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A Bird in the Hand

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Jason gets twitchy when he's trapped in a bed. Claustrophobic, almost, with Dick and him trapped together in the aftermath of sex, a possessive arm curled over his chest and a leg pressed against the back of his to twist his hips down against the bed, so the angle is easier. Dick's breath is hot against the back of his neck, pattern content in a way that he can't remember ever really feeling when he's like this. Satisfied, sure, until the knowledge comes back that he's stuck here until the knot in him subsides.

If it wasn't so damn hard to convince people he doesn't want it, and if it wasn't so hard to say in general, he'd probably want to never take another knot again. He doesn't like feeling confined, and he doesn't like how it seems like this is just another way that he's built wrong. He knows he's supposed to enjoy this period, he knows he's supposed to get the rush of chemicals and be satisfied and happy like this but… He does, but he's spent so much time fighting against those instinctive reactions that they hardly work anymore. He doesn't like them anymore.

It feels forced.

He breathes evenly purely out of practice, trying to ignore the feeling of Dick's mouth against the back of his neck. When Dick's knot starts to come down, he pulls away the moment he's sure that he can do it without pain. Dick clings a bit, but lets him go even though it's clearly reluctant, and comes with a huff of breath that he knows is unhappy. He ignores the curdle of slight guilt in the pit of his stomach the same way he ignores all the rest of it.

He feels better once he's out of the confining hold, arching his back into a small stretch and craning his head to the side until both of them crack. He can hear Dick starting to move, and gets off the bed before he can get caught in Dick's arms again. He will be, if he lets it happen. He's done this dance before.

His thing with Dick isn't official, never has been, but it's semi-regular. It's just… It's something that they both need, for their own reasons.

"Jason," he hears, in Dick's low, rumbling murmur of a post-sex voice. "Come on; stay."

He glances back as he grabs his clothes from the ground, and the small, curling smile that Dick is wearing — eyes hooded and still lazy — convinces him to sit back down on the edge of the bed. It doesn't stop him from tugging his clothes back on though, even as Dick shifts closer, an arm circling around his chest, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. He pulls his jacket on, dislodging Dick for a brief moment, but then he's back again. One hand presses warm against his stomach, and he shifts his head to the side as Dick nuzzles the side of his neck.

He pulls a leg up to tie one boot, and Dick nibbles at the side of his neck, hand massaging his stomach. He bites back the surge of irritation at the traditionally alpha behavior; possessive, brain caught on the fact that there's seed trapped within him. Just another in a long string of idiotic behaviors that alphas can never seem to help. If Dick was anyone else, he'd never let him get away with even this much. He's built a whole life on not letting handsy, aggressive alphas get what they want from him.

Dick is… better than most, but apparently there just aren't alphas that are immune to their instincts. That would be the biggest reason that he generally can't stand to stick around after one of these meetups; the sex is good but the way Dick is curled around him, teeth grazing at his neck, pisses him off.

"Stay," Dick repeats, with a bit more force. "We can go again." He fights down a shiver at how Dick molds up against his back, free hand reaching up and combing his hair back along his skull, nails scraping against his scalp. "I could feel how much you needed this, Jay," Dick murmurs. "Let me make you come again; get all nice and relaxed."

"Knock it off, Dick," he grumbles, rolling a shoulder to try and discourage the attention. "I've got cases to work on."

"They'll still be there in the morning." The fingers tug against his hair, pulling his head up a couple inches so Dick has a better shot at his neck, and his breath catches hard when his senses get overtaken by the rich flood of Dick's scent. "I can help," Dick says, a bit more of a growl to his voice. "I'll take good care of you, Little Wing. Eat you out, work you up; you know I'm good at that. I can make you feel so good if you just stay a little longer, Jay."

He shivers for real this time, unable to help imagining it because Dick's not wrong. His tongue's good for more than stupid puns, and it would feel good. It would feel incredible.

"That's it," Dick praises, tongue darting up behind his ear and pulling a sharp gasp from him, his eyes flickering. "Lemme get you out of all this, Jay. Let me take care of you."

Yes, a large part of him purrs; the part that's letting his head be pulled backwards, the part that inhales and gives a tight groan at the mix of sex and Dick's nearly overpowering scent. Dick's mouth is shifting backwards, and then teeth lightly bite down over his spine and his whole body goes still, goes willing as desire rushes him, leaving him dragging in a strained breath and—

He jerks away, lashing out and slamming an elbow back into Dick's side as he spins, shoving off the bed and to his feet. Dick recoils with a grunt of pain, and Jason backs up a couple steps, hands drawing tight at his sides, teeth baring. Dick's eyes open again, looking up at him with wariness and just a bit of pain.

"Jason?" comes the question, as Dick slides off the bed and to his own feet. Nude but uncaring.

"Don't you fucking dare," he snarls, and he can see Dick's metaphorical hackles rise, smell how the scent in the air goes sharp and thick as Dick reacts to the challenge.

Eyes narrow, shoulders rise, Dick's mouth flashes in a momentary snarl. Then Dick pulls in a deeper breath, squeezes his eyes shut for a second, and finally says, "Jason, I didn't mean to upset you, alright? You don't have to stay; you can go and you know I won't stop you."

He meets Dick's gaze without giving, glaring down and growling through his teeth, as low and deep as he can manage. "Sure, you won't stop me you'll just make me think I want to stay." He takes an aggressive step forward, lowering his voice as he spits, "Don't mess with me. I don't need your fucking permission, Dick, and I sure as hell don't need you taking care of me either."

Another deep breath. "That wasn't what I meant and you know it." Dick's lip curls a bit, flashing teeth, before he manages to rein it in. "Jason, please, just back down. It was just instinct. It—”

"Makes you a possessive bastard," he fills in. "Yeah, I know. But you keep your teeth to yourself unless invited or I'll knock them out of your mouth, is that fucking clear?"


The growl surges free before he can even think of controlling it, and instantly Dick is growling back, higher-pitched than his but more threatening, eyes narrowing to slits and shoulders curling for a fight. He hates how the sound cuts down to his bones, hates how he instinctively wants to draw away and back off in the face of an alpha's anger, and he fights it by squaring his stance a little bit, equally ready to fight. It won't be the first time by far that he's gotten in a fight with Dick, let alone Bruce, or the demon brat.

