Welcome! This is all theLiterator's fault. Well, mine and hers, anyway. We started talking, and we both agreed that we really wanted Slade extorting sex from Oliver (on the island) in exchange for food and protection. Because Slade is an opportunistic mercenary character who's been alone on an island for six months, and Oliver is really very useless at the beginning of this and a huge burden on Slade. Also we just needed Slade/Oliver on the island; there's not enough of it.
So this is also prompt number 92, 'All That I Have'. XD Enjoy!
Warnings for this are: Extremely dubious consent, consent issues, light praise kink, and graphic sex.
Oliver is figuring out that things on the island have this way of ganging up on you.
First it was just that he was shipwrecked. Then he was shot. Then there was Fyers, and god, did that just add a whole new mess to everything. Then, now, there's Slade.
Now, Slade is probably a step up from Fyers. Probably. At the least, he's pretty sure that Slade has enough use for him that he's not going to get randomly tortured, and he's pretty sure that Slade is sure that he doesn't know anything about anything the crazy man would actually want to know. And, to add to that, that anything he does know he will definitely share so maybe they could just skip the torture thing. (He's really had enough of that.)
He's also kind of convinced that this island will drive anyone crazy, given a long enough time, because what kind of person decides to spare someone else's life because that someone punched them in the face? Sure, there's something about dead weight and having enough spirit to continue to live going on but really what it boils down to is that he slipped handcuffs, punched Slade in the face, and Slade thought: 'Hey! This seems like an alright guy to be around!'
He hopes to god that Slade's plan — needing two people which is probably ninety percent of the reason he's alive — actually works, because he's not looking forward to going nuts like everyone else in this place. Seriously, everyone. On this island apparently you either turn into a villain stereotype or you just start murdering your enemies with sharp objects. Or both.
Slade, later in the night after he's been relegated to a nice corner of dirt and a jacket to sleep on, pulls out something that smells like blood and lights a fire. It's carefully contained inside the walls of the plane, which means that smoke starts leaking out the couple of openings left, but Slade doesn't seem to care. With nothing else to do, he watches Slade cook whatever the hell the bloody thing is over the fire, until the smell — jesus, the smell — starts wafting through the plane and his stomach gives a loud, angry, pleading sort of growl.
Fyers did feed him, but it's been a little while and that smells really good.
Slade looks up at the noise, giving a crooked little smirk that he's not quite stupid enough to not be wary of. But nothing gets said, and when Slade pulls out two little tin plates from somewhere in his boxes, he actually starts to hope. Stupid mistake.
The cooked thing gets dropped on one plate, and when he shuffles forward Slade looks up and catches him with a sharp look. He stills, not quite hungry enough to brave that kind of danger, until Slade's mouth curls into another dangerous little smirk.
"Oh, you want some?"
He's almost sarcastic, but ultimately decides that's a bad move around someone he doesn't know who's holding the only food. And sharp knives.
"Yes," he says instead, and then belatedly adds on a, "Please."
Slade snorts at that, and sure enough out comes one of the knives, flipping in an eye-catching twirl around one hand. "Now why would I do that?" Slade drawls, gaze dropping to the roasted thing as he starts to saw it roughly in half. "I don't think you've earned it."
His jaw drops a little bit with disbelief, as both pieces stay on the one plate, and then Slade raises the one he's impaled and takes a bite out of it. "But, you need me."
Slade's bark of laughter is one of the nastier things he's heard today, and that's kind of impressive. "Kid, lemme lay this out plain for you." The knife taps the roasted thing. "I hunted it, I cooked it, I'm keeping you safe, and you're a mostly useless pain in my ass that so far is a thousand times worse than the partners I've had before."
"Well, gee," he snaps, sarcasm getting the better of him, "sorry I'm not some kind of psychopathic trained killer like the rest of you."
Then the knife raises to him, and he draws back about half an inch as Slade points to him with it, staring along the line and holding his gaze. "I may need you to get off this damned island, kid, but you don't get a free ride. What you want, you have to pay for cause I'm sure as hell not your babysitter or your butler." The knife lowers again. "You want dinner? Pay me for it."
