s close. “Sit up straight.”

Jason’s breath hitches before he obeys. He’s sitting in a chair they’ve set up in the middle of the room—one Tim ordered special for their play. And unlike Tim… he’s naked. Tim turns to the dresser beside him, where most of their tools for the evening have been laid out. Lube and condoms. The vial of truth pollen, next to its antidote. Shears. Water, snacks. And several lengths of rope, each dyed a particular shade of golden yellow.

Tim reaches for the longest length, and walks over to Jason. Tying him to the chair won’t use that much rope, really—just several lengths of it. But… knowing how much Jason enjoys being tied up (and how much Tim enjoys tying him up), they’d decided to add a harness.

Tim slowly winds the rope around Jason’s skin. There’s something almost meditative about it. He feels himself tuning into Jason. The cadence of his breathing, the subtle movements of his body, the feeling of his attention, his trust. It settles onto his shoulders, loosening them even as he feels the weight of it all.

He’s exactly where he wants to be—where he needs to be.

When he’s finished, he steps back slightly to look it over. The rope winds around Jason’s chest, framing and supporting his pecs, making them look fuller, plumper. It also wraps loosely around his neck, and down his spine and stomach, accentuating the curves and dips of his body. Tim hums, pleased, and gives the ropes a gentle tug.

“Comfortable?”

“Yeah,” Jason breathes. There’s a slight flush on his face. His nipples have started to harden, and there are bumps all over his arms and shoulders.

Tim gives the ropes another tug—this time to tease. “Good. Hands behind your back.”

Jason is obeying almost before the words finish leaving his mouth. Tim’s mouth twitches. He takes another length of rope, and walks around behind him. He uses a simple box tie to bind Jason’s arms before slowly circling him. He holds eye contact with Jason… and then sinks to his knees in front of him. Jason’s breath hitches. His pupils expand, turning green-blue eyes dark and hungry… and most gratifying, his cock, already starting to swell, twitches.

Tim smirks. He doesn’t break eye contact as he binds Jason’s ankles to the chair legs.

“Comfortable?” he asks again.

Jason nods, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Words, Jason,” he reminds.

Jason’s flush darkens. “Sorry. Um. Yes. I’m comfortable.”

Tim smiles. “Good.” He brushes his fingers over the side of Jason’s leg, and then stands. He takes a moment to just—look at Jason, all tied up for him. His gaze lingers long enough that Jason tries to squirm. The position he’s in doesn’t allow him much movement to hide, though, and a blush creeps down his neck.

He growls. “Tim.”

Tim just raises an eyebrow at him. “Hard to sound threatening when you’re all trussed up for me, you know.” He reaches out to give a little tug at the rope between his pecs.

Jason’s mouth opens, shuts, and then settles into something that’s not quite a pout, but is close enough to one that Tim almost laughs. He’s sure Jason can see his amusement.

“You’re so handsome, sweetheart. You can’t blame me for wanting to enjoy the view.” He slowly drags his gaze down Jason’s body. His skin is beautifully flushed; the color spreading over his collarbone, the upper part of his chest. Tim never tires of simply looking at him. Jason twitches again under the attention; a soft, aborted whine in his throat.

Tim takes pity on him. He squeezes Jason’s bicep—his touch lingering a little longer than it really needs to as he enjoys the contrast of supple flesh and firm muscle. Then he turns, and grabs the pollen.

At the sight of it, Jason goes still.

“Last chance to back out,” Tim says gently. Not entirely true—the antidote is sitting behind him, after all. But once administered, it would need time to kick in, leaving Jason vulnerable to its affects for at least ten minutes.

Jason shakes his head. “I still want this.”

Tim nods, and unstops the vial. A subtle floral smell wafts from it, tickling his nose and making him want to sneeze. He holds his breath instead, and carefully tips it under Jason’s nose. Jason holds Tim’s gaze as, contrary to everything they’ve been taught, he breathes in.

And then he sneezes—violently enough that the chair shudders when his arms jerk. Should have anticipated that, Tim thinks as he grabs a tissue to clean him up. Something to keep in mind if they ever repeat this scene.

Jason grimaces, but holds still as Tim wipes the snot from his face.

“Alright?” he asks, disposing of the tissue.

“Yeah. I can feel it starting… my nose is tingling.”

Tim nods, ignoring the phantom tingling in his own nostrils. He makes a show of putting on his gloves, flexing and wiggling his fingers as if settling into the fit. Jason wets his lips again, that hungry look back in his eyes.

Tim circles him again; slowly, a predator evaluating prey. He comes to a stop behind him, in Jason’s blind spot.

Jason’s breathing quickens. He shifts in the chair, testing the ropes. It’s nothing he couldn’t get out of if he wanted. He doesn’t.

Tim watches as he swallows, and then he reaches for his bo staff. It’s an older model, from before Tim had added electricity. Not, he thinks, that Jason would have objected to a little electro-stimulation. He clicks the button. Jason’s breath hitches at the soft shnick of it extending. His shoulders twitch, tensing.

Tim exhales—then spins around in front of him, bo extended in front of him, the end pressed to Jason’s jaw and forcing his head up. Jason swallows hard. Tim tracks the movement; the bob of his throat, the jump of his pulse.

“Hood,” he growls. “I have questions.”