None of them can handle it when he gets aggressive, when he acts like something apart from what he is. He's supposed to be sweet and quiet and giving and they can't stand that he's not.

"Whatever," he grinds out, making himself take a step back. It's not backing down, it's not. "An alpha thinking with their dick, what a shock." He bends just enough to grab his gloves from the ground, cursing the fact that he came here dressed for this because he'd really love to be able to shove his helmet on and block Dick out more literally. He flashes his teeth, jerking the gloves on as he steps back. "You can fuck off, Dick. I'm not your damn chew toy."

He stalks out of the room before Dick can answer, kicking the door of the bedroom shut behind him to make sure of it. He slams the front door too, just because it's momentarily satisfying, before he heads down the stairs. One person stares at him, but he flashes a snarl and they jerk away and down their corridor instead of hassling him. Anger curdles in his stomach at the reaction, because he knows it's not for him. If anyone was close enough to smell him, to realize he's not an alpha, they'd never run away like that.

He's an omega, after all. He's not threatening.

The night air is cool against his skin, not fresh by any measure but at least it's crisp (Bludhaven doesn't quite have Gotham's smell). He heads down the street, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket to hide how they're curled into fists, jaw clenched tight. He doesn't have a goal in mind, not really, but he's too angry to stop moving just yet. He just wants to force it out of his system, bleed it out so he can think rationally again and not be quite so pissed off.

He's maybe four blocks away when a voice encroaches on his walk.

"Well hello there," a man says, in a low drawl.

He spins around, jerking his hands out of his pockets and automatically sliding one leg partially back to a better stance. The man looking at him is tall, built, with short white hair and a single bright blue eye, the other covered by the slash of a black eyepatch.

"Slade," he spits, tensing a little further. It takes him a moment to recognize that Slade (as in Wilson, as in Deathstroke) is in casual clothing; a pair of just-right jeans and a semi-formal white t-shirt. "What the fuck do you want?"

The single eye flickers down his form, back up, before Slade's head tilts just a bit to one side as if he's particularly interesting. "Grayson still in his apartment?"

Jason's stepping forward before he can think about it, getting right up in Slade's face and baring his teeth, standing tall to minimize the height difference as he snarls. "What are you after?" he demands, letting his voice drop to something low and threatening. "You hurt him and I'll rip your fucking throat out, Slade."

Slade doesn't even blink at the threat, or flinch; just answers, "We were dancing long before you came into the picture, kid. Now..." A slow breath, in through the nose. "I can smell him on you, so you were with the pretty boy. Awhile, considering how heavy it is. Is he still there, or—?"

Jason shifts forward, forcing himself to fall otherwise still instead of lashing out; this is still Slade and he doesn't have the gear on him to handle a real fight. He raises his lip a little higher, gives into the urge to let a growl emanate from deep inside his chest (deeper than most alphas can manage) and hold direct eye contact with Slade during the length of it, screaming challenge to anyone even half paying attention. God he's furious. He hates how irrationally possessive he is of Dick, hates the instinctual need to protect what's his (Dick isn't fucking his in any way that matters), and hates that he ever walked out still smelling like Dick. Still reeking of him, probably.

"That's not your business." The words come out hissed. "What the fuck does it matter if I do? Why would I know if he decided to stick around? I'm not his. He doesn't own me." Disgust swirls around with the fury, and he barks a laugh before he snarls, "All you fucking alphas are the same. Arrogant jackasses who think you can say a few pretty words and throw your fucking scent around and I'll give you anything you want, but you can fuck off."

Jason snaps his teeth in a sharp jerk, right in Slade's face, bracing for the attack, for the retaliation, for the surge of challenge and aggression to meet his own.

It doesn't come.

He blinks, drawing back a little in confusion as his gaze darts around Slade's calm expression. No narrowed eye, no hint of teeth — he takes a small breath through his nose — no sharp, bitter trace of anger to Slade's scent… Nothing. It pushes him back a real step, anger sputtering out. Then another, as it comes into focus that he just all-but-attacked one of the deadlier people he knows of. No alpha he knows would stand for being threatened, not like that. No one's that…

"I—”" He swallows, breaks the eye contact before he drags a hand over his face, trying to get himself together. "Fuck, I—”

He backs up against the wall of the building they're stopped in front of, pressing his shoulders to it and taking a breath in, curling his fingers to fists before he forces himself to sink down, legs to his chest as he tries to control the too-natural, lingering anger left behind. He presses his hands to the sides of his head for a second, hard enough to hurt, before he eases the pressure and makes himself look up far enough to confirm that Slade is still standing there, watching him.

"Yes," he offers, quieter. "I think so, anyway. He likes to… linger."

Slade steps forward. Jason goes rigid when he shifts down, and suddenly Slade is sitting at his side, watching him just as calmly as he was before even with his back pressed to the dirty brick wall of the place. He watches warily, as Slade stretches out both legs along the sidewalk, looking perfectly at ease somehow.

"You don't?" is what Slade asks, voice equally quiet but not soft. Just… solid.

He blinks some more, staring. Finally he settles on, "I thought you wanted to go dance with the golden boy."

At first, he thinks the curve of Slade's mouth is a snarl and he tenses, ready to fight back. Then it settles into a smirk, and that tension just sticks, uncertain of what to even do with the lack of aggression.

"He'll keep," Slade says, almost dismissively. "I've never met you without scent blockers on before. You're an omega."

"So what?" he snaps. "You find out I'm an omega and suddenly I'm interesting?"

Slade holds his gaze for a few long moments. "I already knew," comes the simple answer, and Jason's throat goes tight. He pulls away an inch, tightens his shoulders, before Slade gives a small huff of laughter and says, "I don't think most people would ever guess, and if it helps I didn't read it off of you. It's in the way that they deal with you now that you're back; Grayson, mostly. Wayne's stiffer, but he shows it too if you know how to look."

"How to look for what?"

"You challenge them," Slade's voice is smooth, and for once that sentence doesn't sound like an accusation. "It could be guilt, but it's not likely it would present quite like this. You challenge them and they respond, but they hold back. They didn't treat you like that before, as far as I noticed." Slade pauses for a brief moment, then asks, "You hadn't presented yet, had you? I can't imagine Wayne not getting you tested so—”

"It's a one in a thousand chance," Jason fills in, tilting his head back against the wall. "They said I was going to be an alpha, but… came out of the Pit and I wasn't. It happens sometimes with kids that have… less than great home lives. Stress, mostly. Elevated testosterone." He squeezes his eyes closed, flashes his teeth. "A bunch of stupid medical shit that just means I'm not what they expected."