He watches Slade take another bite, and painfully admits, "I don't have anything." Slade just grunts, barely even paying attention to him, apparently. It's a bad idea, but he's hungry and it smells so good so he just bites the metaphorical — hopefully — bullet and asks, "What do you want?"
Slade's gaze rises as the food lowers, and one eyebrow quirks up. "Kid, I've been alone in a plane for six months, what the bloody hell do you think I want from you?"
When that actually clicks in his head, he jerks back and to his feet, scrambling away and almost tripping over one of the boxes behind him.
"Are you kidding me?" he asks, incredulous. "You want me to— You want to—"
"Fuck you," Slade says bluntly, with another of those smirks. "What's the matter, kid? All those years as a rich white boy and you never messed around with any of your boarding school friends? Never let any of those girls' fingers wander farther back?"
"That is not your business!" he almost shouts. "And no! I'm not— I'm not into guys."
Slade snorts, that smirk feeling a little too all-knowing for his comfort. "You don't have to be gay to enjoy a good fuck, kid."
He runs a hand through his hair, spins on one heel in a tight little circle as he gives a laugh that's a little too hysterical to be comfortable. "You— You're like some kind of— of— of trope of an evil villain from a romance novel! Oh my god."
He doesn't realize Slade's standing until the other man is in his face, and then he's being crowded back and suddenly his back is against the wall of the plane and Slade's pinning him there with threat and pure presence. He swallows, pressing his hands to the wall and curling his shoulders in, lowering his head and dipping it away from the intensity of Slade's gaze. If he's actually offended the other man than he's so unbelievably fucked it's not funny anymore.
Instead of a punch, or the snarled words of threat he's expecting, one rough hand rises and grips his throat. A thumb presses into his windpipe, and Slade's hand is big enough to wrap around the side of his neck and press the tips of his fingertips in between the bumps of his spine. His breath catches, and he goes stiff as one of Slade's knees shoves between his, all but kicking his legs apart. It feels vulnerable, and kind of terrible, and then he's horrified to realize that he's tense as much with fear as he is anticipation.
He's not going to win, but he's not held down or anything and he could fight this. He's not.
Slade's chest presses to his, and breath rushes against the skin of his ear and neck as Slade gives a dark, satisfied hum all but directly into his ear. "Here's the situation, kid," Slade starts, and god if the husk to the voice doesn't make him shiver. "I've got all the supplies, you don't have anything to pay me with, and you're not useful enough to me to not have to pay. So you give me what I want, or you don't eat unless you're catching and cooking it yourself. We clear?"
He can't really do anything but nod in agreement, and then follow it up with a verbal, "Yeah. Got it."
Slade lingers for a couple moments more, apparently for no reason other than to breathe into his ear, and then lets go and steps away. He stays against the wall as Slade walks the few steps back over to sit down next to the fire, and picks the piece of roasted whatever right back up with the suddenly appearing knife.
"So," Slade says, looking over the food and up at him, "you eating, kid?"
He considers it for several long, painful moments. Weighing hunger against pride against what the fuck until he comes to a decision.
He crosses his arms, sinks down to sit against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest, and spits out a, "No," that definitely doesn't come out as pouting.
Slade grins, takes another bite that makes him stare, and then shrugs. "Suit yourself."
The second night, after a total of three missed meals and too much physical exertion thanks to Slade's awful teaching methods, he says yes. Slade wordlessly splits the food more or less in half and drops it onto the second plate, before pushing that plate over to him. The nervous knot in his stomach isn't nearly enough to stop him devouring all of it, and then almost licking the plate clean for the bits of grease and skin stuck to it. He stops himself from doing that maybe a half a second before he actually does, and, knowing what's doubtlessly coming next, reluctantly pushes the plate back over to Slade.
Slade takes a few more minutes to finish, since he hasn't been starving the last twenty-four hours or so, and those few minutes are all it really takes for the knot to morph into a whole swarm of what feels like enormous, fanged butterflies. He's really not looking forward to this, even if it's — the word sticks in his throat — necessary. Slade's the lesser evil here, even if he is a messed up trope of a romance villain. This is still infinitely better than Fyers.
