Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A gunshot sends a ricocheting crack through the warehouse; a body falls somewhere behind Jason.

He goes still, silent, scanning the shadows, trying to catch his breath. Bucky is doing the same somewhere overhead. When they’re both satisfied there won’t be any surprises, Jason relaxes, although not by much. He bends over one of the not-so-dearly departed and wipes his knife clean on the guy’s jacket. Bucky drops from his perch on the catwalk overhead, landing silently. 

“Get the cargo in the van, I’ll check the bodies,” Jason says quietly. 

Bucky nods. His eyes glitter, standing out in their smudged black makeup. He lifts the crate of guns like it’s nothing, setting it lightly on his shoulder. 

“Hold up,” Jason says abruptly. “One sec.” He disengages his helmet’s lock and takes it off, shaking out his hair as he strolls over. Bucky puts the crate down, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. Jason yanks the mask out of the way and pulls him into a kiss, shivering with the rush of heat on top of the familiar thrill of adrenaline. Bucky lets out a growl and bends to hook his hands under Jason’s thighs, lifting him bodily and setting him on top of the crate, swallowing Jason’s low hum of approval.

Bucky’s reaching for his belt when he pauses, and Jason protests, until he realizes Bucky’s listening to something — something too soft for unenhanced hearing. 

“We got company,” he murmurs, ducking his head to scrape his teeth along Jason’s jaw. “My nine o’clock.” 

Jason tilts his head back with a sigh, sneaking a glance through half-closed eyes, and he reaches for the gun at Bucky’s side, where the movement will be hidden by the angle of his body. Then he recognizes the figure who’s leaning lazily against a steel pillar with his arms crossed. Slade Wilson is pretty damn distinctive, even half-hidden in the shadows. 

He’s just watching them. Jason’s breath catches at the realization.  

“Gonna creep around in the shadows all night, or d’you have somethin’ to say?” Jason snaps, and tucks Bucky’s gun back in its holster. He leans back on his hands, tilting his chin up arrogantly to stare. 

Slade smirks, and he inclines his head in greeting as he steps forward. Bucky doesn’t take his hands off Jason’s thighs, turning nothing but his head as he looks. If anything, he holds on tighter, and a bolt of heat goes through Jason’s stomach at the possessiveness of it. 

Slade isn’t wearing his helmet, and Jason doesn’t miss the way his eye flickers down to note the placement of Bucky’s hands before he says, “Barnes.” 

“Wilson,” Bucky says coolly. 

“You’re looking… healthier.” 

Bucky raises one shoulder in a tiny, noncommittal shrug. He’s wearing the careful blankness he affects when there’s anybody other than Jason around. 

“And this must be the infamous Red Hood.” Slade pauses, tilting his head as he examines Jason. His eye narrows. “Do I know you?” 

Jason tries to hide his surprise at that, not to mention the pleased flush that starts to crawl down his neck.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky interrupts brusquely. “Didn’t take you for the voyeuristic type, gotta say.” 

“Had a job.” He kicks the prone body that’s on the ground next to him. “Apparently you did my job for me, but I’ll be taking credit anyway, if it’s all the same to you.” He’s still staring at Jason, oddly intense. “I do know you.” 

“You used to,” Jason admits. 

He can see the moment Slade puts it together. “Ah. Didn't see that one coming. Little bird came home, after all this time… ” 

“No,” Jason snaps. 

“No, guess not. Not so little any more, are you?” Jason can’t tell whether there’s something suggestive in the lilt of his voice, or if that’s just wishful thinking on his part. Slade gives him a sly smile and a nod, and then he says, “Be seeing you.” 

He melts away into the shadows again, leaving them alone. 

“We should, uh. Get going,” Jason says, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“What was that all about?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Jason says nonchalantly. 

Bucky scoffs, like the insubordinate bastard he is, and leans in close to whisper right up against his ear, “I know what it looks like when you’re thinking about getting fucked.” 