"It was easier when they treated you like an alpha, huh?"

He digs his fingers into his legs, opens his eyes but lowers his head. "I might as well be," he mutters. "I'm not right physically, or behaviorally. The only difference is some different chemicals and a couple different fucking parts; it's not enough for them to treat me like I can't take a damn hit."

Slade calls his gaze back with a considering hum of sound, and then gives a slow, amused curl of lips. "They think you're irrational or just sensitive?"

He stares for a second, then gives a sharp laugh and admits, "Both. Pit made me crazy; being an omega means I'm changeable. Always a nice convenient answer that means that who I am doesn't matter as much as what I am." He hesitates a second, then shoves a hand into his jacket to pull out the carton of cigarettes and his lighter from the inner pocket. "You mind?" he asks for courtesy's sake, as he lights one.

"No. So you hate that they treat you differently, but you're still sleeping with Grayson. Is he that good?"

"What's the alternative? I find someone else who's interested in a too-tall, too-aggressive, mouthy-as-fuck omega with trust issues and lots of scarring?" The smoke tastes good on his tongue, tastes familiar even as he blows it back out. "I'm not what people want, and my options are pretty fucked. Dick's a… He's a jackass golden boy, but he likes a bit of a challenge sometimes. It's good enough to work every once in awhile."

A hand intrudes on his vision, and he flinches away before it neatly pulls the cigarette from between his fingers. He stares as Slade takes a breath of it, watching him with cool eyes and a slight smile, and then mutely takes the cigarette when it's handed back to him. Traces of smoke curl in the air, before Slade exhales the rest in a slow breath.

"You know, most of the time I'm only attracted to alphas." He blinks, still staring, and Slade chuckles. "I'm a deviant, according to most of the world. I don't find all that much enjoyment out of standard omegas; too eager to please, too trained by our society to be quiet, and accepting. You're a breath of fresh air, kid."

"Are you propositioning me?" he asks, a little bit stunned.

"Would you be interested?"

He can't find an answer, so what comes out is, "I— What? Are you messing with me?"

Slade's head tilts, studying him. "Why would I do that?"

Nerves drive him up off the ground, the cigarette dropping to the ground and getting crushed beneath a toe as he turns, backing up a step. "I don't know, because… because you're fucking Deathstroke?"

Slade stands as well, slower, never looking away from him. It's strange to have to look up, but only for one disconcerting moment. "Does my being a mercenary have something to do with whether or not you're attractive?"

He swallows, then steps forward and drops his voice to spit, "Don't fuck with me."

"Is that what I'm doing?" Slade says. "I thought we established that everything you think is wrong with you, I happen to like."

"Liking it and handling it are two different things," he snaps back. Slade stays still, stays quiet and steady, and Jason snarls his frustration. "Why don't you react? Are you that sure I'm not a threat cause I can fucking hurt you, Slade, super-soldier enhancements or—”

"I know you're a threat," Slade interrupts, and he's smiling again. "Kid, I just told you I like other alphas. I'm immensely good at controlling myself. If I can handle the aggression of an alpha, I can handle yours just fine too. You want to test me? Go ahead."

And maybe normally Jason wouldn't. Maybe he'd blow the whole thing off because he's heard all this before, from the other alphas in his life who used to think that his behavior wasn't going to be a problem. But Slade hasn't reacted to any of his challenge. Not once.

So he steps forward and lashes out, grabbing Slade by the throat and slamming him back into the wall, baring his teeth and snarling up at that cool smile. It flickers for a second at the impact, but comes back a half-moment later, single eye watching him with the same coolness. No tension, no retaliation, no swell of scent or reaction to the aggression. He's never… No one's ever just sat through him getting physically aggressive.

His snarl falls. "That… You really don't mind that?"

Slade's still for a moment, pulse steady beneath his fingers, and then one hand rises. He tenses, but all it does is stroke knuckles over his cheek and up to his temple. "Mind?" comes the answer, and it's just slightly rough, a little deeper than it was. "Kid, about the only thing I'm thinking right now is what you'll taste like." A small rumble of sound that might be a growl, just barely. "And how thoroughly I can get every trace of Grayson out of you."

"Possessive," he points out, even as he fights back a small shiver. That doesn't sound all that bad, actually.

"I never said I wasn't possessive," Slade counters, voice still that fraction lower. "I can't promise not to enjoy overriding pretty boy's scent, but I can promise that I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to, kid. You tell me to knock something off, I won't do it."

He can't find any trace of deception in Slade's eyes (not that he could find one even if Slade were lying). But maybe… "I don't like to be knotted," he admits, watching carefully for any change in expression, in body language.

Slade's head tilts a fraction, gaze flicking down and back up his body, and then that mouth curls into another smile. "Alright, I won't. There are alternatives."

His fingers loosen. He hesitates, pausing. "Just like that?"

"You tell me you don't like something and you expect me to fight you on it?" Slade's fingers stroke across his cheek, and this time he does shiver. "Is that experience or expectation?"

"I'm not normal," he says, instead of answering. "How does that not bother you?"

"Because I don't want normal," Slade offers, quietly. The fingers on his cheek slip down, sliding against the curve of his jaw, and Slade's gaze tracks them. "You think I care that I can't do one thing? If all you want is my mouth, and my hand, that's fine." A small smirk, and Slade's eye glitters as he says, "I happen to be more self sufficient than most people; shockingly, most alphas aren't particularly interested in taking a knot."

He tries to imagine, for a second, Dick letting himself be fucked. The image makes his breath catch, but it would never happen. No way.

Slade chuckles, and he can feel the reverberation against his palm. "You're not the only omega to like the thought, kid. Maybe I can show you some time." He flushes and Slade lightly strokes his jaw, thumb slipping in to tap beneath his chin and tilt it a little further up. "You want this, kid?"

He tries to think it through. To figure out what the risks really are for this. Slade is a mercenary, sure, but on a basic level so is he, sometimes. Slade's killed, tortured, and definitely taken jobs on the blacker end of the moral grey area, but Slade's still sane. He's not cruel, he's not a rapist, and he's not killing people just for the fun of it. It's a job. Jason can believe that Slade really means what he's offering, even the bits that he has a hard time actually considering as true. Like that Slade could really not mind not getting to do something that most alphas would just consider utterly normal.