When Slade's finished, and he's stored the plates and everything back away, the other man finally turns to him. He's got his back pressed against one of the crates, knees drawn up to his chest again and his arms hooked around them, which probably isn't really helpful but, shockingly, he's not feeling like being particularly helpful. He's weirdly grateful that Slade moves over to him, and doesn't demand that he move over there and start to play an actual active role in this.
Slade's hands close around his wrists, pulling his arms apart, and then lets go to slip to the inside of his knees instead. His breath catches as Slade pushes his legs apart and then presses right in between them, hands sliding up his thighs to his waist. Slade's watching him with a sort of terrifying amount of focus, and he's caught staring right back as one of the hands slides up his ribs and all the way up into his hair, curling tight at the base of his skull. Slade leans in, and he balks.
"Can we— Can we not—?" One of his hands flails upwards, gesturing vaguely towards his mouth. "I mean it's sort of like this romantic, intimate thing and I don't—"
He gets about a fraction of a second's warning in the form of Slade's smirk before the other man is surging forward, mouth crashing into his. He yelps in protest, flailing and squirming, which only ends with Slade's tongue in his mouth and his hands pushing uselessly at bigger, stronger arms. Slade pushes him down, arching his back over the edge of the crate like he's not even trying to fight, the hand in his hair pulling hard and oh, that's actually kind of nice.
He was completely wrong. There's nothing romantic or intimate about the way Slade is all but fucking his mouth; it's a claim and a demand and he can barely breathe but maybe that's okay. Slade's other hand is pushing up beneath his shirt, splaying over his ribs and he jerks a little bit because that's actually kinda sensitive and ticklish, and while Slade doesn't seem like the type to tickle someone it's kind of an ingrained reaction to flinch away.
Slade's hand slides down, and he gives a muffled sound of protest when it undoes his pants and pushes in without any kind of ceremony. His breath, what little he has, sticks in his throat as Slade's hand closes around his cock, rough fingers massaging more than pulling and the little zings of sensation slide up his spine. Heat starts to gather low in his stomach, and his breath rushes out in a small sound that's almost completely lost to the press of Slade's mouth. He curls his fingers into the fabric of Slade's tank-top and gives in, letting Slade keep him bent backwards without struggle, his legs open wide around the width of Slade's hips.
Which is when Slade pulls back enough to break the kiss, breathing hot and hard against his face as he growls out, "Good boy."
He flushes hard, stomach clenching at the guttural reaction to the praise and his hands tightening to fists. Slade chuckles, squeezing his cock a little tighter and oh yeah, he's more than a little hard now.
His hips rock forward into the touch, out of his control, and he swallows and tries not to pull Slade closer even though he kind of wants another of those all-consuming kisses. Only kind of. It's totally natural anyway. It's— It's a physical reaction to stimulation and that's definitely it. It has nothing to do with the fact that Slade is a guy, it's in spite of that fact because he's always been straight and guys just don't do it for him. Not even a little.
Slade's head dips, and before he can hook up the movements in his head there are teeth against his throat, raking over sensitive skin with definite intention. He gasps as Slade bites, squirms a bit beneath his weight but there's nowhere to go with the way Slade's pressed down over him and the pull of the hand in his hair. The hand on his cock lets go, rising to grab his waist and drag him up a few inches off the ground, like he doesn't weigh a thing. That gets a second little gasp out of him, and he grabs hold of Slade's arms and holy shit he's never tried that and he didn't realize that he can't get his hands even halfway around the mass of Slade's biceps.
The shiver that runs up his spine at that realization must be some kind of fear.
Slade pulls the hand in his hair free, drawing back sharp and sudden enough that he almost flinches. Then the next moment both hands are grabbing his thighs and Slade's lifting and spinning him, twisting his waist as he gets dropped on his knees and his legs are immediately shoved apart again by Slade's. He's still twisted, half facing back to look at Slade, until one of the other man's hands grabs the shoulder he has raised and slams him chest first down onto the crate. He chokes a bit on the breath he was drawing in, hands pressing at the hard plastic of the crate to try and get his bearings as Slade's hands push his shirt up his waist. It gets left bunched up underneath his arms.