Jason swallows hard, mouth dry. His pulse is faster than it should be; he knows Bucky can tell. 

He’s not sure there’s any good way to say I used to jerk off thinking about him. 

Jason still remembers it vividly. He was thirteen at the time; he’d read the file, he knew Deathstroke didn’t hurt minors, so instead of following the order to wait for backup, he charged in, hoping to distract the mercenary long enough to interfere with the shot. 

“You must be the new model,” Slade said flatly, and all but swatted him away. “Fly home, little bird.”

“Nah, don’t think I will,” Jason laughed, jumping to his feet.

“Christ, you’re even worse than the old one.” Slade growled. “Too damn young to be — stay down, kid.” 

“Not a kid. Anyway, thought you didn’t hurt kids?” 

“I don’t kill kids, but if you keep this up, better believe I’m gonna put you over my knee. Somebody’s gotta teach you a lesson.” 

Jason choked on air, stumbling as he ducked away, but luckily Bruce arrived before Slade could notice how red he’d gone under the domino. 

“Let’s just say he starred in a few of my teenage fantasies,” Jason mutters. 

“Teenage fantasies?” Bucky asks, entirely too knowing and smug. 

Jason scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You wanna fuck him.” 

He says it so calmly, the same way he’s said so many filthy things since they started this… whatever this is.

“I don’t —“ Jason stutters a few times, wrong-footed and awkward. He pulls himself together and scowls. “Can we not? It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Bucky says flatly. “Just as soon as you get your ass off the goods.” 

“Right,” Jason mumbles. He’s too aware of his limbs as he slides from the crate back to the ground. 

Fuck. He shouldn’t be so flustered right now.

The desire to get spanked raw by an age-inappropriate assassin (another age-inappropriate assassin) barely ranks on the list of fucked-up fantasies Bucky has coaxed and cajoled out of Jason in the last six months. 

No matter what nasty thing comes crawling out of Jason’s imagination, no matter what twisted urge he admits to, Bucky meets them all with the same cool indifference. He’s never so much as blinked. 

It started with, “I want you to train me so I can kill the Batman.” Bucky tilted his head and thought about it for a few seconds and then just nodded, like it wasn’t a completely insane idea. 

A few months later: “I want you to fuck me.” Another head tilt. Another easy nod. 

I want you to hit me — to choke me — to make me cry — bleed — beg — 

— and so on. 

The plan to kill Bruce got put on the back burner after that. Maybe Jason just needed some sort of outlet for his anger, for all his restless fury and his violent energy. Bucky just so happened to make a perfect target. He always met Jason’s fiery rage with ice-cold indifference; he always shrugged off Jason’s attempts to pick a fight. Instead he’d roll his eyes and pin Jason to the nearest flat surface and fuck him until he forgot what he was trying to be angry about in the first place. 

No matter how hard Jason fights, no matter whether he draws blood or leaves bruises, Bucky heals by morning. If he didn’t, Jason would’ve clawed him to shreds by now. 

Jason’s always had a tendency to say fuck off when he means don’t leave me — to say I’m fine when he means I’m terrified, or I don’t care when he means I care so much I’m afraid it’s going to rip me open. Bucky caught on faster than anybody else has. He knows exactly when to ignore Jason’s words and read his body.  

He also learned exactly how to press Jason’s buttons. Bucky knows how to play him like a goddamn instrument. He knows exactly how to read his little tells. He has a habit of dragging the truth out of him when he’s hard and begging, when they’re naked, whispering filthy things that Jason would never admit to in a million years… when it’s impossible to lie, because Bucky can feel his reactions from the inside. 

No matter what nasty truths come out in those moments of reluctant honesty, Bucky just accepts them… accepts him . But Jason can’t help but wonder what it’s going to take — what will finally make Bucky curl his lip and turn away in disgust, what will make him walk away. 

