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Kinktober 2019

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Dark skies and thundering clouds, winds that whisper and weave into every exposed crack of clothing. Desperation, rumination, Illuminate the city as the hours rock past, lights exploding with every echoing shout and scream, glass shattering on impact. A women screams under the crashing smash of a car against the ground, a towering man above her, hands raised and prepared to slam down.

He has barely a moment to roar before a sword is twisted into his ribs, sharp, slicing, a second knife making quick work along his stomach. He screams, low, villainous, a creaking noise that shakes the ground and sends her spiraling back, eyes squeeze shut against the rain of blood squirting from his wounds. She has just a moment to shriek, adrenaline coursing fast in her veins, before a dart punctures her neck, causing her to slide to the floor, unconscious.

“Really?” Roy raises an eyebrow at his temporary mentor, thoroughly unimpressed. He toes the bleeding body of the man, dying at his feet. “You didn’t need to kill him.”

“It’s the job, kid.” Roy sneers at the words, grinding his teeth as he turns away. Slade places a foot against the rib cage of the fallen, sliding his sword out, the sound of it sliding against his bones causing Roy to wince, shoulders drawing up. Slade wipes the blood against the man’s form, cleaning it halfheartedly before sheathing it.

“You’re alright, still?” The words are unnecessary. Roy clenches his fists, drawing his arms close to his chest as it burns. It’s- distracting. Unwanted.

“Fucking pervert,” he bites out. The clamps on his nipples hurt, an unbearable stinging at his skin, chafing with every rub of his uniform, every twist of his muscles beneath his skin causing him to swallow. His throat bobs as his hands clench, arms struggling to relieve the pressure off the clamps. “A—and don’t call me kid.”

“Right.” Airy, uninterested, as though he wasn’t the one who snatched Roy out of his apartment for sudden late-night training. Shame flares in Roy’s stomach, the vivid replay of how quickly Slade had handled him, forcing him against the bed, arms bound, before sliding these cursed clamps onto him. His hands ball at his sleeves, crinkling the fabric, eyes darting from side to side.

“Let’s go.” Then they’re off again, darting from street to window to roof, eyes roaming the sleeping city. Clever folk try to sneak into cracked windows, those less clever never make it in, caught first by crushing fists and shifting eyes. Roy notches two more arrows, intent on catching them before Slade, yet every time he is met with the slicing of one’s neck, blood seeping into the concrete below. He snarls, turning away, aware as Slade’s eye cast over to him. Watching. Waiting.

It’s not his fucking place, and Roy keeps his mouth shut. Hands tight. Nipples, fucking goddamn nipples, hurt like hell.

Slade decapitates two more robbers with ease. Roy finds his eyes have hardened, steely, iron even as they trace the spilling of their blood, even as Slade dips his hand into the red pool, pressing two fingers onto Roy’s cheek.

“Too slow,” he whispers, more of a taunt than anything. Roy sneers, teeth flashing, and his jaws clamp down on empty air as Slade retracts his fingers.

“Fuck you,” Roy hisses. Slade stares down at him. He could shoot him, stab him, gut him clean and leave him bleeding out in a ditch somewhere for Ollie to find. He could figure his way around that fucking blade and skewer Roy right through his ribs, hang him from a fucking tower in display. Reminder.

Fucking vulnerable, asleep in bed, eyes open to the man staring down at him.

Let’s play a game.

Fucks sake.

“Manners. Didn’t Oliver teach you anything?” Roy grimaces, eyes averting. Rude, stinging knowledge, armed just to prick at sore wounds.

“Fuck off. He’s not my dad.” They’re not even partners, not really, no more equal than a human and his dog. There’s just a slick sound of metal before Roy finds himself angled upward, eyes baring into Slade’s, the tip of his bloodied blade pressed against his throat. It draws blood, clearly, sliding down his neck, into his shirt.

“Manners,” Slade repeats. Roy spits in his fucking face, and this time, it hits the target.

He’s got hardly a second to prepare before Slade’s fists dig into his collar, throwing him up against the window of a store, cracks spidering along the surface. Roy gasps, croaks, spit and blood swirling out of his mouth as his hands claw at the surface, only to shout as a hand forces him back, throwing him right through the glass. It shatters around him, alarm blaring loud and heavy, and then Slade’s hand is on his throat, clenching, choking even as Roy’s hands scramble up his arm, screaming.

He can’t breathe, can’t fucking breathe, fists aiming and weakly smashing at Slade’s face. The world dims dark and hazy, spots beginning to pop and swirl in his sight, and Roy’s jaw falls slack, useless against the insistent pressure on his throat. Even the noise begins to die down, quiet, blurred, the smell of leather placed over his nose.

The pressure lifts. Roy coughs, lungs screaming, as a hand grapples around his waist and hauls him up. His legs, feet, something somewhere kick out, though the world is meek behind the tears brimming in his eyes. His hands slap at the arm carrying him, head lolling.

“Truly a brat,” Slade prods, and then Roy finds himself grunting, rolling on the floor before hands grasp onto his neck again. His head swims, hands clawing at Slade’s neck, when a hand grinding down onto his chest makes him gasp, spitting. His legs flail uselessly, eyes bulging as breath cuts short.

Roy finds himself bouncing off a soft surface when his throat releases, air burning along his lungs as he heaves, spit and blood dripping onto familiar sheets. Slade stares down at him, knees bent over, as Roy shivers and wheezes, tears prickling at his eyes. Warm, and cold, so fucking dizzy. Fucking Slade.