"Island's taken a couple chunks outta you, kid," Slade points out, as fingers drag along the lengths of his new scars on their way down. "You'd think a delicate little thing like you would've learned to duck by now."
"I'm not—" he starts, and then mentally throws it aside because there's no way he wins that one. "Well, maybe somebody's plan of just hitting me till I magically learn to dodge isn't working so well!"
Slade snorts, fingers hooking underneath the waistband of his pants and underwear and dragging them down with one harsh yank. He twitches, pushes forward automatically in some kind of pointless effort to hide the fact he's basically naked. At least all the parts that matter right now.
"Maybe somebody doesn't want to learn," Slade counters. "All the times I've hit you today, and you didn't learn a damn thing. Well, you're so bad at it I gotta figure you like getting hit, kid."
Slade's hand cracks down across his ass and he yelps, jerking forward and arching until a hand at the back of his neck slams him down again. He shoves against the crate, pushing against the hold until Slade spanks him a second time, as hard as the first and he can't help but yelp again, twisting and trying to at least provide a moving target.
"Slade!" he complains. "Jesus, ow! What's wrong with you?"
It feels like Slade does it again just to be a dick, and he squirms at the red heat lingering in his skin. The pain is there and gone again in a quick flash, but the heat lingers and somehow it's not all bad and he did not sign up for this. Sex, sure, he's got no real choice, but he's not down for this. It doesn't help that he's gaining a new sympathy for the girls he's done something like this to, even though he's pretty freaking sure that he didn't hit nearly as hard as Slade.
Then Slade's hand is sliding between his legs and grabbing his cock, and he jerks at the same time as Slade snorts and comments, "Oh yeah, you're not into this at all, kid." He flushes, squirms some more as Slade lets go of him entirely, with a growled command of, "Stay."
He's pretty sure he's going to get more than another smack if he doesn't listen, so he digs his fingers into the crate and presses his face into it, biting down on his tongue because it's getting him into all kinds of trouble. One of Slade's knees kicks his legs a little bit further out, as far as they can part with his pants still at his knees and hobbling him. Which apparently is a problem because Slade's immediate next move is to grab the pants and drag them past his knees to somewhere closer to his ankles. He winces, but doesn't try and fight Slade pushing his legs apparently as far apart as he wanted them, which turns out to be enough that the other man can fit right between, cargo pants rough against his bare thighs.
He hears the rustle of fabric, feels a solid heat brush against his ass that's in the wrong place to be a thigh and the wrong shape to be a hand, and panics a little bit.
He jerks and tries to twist away, to get out of range, and finds out that Slade is kneeling on top of his pants so that escape attempt doesn't go anywhere at all. Before he can reorient Slade's hand is in his hair, yanking him up and off the crate and it hurts so he yelps, flailing backwards as Slade drags him up into an arch, head pulled all the way back to Slade's shoulder.
"What's your problem, kid?" Slade growls into his ear, which really should be enough to make him stay still but he can feel the kind of unmistakable brush of Slade's cock against his ass and it's kind of shutting down his capacity for anything more than fight or flight.
"You— You can't just—!"
He jerks against the hold, and Slade lets go of his hair and grabs his neck instead, arm heavy and inescapable where it's hooked down over his chest and shoulder, fingers digging into his throat to keep his head pinned back. Slade snarls right into his ear, and he shivers and grabs at Slade's arm with his hands, not that it does any good.
"Kid, you agreed to this. What's got your damn panties in a twist?"
His breath is coming hard and fast, and then the words burst out of him like the dam's broken down.
"You can't just go," he stresses, voice coming out breathy against the fingers on his throat. "Maybe I haven't— haven't done this before but I know things and you can't just— just go. There's prep, and lube, and I didn't sign up for—"
Slade's hand tightens on his throat, enough to make him cut off, and then he feels Slade's head bow down into the crook of his shoulder and neck. It takes him a couple seconds to realize that Slade is laughing, little chuckles of amusement mostly muffled into his skin.