He knows it’ll happen eventually. Jason’s wildly, spectacularly, undeniably fucked up, especially when it comes to sex. 

Everybody walks away, eventually. 

Most of the time, when Bucky can’t sleep, he goes out — hits the streets, finds somebody to punch. He doesn’t sleep much. Sometimes he cat-naps in the big armchair while Jason starfishes out on the bed. Jason’s never surprised when he wakes up and Bucky’s gone. 

Tonight, though, it’s pissing down rain. Not Gotham’s usual drizzle, but a torrential downpour, thunder and lightning and lashing winds that send fat drops sideways against the windows like they want to batter down the doors. It’s colder than it should be for July. If the local drug dealers and muggers have any goddamn sense, they’ll be indoors. 

Bucky takes a few more hasty drags of his cigarette, pressing himself back against the wall under the relative cover of the eaves. He’ll have to find another way to burn off the restless energy. 

He looks over his shoulder, to where Jason’s sprawled face-down with the blanket pushed down around his waist. Thunder rumbles overhead. Jason stirs, but he doesn’t wake up. 

Fuck this; if Bucky finishes his cigarette he’ll be soaked to the skin. He slips back through the sliding door, closes and locks it behind himself, just as Jason lets out a low, throaty noise that’s barely audible under the steady sound of the rain. Bucky pads over silently, stripping off his wet hoodie, stepping out of his sweatpants, staring down at him. 

A flash of lightning throws the room into stark contrast for a split-second, illuminating the muscled slopes of Jason’s back, the bruises in the shape of Bucky’s teeth on the ball of his shoulder, the bruises in the shape of Bucky’s fingers on his hips. The small of his back bears scratches, perfect sets of livid red lines that trail down and disappear under the sheet. Bucky wants to follow them with his tongue. 

Jason’s breath keeps catching in his throat, nothing loud enough to be considered a moan, just tiny sounds that Bucky probably couldn’t hear without his enhanced senses. Then he shifts restlessly in his sleep, hips rocking down against the mattress. 

Most of the time it’s easy to forget how young Jason is. He’s a hell of a lot smarter and savvier than Bucky was at twenty, and in all too many ways, he grew up faster than he should’ve had to. But his sex drive is unmistakably that of a twenty-year-old. 

Until Jason came around, Bucky would’ve said that his own sex drive was nonexistent, since he came out of the ice; that’s changed, along with so many other things in his life. But it’s different. He thinks he used to feel the drive first, and a focus for it second. He wanted sex, so he wanted a person. Now it’s just Jason. He can’t imagine wanting anyone else. 

But everything Jason does, whether he has a gun in his hand or a snarl on his face, whether he’s smiling or fighting or just fucking sleeping, seems to turn Bucky on. It goes beyond sex; it doesn’t just turn him on, it lights him up inside, thrills him in ways he can’t explain and doesn’t understand. It’s infuriating. Jason is the most infuriating person he’s ever met — infuriating and fascinating and brilliant. 

Bucky slides into the bed as carefully as he can. Jason doesn’t wake up. He sleeps soundly these days, aside from the nightmares; he didn’t when they first met. It wasn’t until he started to really trust Bucky that he let go of some of his ever-present hyperalertness. Bucky feels a funny ache in his chest when he thinks about that trust — the trust, and the certainty that Bucky doesn’t deserve it. He’s not sure he’ll ever really be worthy of that trust.

There’s an ache in his chest and a swooping, panicky sensation in his gut and a low pooling heat in his groin, and Bucky knows how to deal with exactly one of those things. Emotions are complicated. This isn’t. 

He shifts closer. Jason’s on his belly, but he’s tilted onto his left side, right knee hitched up slightly; Bucky rests his own weight on the metal arm as he slowly, inch by inch, tugs the sheet down, exposing the curve of Jason’s ass in the low light that filters in through the rainy windows, tracing the crease of his thigh with a feather-light touch before dragging a careful fingertip up to where he’s all fucked-open and slick from earlier. It’s enough that he doesn’t reach for the lube. Jason likes when it hurts a little bit. They both do. 