He swallows. "You going to keep calling me 'kid'?"

"You prefer something else?"

"Is my name too hard?"

Slade's mouth curls, and the lifted hand cups his jaw a little more firmly. "Jason," comes the rumble of sound, and alright, maybe he likes it. "Do you want this?"

He flexes the fingers he has on Slade's throat, and then slowly lets go. "Yes," he manages. "You're clean?"

"And on enough of the alpha's birth control pills to affect me," Slade adds. "I've checked." He blinks in surprise, but before he can anything about the unusual decision Slade continues, "The kids I have are enough; I don't like to take chances. Surprised that I'd rather risk side effects than get some random young thing pregnant?"

He chews over his words for a moment before saying, "Alphas are usually too protective and proud of how fertile they are. Doesn't matter how effective it is if there's a chance they go sterile."

"No bigger than the risks omegas take, and the combination of both sides is more effective." Slade tilts his head up a little more, gaze flickering to his mouth. "I think we could probably talk all night about how irrational and moronic most alphas are. We were planning something a little more fun, weren't we?"

"You're not going to ask me?" he demands, even as Slade shifts forward a bit, just barely off the wall.

Slade pauses, mouth curled in an amused smile. "You're not vicious enough to purposefully infect the pretty boy with anything, and you don't hate him enough to sacrifice your own body to give him a surprise child. Unless I'm drastically wrong about you, I didn't need to ask."

A hand touches his side, gentle at first and then firming when he doesn't move away, sliding to the small of his back and beneath his jacket. "You always this confident?" he asks, his breath coming a little faster in anticipation.

Slade's eye hoods for a brief moment, smile falling with another low rumble of sound. Not quite a growl, but enough to make his stomach go tight and make his chin lift another inch in immediate challenge. "I do my best," Slade murmurs, voice once again the low, rough thing that had made an appearance when Jason had first grabbed him. "Are you always this contradictory?"

He holds Slade's gaze, his fingers curling at his sides. "I do my best."


Slade moves forward, and he shifts automatically to move up but instead it's Slade leaning down, lips brushing over his and surprisingly gently. He inhales sharply, his hands lifting and curling into Slade's shirt, anticipating the shove of teeth and tongue to follow. Which doesn't come. Slade's kiss stays gentle, the teasing brush of lips over his and the puff of air against his skin, the hand on his back firm but not pushing, the one on his face solid but still apart from the tiny, repetitive stroke of a thumb beneath his jaw.

He shivers, inhaling the rich, almost-cinnamon sweet-spice of Slade's scent, warm with desire but not overpowering in the way it would be if Slade was trying to push that scent on him and overwhelm him. His brow furrows in confusion at the lack of aggression, the lack of taking that's always accompanied the other people he's fucked around with. He should have a tongue in his mouth and a body pressed hard to his by this point, shouldn't he? Isn't that the point?

Slade's thumb rubs against his back, and he gives a tight little sound of want for it. That Slade answers, with another rumbling sound and a harder press of lips. Good, but not enough.

He shoves Slade back, hearing the slight intake of breath as he opens his eyes and follows, pressing himself hard up against the length of Slade's body and watching the reaction, the expression. Slade's gaze is dark, desiring, and Jason can see tension in the line of his shoulders, but none of it is translating to anything more. The contact is his doing, and somehow the lack of anything being demanded or taken from him is… nice. It's nice to have control.

"Are we doing this or what?" he asks, to cover up the thrill of heat at the thought of being in control of how this goes.

Slade's fingers slide back from his jaw, brushing his ear but very distinctly avoiding his scent gland as they cup his neck and tangle in the short strands of the bottom part of his hair. "You don't strike me as an exhibitionist. Where do you want to go?"

He hesitates.

"I can pay for a hotel room," Slade offers, "or we could go to a safehouse of yours, or mine. I have a bunker in town; fully stocked. It's not far."

Jason considers, for a moment, how safe that is. But the idea of letting Slade come into one of his safehouses, one of his spaces, is less comfortable than the thought of going into an alpha's den. That he can handle, but letting someone else into one of his places is different, it's intimate. He's not interested in that.

"Alright," he agrees, "My bike's just a couple blocks away, if that works?"

"Lead the way."

He's reluctant to let go of Slade, and to pull away, but makes himself do it anyway. He pauses for just a moment, studying, and then turns and tilts his head down the street. Slade falls in beside him without another word, the relative silence of the city only interrupted by the sound of their footsteps, and the more normal plethora of sounds a city like this makes. Distant sirens, the muted sound of TVs from closed windows, voices too obscured to understand the conversations, and some that aren't. Slade doesn't offer anything, even though he must recognize the path back towards Dick's apartment.

His bike is where he left it, parked sideways a bit down an alley, with all defenses locked to maximum because he doesn't trust Bludhaven for even a second. At that point, anyone that can manage to steal his bike — a certain kid stealing tires off the Batmobile comes to mind — probably deserves to have the bike. He clicks the defenses off one at a time, until he can pop the seat up and retrieve the helmet from within. Black, because he can actually be subtle sometimes.

"I don't have a second one," he says, clicking the seat back into place.

Slade chuckles. "It would take quite the accident for me to get hurt," he points out. "I assume you want to drive."

He swings a leg over to straddle the bike, doing his best to ignore how the seat presses in against him, and the fact that he's still wet and can feel it. Slade can probably smell it. "You'd be right. Get on." A hand touches his shoulder, braces for a moment as Slade swings onto the bike behind him and settles on. Slade presses against his back, leaning in, and his hands go to Jason's waist. He fights back a shiver, tugging on his helmet as he asks, "Where am I heading?"

"Bludhaven's main police department," Slade answers, and Slade's taller than he is so the answer comes right against the side of his neck, just below where the helmet covers his ear. He clenches his jaw for a second to fight off the little rush of desire, and starts the bike.

He knows the way, and Slade's hands stay against his waist, hot even through the barrier of his shirt. It's roughly a fifteen minute ride, and Bludhaven's streets are no problem after half his life on Gotham's. Bludhaven's grimier, but it's not nearly as nasty in the way that he knows nasty. It doesn't take much for him to avoid the bits of it that come close. Or the bits that he doesn't want to see.

(If Dick isn't still moping, then he's gone out on patrol. Patrol routes are easy to avoid and will stop stalking and an intervention.)