"God, kid, you moron," Slade snorts, and then he's being bitten again. Softer this time, so he just squirms and gives a little sound of protest before Slade's letting go. "You think I want you even more useless tomorrow, kid? If you'd waited half a damn second."
Then there are slick fingers pressing against him, one pushing inside, and he realizes that's Slade's other hand, which hasn't touched him, and oh… Yeah, he kind of jumped the gun on that one. It's a weird feeling, not painful but just strange because it's so totally foreign, and he swallows and grips Slade's arm a little tighter as he closes his eyes. Slade is mouthing at the side of his throat, teeth grazing but not biting down again. Yet.
Slade lets go of his throat the next moment, arm tugging out of his grip before curling fingers into his hair to hold his head back. "Take the shirt off," Slade orders, speaking right into his ear.
He shivers, swallows again at the rough husk of that voice, and obeys because any other choice would be crazy. He gets his hands underneath the bottom of his shirt, pulls it up, and Slade lets go of his hair just long enough for him to get it over his head and throw it to the side. Then those fingers are sliding back around the front of his throat, tight enough to make his breath come shallow as Slade pins him back against his shoulder with the pressure of that arm around his chest. Almost automatically, he grabs hold of Slade's arm, just to hang on.
Probably a good choice, because then Slade's bending him forward, pressing him down over the crate. For a moment Slade's the only thing holding his weight up, before his chest presses against the hard plastic of the crate and Slade's layered over his back instead. He lets go so Slade doesn't crush his hands, pressing his palms flat to the crate and not struggling as Slade's hand slides from the front of his neck to the back.
One finger becomes two, and he gasps and wiggles a bit against the sensation and the slight drag of friction from Slade's callus-worn hand. Slade tightens the grip on his neck, pushing him down into the crate with a chuckle, and he twists his head sideways so his face isn't getting mashed into the crate. It takes a moment to get enough air in his lungs that he can speak.
"You don't have to hold me down," he points out, as Slade's breath rushes over the skin of his right shoulder. Hot and hard and with the threat of teeth following not far behind.
Slade snorts, pressing harder against his back and sliding the hand on his neck up to grab the hair at the base of his skull instead. Apparently purely so that Slade can promptly bite him right at the base of his neck, harder than before and painful enough to yank a surprised shout out of his chest. Then the teeth are letting go, and Slade is pressing sharp, nipping kisses up to just below his ear.
"Slade," he complains, but only gets a rough laugh in answer.
"Kid," Slade rumbles into his ear, "you're skittish as a bloody foal. I don't want to chase you down after your next misunderstanding. Prove you're good—" a little tug to his hair, and he flushes again at the word "—and I won't have to hold you down. Can you do that, boy?"
He shudders. "Yes."
Slade growls. "Yes?"
For a moment he doesn't understand what Slade wants from him, and then he still doesn't but he considers and makes a decent guess. "Yes, sir?"
Slade's hum is pure satisfaction. The hand in his hair eases up, scratching nails across his scalp and it's nice enough that he gives a little moan before even thinking about it, pushing back into the hand. Slade's mouth presses to the skin below his ear, sucking it between teeth that feel too-sharp and rolling it in a way he absolutely recognizes. His lips part on a second little moan, anticipation riding high against a bit of a freak out because he's going to be all bruised up tomorrow, but then it's not like there's anyone to see. If any of Fyers' men get close enough to see that he's got hickies, he's definitely going to have bigger problems.
Slade shifts down to his shoulder, biting a little bit more than sucking against the tougher skin, and he finds himself rocking back into the fingers sliding inside him, the teeth against his shoulder, the nails on his scalp. The fingers still aren't really good, but there's a strange kind of pleasure to the way they feel sliding against the skin stretched around them, how they catch at the knuckles, the wrongness in the way it all feels slick. He twists his face back into the crate, but it doesn't really help hide how much he's starting to want this so he drags an arm up instead, burying his face against it to muffle the way his breath is coming in little pants.
Then the hand in his hair is yanking his head up, and he gasps as his throat arches back and the fingers in him shove deep at the same time, knuckles pushing against his rim.
"Don't hide from me, kid," Slade snarls. "Your sounds are mine, got it?"