Well, Bucky likes when it hurts a lot, but that’s not the point right now. 

He starts with a finger, slow and easy, teasing at the spot that makes Jason moan softly. Bucky can see enough of his face to watch the way his mouth opens wider, plush and swollen, as he starts to breathe heavier. This is easier when he’s on his back, when Bucky can get to his dick as it fattens up, when he can lick the barbells in Jason’s nipples and the sensitive slice of skin under his hipbone, but this works. He likes how vulnerable Jason is like this, trapped face-down. 

Bucky lets out a shaky exhale at that thought, stroking himself a few times before he shifts into place and starts to press in, torturously slowly. 

Jason squirms into semi-wakefulness with a dreamy sigh. He rocks back instinctively before he’s fully awake, spearing himself on Bucky’s dick and then jolting abruptly, a convulsive twitch of movement. 

Bucky whispers, “Shh, s’me.” 

“Bucky,” Jason slurs, a long exhale that turns into a low, eager groan, and there it is again — that trust. Regardless of whether he deserves it, Jason melts under him, tilts his hips up with a shameless moan. That trust is what makes Bucky shudder down to his toes, even more so than the impossibly tight heat of Jason’s body or the hand he reaches back to twist into Bucky’s hair. 

There’s another flash of lightning and a sharp crack of thunder. Jason trembles, clutching at the sheets, trying to stifle a groan by hiding his face in the pillow. Bucky grinds in deep, biting down on the meat of Jason’s shoulder to muffle his own obscene moan. 

“What were you dreamin’ about, anyway?” Bucky whispers. “I was wondering if you were gonna sleep through this whole thing.” 

“None of your fuckin’ business,” Jason gasps, rocking back to meet Bucky’s grinding thrusts, rubbing himself against the mattress.  

“What would you do if it wasn’t me, huh?” Bucky wonders out loud. “Shit, you wouldn’t care, I bet. As long as you’re getting fucked.” He’s driving in harder now, feeling Jason tense and clench around him like a vise grip as his body really wakes up. “Not like there’s anything you could do about it. If I tied you to the bed and opened the door… shit, you like that idea, don’t you?” 

Jason’s squirming in a way he can’t even try to disguise as protest, but he gasps out, “You’re a fuckin’ asshole sometimes, you know that? Jesus.” 

“Should try that sometime. Fuck you open and leave you here for whoever wants to go next. Shit, maybe I’ll give Wilson a call.” 

“Fuck off,” Jason chokes out, gulping in air and letting it out again as a sob. 

“Oh, please, you really gonna try and pretend like you’re not getting off on the idea?” Bucky teases, and hitches Jason’s hips up roughly, lifting him off the bed while he whimpers out a protest. When Bucky gets a hand on him he shouts , jerking and twitching in the circle of Bucky’s fist. 

“Uh-huh,” Bucky breathes. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Bucky gives him a slow, too-tight stroke, still buried to the hilt inside him. “That’s it. Come for me.” He twists his wrist, and Jason trembles under him, hips thrusting into his grip once, twice, three more times before he comes with a shout. Bucky has to grit his teeth to hold back at the sensation of Jason’s body tightening and releasing, rippling around him.

He can feel the moment Jason’s orgasm ebbs and the discomfort begins.

“Stop,” Jason grunts. “Too much, hang on.” 

“You can take it,” Bucky says dismissively. He shoves Jason back down again, pinning him to the mattress and fucking into him harder, short vicious thrusts that nail his prostate. If he gets the angle right, Jason won’t have a chance to come down before Bucky works him up again. Bucky leans forward, pressing in deep, getting his mouth close to Jason’s ear when he whispers, “Gonna be good?” 