He slows as he gets to the police station, and Slade directs him off towards the side with words against his throat and a light squeeze of hands on his waist. He's not sure what the activation is, but a bit of wall on a building hidden out of sight to the side of the entrance to the underground garage slides off to the side with a soft rasp, and there's an elevator waiting there.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he comments, as he gives the bike just enough gas to get in, and it shuts and flashes them both with some sort of scanning light. "Right under the department?"

"When you want to hide, do it in plain sight," Slade offers, clearly amused. "I built this just after Grayson moved to town; if he saw me around he assumed I was stalking him, not that I had a base in the area. It's served me well."

"But you're showing it to me?"

Slade chuckles, squeezing his waist again, and he shivers at the hot rush of air across his throat when Slade murmurs, "Are you going to tell anyone?" The elevator reaches whatever depth it needed to, the door sliding open again, and Slade's beard rasps against his neck when there comes the prod of, "Go on and pull in."

He edges the bike in; both the elevator and the open area of the bunker are large enough for it, maybe even for a small car. Past that the bunker has crisp, steel-looking walls, and it's pretty big considering the fact that there can't have been all that much room down underneath Bludhaven's streets, not if it's anything like Gotham's mess. Large monitors, a computer bank that looks just below the standard of Bruce's, and all with dark, shut down screens, minus a blinking light or two.

There's also a small lab area, and what's unquestionably a living area set off to one side. A small kitchen, a walled off area that must be a shower and bathroom, and a fairly large, pretty comfortable looking bed. That's where his gaze lingers, as he shuts the bike off and then frees his head from the helmet. He takes a deep breath, but it doesn't help any.

He feels tight, shivery; hyper-aware of the heat and pressure of Slade against his back, hands firm on his waist, the steady exhalations of hot air against the side of his throat. Squeezing his thighs in against the sides of the bike feels like a stop-gap solution to a larger desire, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a second as he wonders what the hell Slade must be able to smell off of him. He's pretty sure he's soaked through his damn underwear at this point, if not his jeans.

"Put the kickstand down," Slade orders, "and set the helmet down."

He forces himself to take another breath, a slightly steadier one, and then go along with the suggestion. A well-practiced kick of his foot drops the stand, and he hooks the helmet over a handlebar before he straightens up.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, tilting his head slightly back so he can catch Slade's expression from the corner of his eye. Which is why he catches the flash of teeth in enough time to say, "Don't bite me."

Slade pauses at his back for a moment, then gives a low laugh. "I wasn't going to. I was thinking that you're wound high, and getting you off once, hard and fast, will bring you down again. Enough that we can take our time with the next, anyway." The hands on his waist ease, sliding down and rubbing out over his thighs. "What I was debating was how I want to do that. Usually I'm not the second person in someone's night; it opens up some interesting possibilities."

"Yeah?" His thighs tense again underneath the touch, and Slade gives another not-quite-growl into the side of his neck. He likes it probably more than he should, and his voice comes out just a bit breathy as he asks, "Like what?"

Slade presses harder against his back for a moment, giving a real growl that drags him up a little straighter, curls his mouth in a snarl he doesn't quite voice because this growl isn't accompanied by hard hands or the graze of teeth or a swell of scent. "Nothing that can't wait," Slade says, voice dark and more than a little dangerous. "What do you want, Jason? Tell me."

He pushes back, tilting his head back as well and lifting a hand to grab at Slade's hair, his glove creaking as he curls his fingers around the short strands. "Fuck, I— I—” He aches, he's realizing, as he squeezes his thighs down again. "I want you to fuck me," is the demand that comes out, and he gets the instant gratification of feeling Slade give the tiniest shudder.

"If I fuck you," comes the measured answer, "I'm not going to stop."

"So don't stop," he snaps, and pulls away enough that he can twist his body and look back, baring his teeth. "What? You don't have the stamina to go more than one time, old man? Gonna get off and fall asleep on me?"

Slade stares at him for a moment, hands fallen back to rest on his hips. Then that mouth curls into a slightly open-mouthed smirk, and Slade very deliberately leans in and bites into his jacket, bearing down hard enough that he can feel the pressure on his shoulder and his eyes slide shut for a moment in response. He gives a small groan, and Slade loops an arm around his stomach and pulls him back hard enough to pin him up against the hard muscle of Slade's chest. The teeth let go.

"Kid," Slade whispers, "stamina came with the upgrade."

He pulls a snarl to his lips. "Good. So fuck me before I take care of this myself, and if you want to do slow you can save it for later." He digs his nails into Slade's arm, and snaps, "You said something about hard and fast, didn't you?"

Slade gives a rough laugh. "You're a piece of work, kid." The arm looped around his chest pulls him up as Slade stands off the bike, dragging him with so they're both standing over the machine. "Whatever you want," is what's said into his neck. "Come on."

He lifts his leg over the motorcycle, letting Slade pull him back, but only far enough to be away from the motorcycle, before he shoves Slade's hand off of him and spins around. Slade's eye is slightly narrowed, but when he pushes forward and into Slade's space, grabbing his shirt with both hands to yank him into a hard kiss, there's no growl. Two hands do grab his waist again though, hard enough to make him grind forward into Slade and snarl into the kiss.

Slade steers him around, keeping in the kiss but walking him backwards. He's partially distracted from that by the sweep of a tongue against his mouth though, and then the press of it between his teeth when he doesn't bite or back off. Slade's hands hook beneath the edge of his shirt and then slide up, pulling it with them and up, until he has to break the kiss to get both the shirt and jacket over his head and off his arms. Slade helps, and just a moment later both articles of clothing are on the ground, the cool air brushing his skin. Not that it matters when Slade immediately has warm hands on him again, one cupping the back of his head and the other sliding up his back.

Jason goes to return the favor, stripping off his gloves first and then going for the buttons on Slade's shirt. They come apart easily, and Slade obligingly lets go and strips the shirt off when he has them undone, leaving the planes of his chest bare. Which is — he swallows, sliding his palms up Slade's abs — somehow firmer than he expected; carved muscle only punctuated by thin scars and the curls of white chest hair lightly covering the upper portions.

"You're not bad for an old man," he teases, as his gaze dips to follow an equally white, thin trail of hair down to where it disappears beneath Slade's jeans.