"Yes, sir," he answers, and his voice comes out sounding like a plea. Embarrassment curdles in his stomach, but Slade seems to appreciate the tone given how the hand in his hair loosens and then slides out to scratch at his scalp again.
Or maybe Slade just likes being called 'sir.'
A third finger pushes in with the others, and it's too much, too big, but Slade ignores the way his breath catches and doesn't stop at all. The fingers roll in little thrusts, edging inside of him bit by bit, and he whines and shivers underneath Slade's bulk. His eyes squeeze closed, and he digs his fingers into the crate, but none of that stops the rock of fingers until they're fully buried in him. His breath comes through his teeth in sharp bursts, and he tries to stay perfectly still to minimize the way Slade's fingers are shifting in him. Which only works until Slade starts rocking them in bigger thrusts, drawing out and pushing in as if trying to coax his body to stretch in ways he's not really sure it's supposed to.
"Christ, kid," Slade mutters. "You'd think with the stick constantly up your ass you'd be a little looser." He actually laughs, even though it comes out as a breathy, gasping thing. "Tight as a nervous goddamn virgin."
"Well I am," he manages to gasp, and Slade snorts into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
"You can't tell me that a rich boy like you never once fucked some girl's ass, kid." The fingers rock with a little more purpose, and he winces and resists burying his head in his arm again. "Come on," Slade presses, "what'd you tell her to do?"
And the time he remembers was a long time ago, a girl he can't actually remember the name of at this point, but he knows.
"Relax," he breathes, and it stings a bit to realize that.
Slade's hand spreads out over the back of his head, pressing his face down sideways against the crate and pinning it there, one thumb splayed out onto his cheek. Slade pushes up and away, until the only points of contact are the hand on his head, the one partially in him, and the press of thighs against his own. He shivers at the rush of cool air against his back, and opens his eyes so he can try and look back to see what Slade's doing.
The answer is just watching, as far as he can see out of the corner of his eye.
Then the hand on his head presses down a fraction more, and Slade orders, "Breathe in, kid. Slow." He does, until it feels like his lungs are about to burst, and then, "And out. Slow. Just let it go, kid. There's nothing you can do; give in."
As he's breathing out, that order clicks in his head.
It's not about relaxation, it's not about allowing this to happen because the truth of the matter is he has no real choice. It's this or starve. It's not about fighting, or struggle, because he's already agreed. He's made his choice, even if it wasn't much of one. This is about something he's found himself to be weirdly bad at, especially when people are trying to force him into it.
Surrender.
But Slade's right, there's nothing he can do, so he closes his eyes again. He takes a second deep breath and then, as the air leaves him, just gives in. He accepts the fact that he's pinned down, that there's no way he could possibly escape Slade even if he really wanted to, and goes lax against the top of the crate, relaxing into obedience and the idea that he has no actual control over any of this. It's painfully hard and breathtakingly easy at the same time, but he pushes away the stubborn bits of his pride — man is that useless on this island — and eases into his own submission.
It's a bit like handing his fate over to Slade, and it probably shouldn't slide desire down his spine but it does anyway. The hand holding his head down eases a bit, and Slade's fingers slide inside of him. Without the rough drag of friction, of too much against clenched muscle, it actually feels good enough to make his breath catch.
"Good boy," Slade praises, and want swamps him so suddenly that he gasps and arches his back a bit, pushing his hips back. That gets him a chuckle, and then Slade's fingers are pulling out of him. "Alright, kid. Stay just like that."
He doesn't know exactly what happens in the moments between, but then there's hot, blunt pressure against him, pushing in. He arches as much as he can, presses his hands to the crate as his eyes snap open because again it's too much. There's no waiting this time, no slow, careful edge of movement, just a hard shove that feels longer than it is. He gives a mostly breathless cry, then gasps in air as Slade's hips finally collide with his ass. One still-slick hand clenches around his waist, and then Slade lets go of his head and the other joins it. It feels like Slade's hands are around practically his entire waist, even though he knows it isn't true.
"Wait," he almost begs, still breathless. "Slade, wait!"