 “Am I ever?” Jason retorts, but his voice breaks on a whimper. “Stop, c’mon, I can’t — can’t, I can’t, I —” 

“Not my problem you’re so easy you couldn’t last five minutes,” Bucky says, low and sharp, without slowing. “Not done with you yet.” 

A ragged noise rips from his throat, and then he protests, “Too sensitive, fuck off.” 

“You’re gonna shut up and take it for me, or I’m gonna hold a knife to your throat and make you shut up. Up to you.”

“Holy fuck,” Jason gasps, half-whine and half-laugh. “Why the fuck is that so hot?” 

Bucky grabs Jason’s wrists, one and then the other, pinning them to the pillow over his head. He’s not thrusting so much as grinding himself into Jason, deep and deeper, punishing rolls of his hips that keep him buried in that heat, blanketing Jason with his entire body. Sweat slicks every inch of naked skin where they’re pressed together. Bucky can feel him rutting against the mattress, choking on little moans… 

“Is that what you were dreaming about?” Bucky croons. “Imagining Wilson pinning you like this, splitting you open?” 

A head-to-toe shiver tells Bucky he might not be too far from the truth. Jason snarls, “Asshole.” 

“You do have a type, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Older men who could snap your neck with one hand…” He puts the metal hand to Jason’s throat — doesn’t even squeeze, just holds it there, and Jason lets out an incoherent sound, clenching almost painfully around him.  

“I —” 

“Shh-sh-sh,” Bucky whispers. “None of that.” Bucky tightens the grip on his throat until Jason can’t get enough air to finish whatever he was about to say. All that comes out is a thin, wheezing gasp. “Can’t do shit about it, can you? And you love it.”  

Jason’s actually putting up a fight now, thrashing back and forth with a sudden urgency that makes Bucky hesitate — concerned he pushed too far, somehow hit one of those emotional landmines that litter Jason’s psyche — until he feels the way Jason’s shaking as he ruts against the mattress. 

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re already close again, aren’t you? God, you’re easy.” 

Bucky releases Jason’s throat just long enough for him to suck in a deep, desperate gulp of air. 

“M’not,” Jason bites out. “Hurts.” 

Bucky shudders and cuts him off with another squeeze. “Bullshit. Is that what you like about Wilson? You like knowing that he could hold you down?” 

Jason lets out a keening, broken moan. 

“You’d have to lie here and take it.” Bucky closes his eyes, seeing fireworks behind his lids, sparks flying under his skin with every searing-hot thrust. Jason’s writhing under him, struggling hard enough to make it feel real. “If it was both of us — you wouldn’t have a chance in hell of fighting us off. Is that what you want? Both of us at once?” 

“No,” Jason chokes out. 

Bucky knows him too well at this point to take him at his word. His body is telling a different story, humping the bed with straining, desperate movements. 

“Guess we’re just not gonna give you a choice,” Bucky breathes. “We could take turns with you. Hell, we could literally pass you back and forth. Bounce you on my lap like a toy, fill you up, sit you on his dick so he can feel me leaking out of you —”

“Oh,” Jason gasps, a single gust of air as he spasms, every muscle tensing, seizing up, sudden and unexpected. 

“Did you just —” Bucky pants. 

Jason clenches down again, impossibly tight as he shakes, and then he lets out the most obscene, mangled groan Bucky’s ever heard. Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head as he follows Jason over the edge. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ bastard sometimes,” is the first thing Jason says, panting so hard he can barely get the words out. He whimpers when Bucky pulls out, curling his arms over his head as if that could hide the way he’s shaking, or the telltale thickness of tears in his voice. 

“So I’ve heard,” Bucky mumbles. 

If he wasn’t a bastard sometimes, he’s not sure Jason would’ve ever admitted to most of the fantasies they’ve acted out together. 

“Move,” Jason grumbles, twisting and wriggling and blinking away tears. “Gonna have to change the sheets again, ugh.” 