Slade's hand comes forward, fingertips curling into the waistband of his jeans and yanking him that last inch forward. It gets a small grunt from him, and his gaze snaps back up as Slade says, "I'm not that old, kid."

He tilts his chin up, flashes teeth and counters, "I'm not that young. I thought you were going to stop calling me that."

"I don't remember you telling me to stop." Slade's single-eyed gaze slowly lowers, raking across his chest like it could be a physical touch. "You don't want to be bitten; can I mark you?"

The thought of Slade's teeth against his neck is still an unpleasant one, but the thought of them elsewhere…

"Go for it, and you can bite me anywhere that's not my neck," he offers, and Slade goes very still for a moment, eye sliding shut. He swallows, fighting the urge to whine at the flat heat in Slade's gaze when his eye opens again. "Can I claw the hell out of your back?"

Slade's free hand lifts, cupping the side of his neck and dragging his head a little higher. "Kid, I'd be disappointed if you didn't." A brief kiss, a sharp nip to his bottom lip that makes him gasp and then snap his teeth back, and Slade asks, "How do you want to do this? On your back, your knees?" A curling smirk. "My back?"

He takes in a shaky breath, but then snorts a laugh. "Unless you're secretly lousy I'd come once and leave you high and dry. On my back."

Slade's hand pulls away from his neck, but only to drop down. Both hands slide back to curve over his ass, and then Slade is lifting. Jason sucks in a sharp breath, grabbing for a more secure hold, as Slade lifts him up. His thighs clamp down around Slade's waist, fingers digging at his shoulders, and it takes that long for him to realize that Slade is smirking, expression easy like he didn't just lift over two-hundred pounds of muscle with nothing but his arms.

"Holy shit," he breathes, clinging a little tighter as one of Slade's hands slides up his back, palm following his spine up to rest squarely in the middle of his back as if in support. Except Slade isn't going to— Lower him, tilting him down and sideways as he gasps, until his back is meeting the softness of covers and he's being… being set down on the bed. He hadn't realized they were that far over.

"You knew I had enhanced strength, didn't you?" Slade asks, with a very wicked sort of amusement. "I imagine that's something Grayson's never been able to do."

He makes himself let go, makes himself stop clinging, even though there's something dangerous and fire-hot in the pit of his stomach and a dark voice at the back of his mind that's saying this, this is it.

"No," he gets out, belatedly, and then shudders, his chin lifting and baring his throat in a way that's not in the slightest bit challenging. "Slade, I— Jesus."

He registers the movement, and then goes still as Slade's mouth touches his throat, lips pressing to the column of his trachea. It drags a shudder from him, muscles tightening in anticipation of the bite, and then he gives a sharp whine when Slade moves down. That wet heat drags down the front of his throat, lingering at the hollow of it before shifting sideways, over towards his shoulder. Then teeth sink hard into the top of his shoulder, drawing a yelp from him, his hands scrabbling to grab hold of Slade's arms.

The muscle is firm beneath his hands, Slade's body thick and heavy between his thighs, and he— he's easing, breath coming slower as he shivers. He groans, rocking his hips up towards Slade, who obliges with a downwards grind and the shifting of the teeth in his shoulder. They withdraw a couple moments later, and his shoulder is throbbing but… but he feels more grounded. Less desperate. (Still desperate, but he can think now, he can recognize the altered state of mind.)

He licks his lips, swallows, and then pries his eyes far enough open that he can meet the blue of Slade's gaze. "You need to be in me now," he demands, digging nails into Slade's biceps.

That gets Slade to give a small smile, and lean down for a short, hard kiss. "You got it, kid."

Slade shifts down, skilled fingers making short work of his belt and zipper, and hooking both his jeans and boxers before pulling them down. He flushes, squirming a little, but Slade is working on his boots now, getting the laces undone with ease and then stripping the last of his clothing away. He pushes up on his elbow, hissing a little bit at the pain of his shoulder but not letting it stop him from watching Slade divest himself of clothing in turn. Slade's cock is long, when it comes free. Not the biggest he's seen, but maybe the biggest he's actually let near him.

He's expecting Slade to crawl over him, but instead his thighs are pushed apart and Slade kneels down between them. The squeeze of fingers into the muscle of his legs feels like a promise. His breath catches as Slade leans down, breath hot against him for a moment before there's a tongue swiping along the length of his slit. He shudders and gives a tight groan, thighs going tight as Slade unerringly slips a tongue into him, exploring with the twist and thrust of it.

"Not what I meant," he gasps, tilting his head back and curling his fingers into the sheets, only barely held in place by Slade's grip. "That's not enough."

Slade moves up just a moment later, abandoning the grip on his thighs to brace against the bed instead, to lean up and mouth at the left side of his collarbone and Jesus his mouth is wet. "I've got you," Slade promises, as he hisses between his teeth. "I just wanted to know what you tasted like first."

"Not exactly just me," he points out, somewhat against his better judgment. Alphas get weird and territorial about other people sleeping with what their knot-filled brains think of as theirs. He's gotten a whole variety of reactions before but very few of them have been exactly good. Rough, generally.

Slade though, just gives a rumbling laugh against the skin of his chest and then looks up at him with a heated curl of lips. "Expecting that to bother me? The pretty boy doesn't threaten me, Jason." His legs are nudged up, making way for Slade to push between them, cock brushing teasingly against his wetness. "Not that I won't enjoy making sure you smell like me instead."

Slowly, he lets his elbows slide out from under him, lets his back touch the bed so he can reach up, getting his hands on Slade's shoulders. "So get on with it then," he challenges, baring his teeth and digging his nails in.

The shoulders shift beneath his hands as Slade moves a little closer, one hand lowering to grip his right thigh and tug it up. Just far enough that the rocking thrust has a better angle, and Slade's cock slides into him on the first try. He gasps in a breath as it splits him wide, pushing in easily through his own slick and the remains of Dick's release. By the time Slade's bottomed out, reaching deeper than he can remember anyone else having gotten, his nails are threatening to break skin.

There's a brief moment of pause, but he's barely even gotten his mind together to think of demanding Slade move before he's already doing it, hips rolling in a thrust hard enough to make him jerk a bit. He lifts his legs up, pressing them in hard on either side of Slade's hips as the alpha leans down into him, pressing close without sacrificing an inch of the power. Not joking about the enhanced strength, he's now absolutely positive, and god it feels good.