But he doesn't.
Slade pulls away then snaps forward again, and it drives the air out of him as efficiently as a punch to the gut. Not that it hurts, exactly, but that it's intense, and he feels strained, and the abrupt shove of something that feels as long and hard and big as Slade inside him is foreign and shocking. He feels stretched tight, like even a little more could split him right down the middle and break him apart. His surrender isn't enough, and he can't get the time necessary to manually ease himself down like he did before.
So he begs instead, crying out Slade's name every time he can gather the air through the repeated snaps of hips. It's partially lost to the slap of flesh on flesh, to the dirty sounds coming from Slade fucking him that he's heard hundreds of time but never thought he would hear like this.
Slade's hands slip a bit further down, grasping his hips and tilting him, pushing forward and the angle is different, deeper, and god. He jerks at the press of Slade's cock to something inside of him, arches and twists like he's seen girls do when he gets his fingers in just right, at just the right angle. Slade gives a breathless chuckle, picking up speed, and he arches a little further at the repeated jabs. Slade doesn't fuck with the same roll of hips that Oliver is used to seeing and using, he fucks like a machine. In and out in sharp snaps, deliberate and pointed and too deep for him but he can't do anything but take it.
He's also finding it's nowhere near all bad.
It doesn't hurt, and there's something to being manhandled, to being used, that he's really enjoying, against his better judgment. There's something about being held down, about being fucked with this kind of power, and control, that makes his head bow and his shoulders shake in complete submission. It's overwhelming in practically the perfect way.
It takes him a minute to realize the sound he's hearing is coming from his own mouth, that the breathy, desperate whimpers are from his throat, whenever Slade slams the air from his lungs. It takes him another minute to realize that there's a familiar wave building in his gut, fueled by the feeling of Slade's hands on his hips and the presses against that thing inside him on every inwards thrust. It's rising slow, but it's happening and already a lot higher than he thought it would be since Slade's barely touched him where it counts. Apparently getting fucked definitely counts.
He writhes against the crate, getting yanked back against each of Slade's thrusts and not trusting himself to push up and actually stay that way. Then Slade's leaning down, hips not missing a beat even as the older man presses down against him, mouth finding the back of one of his shoulders and biting down into it. He cries out, throwing his head back and trying not to twist too much and dislodge Slade's mouth. Especially when the older man starts to bite across his back, teeth sharp and undoubtedly leaving a trail that's going to be unquestionable proof that all of this happened.
He's shaking, and he tries to brace his weight against one hand so he can get the other down where he needs it but he slips and crashes back down. He can't move right with Slade's weight pressing down over him, and the way his hips are jerked back against every forward snap makes him too unstable.
"Slade," he begs, as soon as he can force words out of his throat, "please! Please, please!"
Slade growls into his back, teeth digging down a little harder into his skin. The pace gets harder, faster against all odds, and he's whining and trembling, feeling that wave rise to unbearable heights. He has to— He needs to— God!
One of Slade's hands lets go of his hip, and for a second he thinks he's getting what he was begging for but then it clamps over the back of his neck, digging into older, tender bite marks. He lets Slade press him back down against the crate before the fingers dig into his hair instead, wrenching his head up a few inches against the weight pressing the rest of him down. He cries out, and Slade's biting the side of his throat, breathing in his ear, and somehow that wave starts to crash down.
He stiffens up, back arching as much as it can, fingers digging painfully hard into the top of the crate, and then the wave hits ground and his shout catches in his throat and comes out gasping and choked. He's shaking, eyelids fluttering, all thought of anything beyond the bliss coursing through his veins obliterated. Slade's still moving and he thinks that stretches it out, because he's pretty sure he's never come this hard before.
Then he collapses, going limp against the crate as all his muscles unanimously decide to give up. He's gasping, still trembling in the aftershocks of it all while Slade continues to fuck him, hard and starting to verge on an almost painful amount of sensation.
Slade pushes up and off of him, that hand leaving his hair and returning to his hip. "God, kid." The other man sounds strained at least, voice coming out rough and low. "Like you were fuckin' made for this."