“Aw, did you make a mess?” Bucky asks, mock-sympathetic. He gets an arm around Jason, rolling onto his back to pull Jason on top of him. 

Jason stares down at him with shiny, heavy-lidded eyes before kissing him, all teeth, uncomfortably rough. Bucky hums his appreciation, cupping Jason’s ass and running his fingers down the hot raised lines of the scratches he was admiring earlier before sliding two fingers into his own mess. Jason hisses out a protest, but Bucky’s got the metal arm tight around his waist. 

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking dripping. All used and dirty. All mine. After I let Wilson fuck you, I’m gonna make him lick you clean before I take my turn.” 

Jason makes a pained, overwhelmed sound, panting into the sweaty curve of Bucky’s neck. “Shit, you’re — you’re not kidding, are you? About… him.” 

Bucky closes his eyes as Jason goes still, holding his breath for a moment.

Bucky doesn’t love the mental image of Jason with someone else, let alone someone like Slade Wilson. Something inside him screams at the idea of sharing, every possessive instinct he’s got raging at once, but — 

“If it makes you lose it the way you did just now, then yeah, I’m on board,” he says softly, twisting his knuckles and pumping his fingers in and out to hear the slick sound it makes. 

Jason whines, trembling almost violently as his soft dick twitches against Bucky’s stomach. “Stop. Stop.” 

“Tell me something, first,” Bucky says. “Why didn't you want to admit it?” 

“Don’t,” Jason grunts. “Can we talk about this in the morning?” 

“Anything you want,” Bucky promises, so quiet he can barely hear his own voice over the drumming of the rain on the windows. 

It’s the truth. 

This is not what Slade expected when the Winter Soldier said he wanted to talk. 

“You want me to fuck your boyfriend,” Slade says, sitting back in the spindly cafe chair and crossing his arms. 

“Not my boyfriend.” Barnes takes a sip of his tea and stares at him impassively from the other side of the small table. 

“You work together, you live together, you sleep together…” 

“I don’t sleep much.” 

“Not what I meant and you know it.”

Barnes blinks. It might be the first time in this conversation that he’s done so; Slade wonders if he actually needs to blink, or if that’s the closest thing to a facial expression Barnes has got in his programming. 

“What is he, then?” Slade prods.   

“I don’t understand the question,” Barnes says, in his flat monotone. 

“If he’s not your boyfriend… what is he to you?” He’s prying deliberately, partly because he’s curious but also partly because he just wants to see if he can get a rise out of Barnes, but it’s no use. Barnes remains just as blank and robotic as he’s been through this whole conversation, eerily emotionless.

Barnes just says, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” 

Slade studies him. “What’s your part in this whole thing? I mean, are you part of the action?” 

“I’d be there.” 

“Uh-huh. You gonna do your creepy stare the entire time? Because, gotta say, seems like it’d be a bit of a mood killer.” 

“I expect I’d get involved,” Barnes says, with a tiny twitch of his lips, a not-smile that doesn’t reach his icy eyes. “To what extent… I suppose that’s up to you. I don’t bottom, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“It wasn’t, but that’s good to know,” Slade says slowly. 

“I do like watching. And I would be giving him orders.” His eyes cut to the side as he thinks for a moment. 

“It’s like that, then.” 

“Like what?” 

“He likes being ordered around.” 

“Is that a problem?” 

Slade frowns. “I guess that depends what we’re talkin’ about here.” 

“He mentioned something about wanting you to put him over your knee and spank him until he cries,” Barnes offers, blunt as ever, with that same neutral tone. 

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised he’s got some daddy issues to work through,” Slade mutters. 

“Apparently you said something to that effect when he was younger, and he imprinted on it like a horny little teenage duckling. But in a general sense… he likes being held down. Being choked.” 