His back arches, hips rolling down to meet the thrusts as he stubbornly keeps his chin lowered and his teeth bared. Not that it seems to bother Slade, if the mouth tonguing at his bitten shoulder is any indication. He turns a groan into a snarl, curling his shoulders up so he can get high enough to bite into the side of Slade's neck. The snap of Slade's hips is off-rhythm, jarring, and he yelps into his mouthful of skin but doesn't let go. He can feel the reverberation as Slade groans, and it doesn't seem like a bad sound.

Slade's hand slides up and off of his thigh, down between them to curl around his cock. That does get him to let go, but only so he can bury his face against Slade's shoulder, muffling how he cries out. Slade strokes him, hand just slightly rough and he was already wound tight even before this actually started. Having Slade actually in him, fucking him hard and like he can really take it, is so close to enough.

"Come on," he demands. "Fuck, come on."

Slade gives something like a growl into his ear, and then a clever tongue is swiping up behind it. He seizes at the direct stimulation of his scent gland, nails raking across Slade's back as he's all but thrown over the edge, muscle drawing tight as a bowstring. His head tosses back, back curving into an arch as he comes, shouting, contracting around Slade who isn't stopping. Slade feels immovable above him, unstoppable, pinning him in place even as he writhes and trembles, unable to come down with Slade still taking him.

There's a bright flash of pleasure-pain as Slade slams a little deeper and it pulls another yelp from him, his hips jerking up into the touch. A hand slides up the center of his chest, pinching at one nipple and then the other when it draws a whine from between his teeth. He clenches his jaw, shuddering, trying to stabilize in the solid mass of Slade's back beneath his hands, in the sound of Slade giving tight, low groans beside his ear, anything to brace against the desire clawing his belly apart.

"Slade," he groans, pushing his chest up towards the hand messing with it. "Son of a bitch, I can't— Jesus, I can't—”

"You can," Slade insists, voice shockingly firm. "You're stronger than all the rest of them, aren't you? Fight me, kid. Be who you are; let go."

He pulls tight, trembling, feeling the thrusts like the best kind of punches, low and deep in his gut and he— he wants. He needs.

The snarl comes unbidden, and he claws at Slade's back with more purpose, smelling blood in the air and letting it fan the flames curling up in his chest. Slade's groan, and the slightly uneven jerk to his hips, prompt him to surge up, twisting and shoving to force Slade off of him and to the side. There's a grunt, a moment of resistance, and then Slade is slipping out of him and falling sideways, onto his back on the bed. He has exactly enough of a mind left to follow, straddling Slade's hips and mounting him again.

Without the close press he's free to see how Slade moves in a ripple of tension, shoulders to neck to jaw to forehead, mouth curled into half a snarl. Enough to resist, but not enough to be outright demanding he back down, which is good because he's not going to. He sinks down, taking Slade all the way in and giving a sharp exhale when the angle — deeper this way, fuller — gets Slade to grind up against deeper parts of him and spark another flash of that pleasure-pain.

He rocks his hips, testing, and Slade is shifting beneath him, legs pulling up to brace and offer more leverage, single eye watching him with enough focus to kill, if that were possible. Jason groans, settling down again so he can reach forward, grabbing Slade's hands from where they're curling into the covers beneath them. For half a moment he considers pinning them down, considers doing all of this entirely under his own control, but a deep, base part of him wants Slade's hands on him, and he's not about to fight that. He pulls them to his hips instead, setting the large palms over his skin and squeezing down on them hard enough that they squeeze him in turn.

"You've got strength," he growls, "use it."

His own hands he braces on Slade's chest, digging his nails into the muscle there and using it to push off of, easing the strain in his thighs. Something that's further eased when Slade's hands tighten, guiding him up and then yanking him back down, into the upwards rock of hips. He cries out, eyes widening at that feeling of too deep, but he doesn't even pretend to not want more. He bares his teeth and rests more of his weight on his hands instead, facilitating how Slade pulls him up into another rise.

Slade's hands are tight enough they might bruise, controlling his pace and digging blunt nails into his skin. It's deep and too-hot and almost painful and fuck he loves it. He can feel the never-loosened coil in his gut drawing tighter again, feel the sweat beading on his skin and slicking all his movements, and when he sucks in a deep breath between the noises being wrenched out of him he can almost taste Slade's scent on his tongue. Rich, almost like cinnamon, and he wants more.

He can feel the faint shudders in Slade's muscle, just before there's a rough groan of, "Jason."

It drags a matching shudder from him, and for a moment he thinks Slade's about to start speaking, about to start praising and telling him all about how it feels, but instead there's just a similarly rough growl and a flex of the fingers on his hips. The lack is actually refreshing, and he grinds down against Slade, opening his mouth and only finding the breath for a whine. He can feel his thighs trembling, and he digs his nails a bit harder into Slade's chest in some kind of warning.

Slade seems to get it, or maybe he's just at his own build up, because suddenly one of the hands on his hips lets go. His breath catches hard at the feeling of Slade's knot beginning to swell, stretching him open at his next downwards shove, and then that missing hand is pushing between them. He lifts, falls, and comes up short and hard against the wrap of fingers. That shoves the breath out of him, and if not for the lift of Slade's hand he would have faltered.

"Slade—” he gasps, and gets cut off by a rough growl with more feeling behind it than anything else tonight.

"Don't tempt me, kid," Slade says, voice breathless and rough. "You don't want it, no matter what your brain says now. Come on, kid; you can get off without it, I know you can."

He grinds down against Slade's hand at the next fall, and lifts one of his hands to slide up his own stomach. It's a little odd to be doing this in front of someone else (usually the only company he has when he gets himself off is one of his toys), but he rubs at his nipples, tossing his head back and groaning at the feeling. Slade's not as deep with those last couple inches blocked off, not quite as good, but it's enough.

He shoves down, pinching hard at one nipple, and the dam breaks. He arches, his inner muscles drawing tight along with everything else, and the sound that tears itself free from his chest is just shy of a scream. Slade's groan is almost hidden beneath it, but there's no mistaking the rush of release inside of him, hot enough to make him jerk, muscle contracting and driving a whine from him. He clenches, releases, ecstasy burning through him even as a deep part of his mind whines at the lack of a knot to milk.

He pulls off as soon as he has muscle control back, lifting off of Slade's cock and letting himself fall to the side, onto the bed. Slade lets him go, and he rubs against the bed, twisting his head against the sheets and trying to stubbornly ignore how achingly empty he feels. A whine catches in his throat, and Slade is moving, rolling towards him and up against his side.