A hand pries at his zipper, pulling it downward and shoving the leather off his skin. Roy grunts, rolling onto his side, landing a hazy punch against Slade’s jaw. It earns him a grunt from the other, though the hand doesn’t still, instead wrenching under his shirt to pull at the clamps.

“Fuck.”

Fucking Slade.

Roy hisses, feeling heat bloom at his cheeks, his legs hooking up to kick at Slade’s hips. Slade grunts, leg slamming down to crush against Roy’s thighs. Roy shouts, pain coursing through his body emphasized by the cruel pulls and twists of his nipples.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Roy cries out, back arching. His hand makes a swipe at Slade’s head, catching across his eye, and Slade growls, hand slamming down onto his throat.

“Behave, brat.” Roy coughs, and then he’s being dragged downward, legs squirming as a hand grapples with his pants. He bites down on his lip as he freezes, eyes wide as Slade pulls his pants off completely, a knee rocking at Roy’s groin.

“Fuck, fuck you, goddamn old man,” Roy hisses. He winces, eyes squeezed tight, as Slade hooks his hands back onto the clamps and pulls them, forcing Roy to crane his neck. It hurts, it fucking burns, and he bites down on a sob.

“I told you to behave,” Slade’s voice is a murmur, every syllable a pressure against Roy’s head. Then his leg is shifting, presses against Roy’s, drawing a startled shout. “Look at you,” and, oh, how he hates him, “so needy.”

His cheeks burn at the accusation, though he can’t still the crippling whines building at his throat. He hates him, hates this, hates the guilty desire burning in his chest when Slade rocks his knee against him, when the pinch and pull of those fucking clamps make him whimper, teeth biting at his lower lip. He fucking hates how his hands circle Slade’s, how his head falls back, how he wishes just the tiniest bit that Slade would finally fucking kiss him.

“For fuck’s, God, just,” Roy grunts, a hand falling over his mouth in an attempt to silence the moans spilling out, “Slade, fucking touch me.” 

Fucking asshole. Slade laughs, a rumbling mocking taunt of a laugh as his hands press the clamps from side to side, causing Roy to writhe and pant. A hand, finally, drops down to drag his underwear then, cupping his balls. Rolling them between his fingers, pinching the wrinkled skin. Dragging his thumb upward. Grinding onto Roy’s head, just to see his eyes fly wide, just to see his back arch, spit drooling from his mouth.

“Imagine If Oliver could see you now.”

Fury, fucking fury and anger and spitfire rage, boil within Roy and then he’s slamming his fist at Slade’s side. It does something, clearly, sending the man off the bed before Roy’s tumbling after him, landing hit after hit on his stupid fucking face. He gets kicked in the side, throwing him off, a hand grappling at his chin so that the other can punch his face in. Roy grits his teeth and scratches at Slade’s eye, and when the man flinches back, it’s cold satisfaction that surges him forward. 

It’s not a kiss so much as a battle, Roy’s teeth insistent and clashing and tearing at Slade’s flesh. The man relents, just a moment, just enough for Roy to slide his tongue in before he’s being flipped over, yelling as he hits the floor. Slade slams his hand on his neck, fucking sadist, and grinds his teeth at Roy’s skin before a hand comes down to slap at his dick. He yells, loud, hurt, before it squeezes and gropes and sends startled moans and cries from his lips.

“Brat,” he hates this, fucking hates this, red and hazy and needy, “how many times do I need to discipline you?” The hand releases his throat, driving wheezing coughs, and then they’re back on his fucking nipples, red, puffy, oversensitive. 

“Fuck, fuck, fucking shitty ass,” Roy’s taunts trail off into another moan ashes hand squeezes at the base of his dick. He’s hard, so fucking hard, red and flushed and wanting with the need to tear Slade’s head right off his body. Slade sneers at his ear, nothing more than a warning, a reminder, and then the clamps slip off his nipples. Relief, pleasure, pain, course into Roy’s head, clamps thrown at his dick, hand pressing against him. He’s cumming like that, an angry howl of an orgasm, hips shaking and tears brimming and so fucking mad.

It isn’t until the room stops spinning that he can register the drool on his chin, the tears on his cheeks, the hand in his hair. It feels good, unfairly good, safe and content for just a moment when it slides down to caress his head. Unfair. So fucking unfair, when Slade registers that he’s awake, when Slade pulls his hand away, wiping it on his pant leg as though he wasn’t the one who touched Roy to begin with. As though he wasn’t the one who chased Roy down and handled him against the floor and gives him fucking messy excuse of kisses.

“I should go.” He should, he really fucking should, and Roy watched him stand with lidded eyes.

“Fuck you,” he spits. It’s weak, voice hoarse, but he shifts his hands down to lift himself upward. He’s trembling, pathetic, made so by Slade’s hand. Humiliation courses through him at the thought, no doubt echoing in Slade’s mind.

“Carry- Carry me to bed.” The least he can do, for the weakness that’s taken hold of Roy’s limbs, his body, his mind. His heart. Lurching, trembling, when Slade does, hands fucking gentle as they cup Roy and deposit him back into his bed. They even grasp at his blankets, tugging them up to his chin. Slade watches him, the flutter of his eyelids, the drop of his mouth. Exhaustion washes over him, at this, at Slade, at the piss poor excuse of a love life he’s been given. 

Slade leaves without a fucking word, out the window, out into the rest of the world. He’s probably going to kill another handful of people, stop a few robberies, stab a person Roy’s wandered around at least twice in school campus. He’s a goddamn criminal, a psycho, a fucking bare bone excuse of a human being.

But he pat Roy’s hair, held his cheek, the ghost of a kiss against his scalp. A fucking perverted coward, unwilling to make the move in daylight. Roy hates him.

He leaves his window unlocked.