He shudders, words failing him and no protest coming to what little mind he has left. Slade groans, slamming into him maybe a dozen more times before his pace staggers, falters, and then Slade is shoving deep, fingers digging hard enough into his lips to leave bruises. Slade snarls out a shout, and he flinches and then shivers as a hot, wet feeling spreads inside him. It makes him squirm a bit, utterly alien and weirdly satisfying in ways he doesn't really want to think about.
Slade stills and he can hear the harsh pants above him, almost matching his own. After a few moments Slade leans down for just a second, blanketing him and pressing a kiss totally void of teeth to the side of his throat. Then he's pushing back up and those big hands are sliding up his waist, counting ribs before both slip down so Slade's arms are wrapped around his chest, pulling him up off the crate and holding him close. He tilts his head back against Slade's shoulder, loosely grasping at the arms around his chest and just trying to catch his breath.
Slade is nuzzling into the side of his throat, breath rushing hot over his skin. "Good boy," Slade murmurs, and he feels himself shiver, the reaction completely out of his control. Slade chuckles. "Got a bit of a thing for praise, kid?"
"No," he denies, but almost winces at how breathless his voice is.
"Really?" Slade mocks. "And I guess you weren't into any of this either?"
Before he can try and answer Slade is pulling away, letting go of him and slipping out, and he jerks and almost collapses forward without the support. He catches himself on the crate, hands snapping out to brace, which turns out to be good because suddenly there are hands grabbing his ass and pulling his cheeks apart, which makes him gasp in a sharp breath. It feels open and vulnerable, and if he was anything but exhausted and worn out he'd probably do something more than just clench his hands and duck his head down as heat rushes to his face.
"Slade," he protests, and thankfully he gets let go. He swallows, twists to look back, and Slade is getting to his feet, pants done back up and looking like nothing even happened. Sharp contrast to how much of a mess he is.
"In my experience," Slade comments, as he tries to get himself back together, starting with getting his own pants back on, "guys don't generally come just from being fucked unless they're very, very into it."
Slade's smirking, and he tries to meet it with a glare for about two seconds before he's ducking his head and trying to hide what he's sure is a bright, obvious blush inside the safety of his arms. Which is why he misses exactly what happens between hiding his face and Slade's hand closing around his upper arm and dragging him up. He staggers, eyes wide, and doesn't even have time to rebalance before Slade's pulling him over to the other side of the fire and nearly throwing him down onto Slade's spread out sleeping bag.
"Uh," is all he manages to get out, and then Slade is lying down at his back and casually dragging the unzipped bag over both of them.
One heavy arm is draping over his waist, palm curling against his still bare chest, and the other is shoving its way underneath his head, giving him a folded elbow covered in a jacket to put his head on top of in place of a real pillow. Slade's pressed up against him, one thick thigh shoved between his like it belongs there and hot breath brushing against the back of his neck.
"Slade?" he dares to ask.
Slade grunts, nose pressing against his neck. "Spare me your freak out, kid. Night's cold; fire won't last. Go to sleep."
Which makes sense, really. In a strange kind of way. So he shifts to get a bit more comfortable, grimacing at the slight soreness of his ass and the feeling of— of—
"Condoms," he breathes in horror. "Shit, condoms."
He starts to move and Slade's arm clamps down, leg hooking around his ankle and just like that he's firmly pinned. Slade grumbles, teeth grazing at his neck when the other man gives a grumpy sounding snarl.
"Kid, for Christ's sake. You think even if I had goddamn condoms I'd waste them on fucking your ass when there could be actual women in the future? Are you clean?" He gets out half the sound of 'yes' before Slade's snapping, "Great, so am I. Shut the fuck up and go to sleep."
He takes in a sharp breath, wants to argue that that's really not the point, but Slade's arm tightens and shoves all the air right back out of him.
"I will gag you," Slade spits, and he believes it.
He shuts his mouth.
So, I'm thinking of making this a longer story, of an AU I want to do, where Shado isn't a thing? Like, Shado dies, Yao Fei is the one to train Oliver, and so on. (Because I want Slade as he should be; a badass mercenary character, not an evil psychopath.) Just, by the way.