"Kid," Slade says, voice still breathless and rough but stronger now. "Do you trust me to make you feel good?"

He twists his head back over, meeting Slade's gaze with confusion. Until another contraction ripples through him, body stubbornly trying to cling to something that isn't there. "Yes," he gasps, around a groan.

Slade tugs him onto his side, facing each other, and quietly orders, "Relax," even as he pulls his right leg up and over his hip, splaying him open again. He shudders, drawing in half a breath to tell Slade that taking him again, even just to press that knot against the outside of him, is not part of the deal, before Slade's fingers are pushing inside of him.

He arches, gasps, "What?" as he tries to rationalize what Slade is doing and finds a hand sliding into him. Which would never work except that he's soaked, open from two separate rounds of sex and Slade is big but Dick's knot was bigger, before it locked into him. He grabs downwards as Slade's hand stretches him open, digging his fingers into a wrist as he gasps a protest. Except then the thickest part of Slade's hand is sliding into him, his body giving beneath the determined push, and he clenches down around that same wrist as Slade's hand moves inside of him, curling tight and—

"Oh," is all he can manage, his mind grinding to a halt because Slade's hand feels just like a slightly larger than normal knot. Locked into him, solid and pressing up against his walls. His body ripples, contracting and finding that mass there, and he goes all but limp with a deep moan.

"Feel good, kid?" Slade asks, shifting closer to him, the hard, wet length of his cock brushing up against his stomach.

He can only manage a groan in answer, his fingers circling Slade's wrist and holding it there, rubbing against his skin. His hips push down against the fake knot, rocking into it, and dull pleasure flares up his spine. Jason chases that feeling, moving closer to Slade and rubbing up against him, grinding against his wrist and hand and the solidity of his thigh in slow rocks as he buries his face into Slade's chest, breathing deep. Slade groans a little bit, and he can feel the smears of wet heat against his stomach as his movements stimulate Slade's actual cock, still firmly swollen and unlikely to come down for a good bit yet.

Slade's breath is hot against the top of his head, before there comes the deep rumble of, "Let me know when you want it out."

"Okay," he answers vaguely, stroking his fingers up Slade's arm.

It takes him a good long while to come back to himself, and it doesn't even start to happen until his rocking has pulled a slower, deeper orgasm from the very pits of his stomach, leaving him trembling and exhausted and buzzing with pleasure. Then, very slowly, he comes back to awareness. Even after he can actually think again, he takes a couple extra minutes to just breathe in Slade's scent and relax, the contractions eased but Slade still comfortingly solid within him.

Finally, he squeezes Slade's upper arm (where his fingers had ended up) and he tilts his head back, lightly butting Slade's chin up as he pulls a bit away. "Alright," he breathes.

Slade's hand slowly uncurls and he shudders at the feeling, giving a thick groan as it starts to slide out of him. He's relaxed enough that it's not that bad a stretch, although it feels as strange to be empty again as it does after a real knotting. He feels open, still wet, and… somehow he doesn't mind. He shifts, pulling his thigh down off Slade's leg and rubbing them together, giving a satisfied sigh.

Slade's head ducks down, and he gives a small groan when Slade's mouth presses to the front of his throat, and then a moment later there's wet, hot suction. Not even a graze of teeth, but the hard pull and almost-pain that tells him he's going to have a hell of a hickey there. Right at the front of his throat, just barely tilted towards the left and high enough that there's no way he hides it except with deliberate makeup.

"Possessive," he murmurs, a moment before Slade pulls back.

"Consider it a failing," Slade dismisses, and then pulls back enough that their gazes can meet. "Enjoy that, kid?"

He shifts again, and a laugh manages to escape his throat, low and a little breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, I did." He stretches out a bit, giving a low groan and feeling how his thighs slide together, still slick but cooling now. Shortly to probably be uncomfortable. "I… want to rinse off," he decides, and Slade's mouth curls to a small smirk.

"Alone, or am I invited?"

"What are you planning on doing?" he counters, and Slade gives a low rumble of a growl through the smile.

"Whatever you want," comes the answer, "but I was thinking I might see how much of that mess I can lick out of you." He shivers a bit, remembering the brief slide of Slade's tongue earlier. "Does that sound good to you, kid?"

Yes, but that's not entirely the point. "How passive are you expecting me to be?" he demands, rolling to rise up on his hands and over Slade, pushing at a shoulder until Slade's flat on his back beneath him, and apparently completely willing to be there despite how Jason's flashing his teeth and holding his shoulder down.

"You?" One of Slade's hands lifts, tracing his jaw, and he turns his head and nips at the points of the fingers, drawing a chuckle. "Not in the slightest."

He finds himself relaxing, letting Slade touch his jaw, turning into the touch and nuzzling at Slade's palm. Until he inhales, and gets hit with a hard, concentrated burst of Slade's scent and musk, strong enough to make his head spin as he flinches back. He shakes his head, blowing out a sharp breath through his nose, as Slade laughs hard enough that he can feel the way it shakes the shoulder he has pressed down. It takes him another couple moments to realize that the hand Slade was touching him with was the one that Slade had wrapped around his own knot, which no duh would smell that strong.

He shakes his head once more, snorting, and then gives a huff of laughter himself. "My bad," he admits. Slade is smiling, and that makes it about a thousand times easier to say, "Later, can we experiment?" One snowy white eyebrow rises, and he explains, "I want to know why that worked, when I don't usually like being knotted."

Slade's hand strokes over his shoulder, skirting the edges of the bite there. "It may be as simple as the anatomy used," is pointed out.

"Or it could be something more manageable," Jason argues. "Position, or… I don't know, maybe it's you. That's why I'm asking."

Slade chuckles. "How flattering. If you're asking whether I want to knot you the answer is 'yes,' kid. If that's what you want." He gives a small grin at the agreement, and Slade lightly squeezes the outside of his shoulder. "Want me to carry you to the shower?"

It's clearly teasing, but he remembers how it felt to be lifted before, and his gut goes a little tight. "That's really tempting," he admits, cheeks flushing as he deals with that particular bit of embarrassment.

Slade's grin is more than a little wicked, even though it's small. "Should I hold you up against the wall when I eat you out then?"

"Jesus Christ."