“Huh,” Slade says. It comes out oddly strangled. That’s not his usual cup of tea, but fuck if the image isn’t getting to him — Barnes’s metal hand tight around the kid’s pale neck as he tries to get enough breath in his lungs to beg. 

“Some degradation. Being hit, whether it’s hands or belts or whatever else. He likes when it’s a fight. He likes to struggle.” 

Slade’s not one to get shy on the subject of sex, but Barnes takes it to another level, bored and bland like he’s discussing the weather. 

“I take it there are… safewords, that sort of thing?”

“Yes. When Jason is good to go, he says green; when he needs to pause, slow down, check in, he says yellow; and —”  

“Red for stop, I know the drill,” Slade says. 

Barnes narrows his eyes. “No. When it comes to Jason, red means yes, please, harder. So does stop , no matter how much he sounds like he’s begging.” 

Slade blinks a few times. “Ah.” 

“If he actually wants to stop, he says crowbar.” 

“Jesus,” Slade blurts out.  

“But he won’t say it. He doesn’t like to admit that he has limits.” 

“That’s not reassuring,” Slade tells him bluntly. 

Slade’s sudden hesitation must show on his face, because Barnes frowns, examining his expression, before he says simply, “He’s intense.” 

“Yeah, that’s — a lot,” Slade says with a shrug. 

“Too much?” 

“Honestly? I’m not sure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering if he’s getting himself in over his head.

“Whatever your limits are, we can work with that,” Barnes says. 

Slade shakes his head, exhaling slowly. He closes his eye for a moment, collecting himself. “Is it all whips and chains, or does he have any standard-issue turn-ons too?” 

“He likes praise, but — it’s complicated.” Barnes stares off into the middle distance, lost in thought. “He wants to earn it. Doesn’t want… platitudes, but. If he feels like he’s earned it — he likes to work for it.” 

Something occurs to Slade and he frowns. “Does he know we’re having this conversation?” 

“No.” 

“That’s — kinda fucked up, don’t you think?” 

“No.” 

Slade raises an expressive eyebrow. Barnes meets his gaze steadily, taking another sip of his tea. He swallows, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He’s mirroring Slade’s posture almost perfectly; Slade wonders if it’s deliberate, a way of trying to put him at ease, or if it’s just habit to parrot whatever human mannerisms he sees. 

“Jason isn’t good at asking for what he wants,” Barnes says. “And he has wanted this — you – for a while now. So it doesn’t occur to him that he might get it.” 

“What does that even mean?” 

“He feels like he needs to earn all of it.” 

“All of —?” 

“Anything good,” Barnes says simply. “Affection. Pleasure. Praise. The more he wants something he can’t get for himself, the less likely he is to ask for it.” 

Slade feels a strange tug in his chest. Sympathy, maybe. Next time he runs into the Bat they’re going to have words. 

“This way, if you say no, he doesn’t have to hear it,” Barnes says. He tilts his head. “But you’re not going to say no, are you?” 

Slade huffs out a sigh and doesn’t bother denying it. “Anything else I should know? 

“If you hurt him in any way he doesn’t like, I’ll kill you,” Barnes says, calm and matter-of-fact. 

Slade’s been on the receiving end of a lot of death threats in his time. He can’t ever remember believing them before.

If it came down to a fight with anybody else on this planet, Slade wouldn’t think twice about betting on himself. Hell, Barnes is almost a full foot shorter than him. Right now he seems so goddamn unflappable that it’s hard to imagine him attacking anyone . Shooting from a distance, maybe. He has the cool attitude of a sniper, someone who’s used to being removed from the fight. It takes a special something to kill a man who’s looking you in the eyes. If he didn't know better, Slade wouldn't guess Barnes has what it takes. 

But he knows better. 

“What is it about the kid?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him. 

Barnes blinks. His face softens as Slade watches, until he could almost pass for a real boy. There’s the ghost of a smile on his face when he says, “You’ll see.” 

For the first time, he doesn’t look anything like the broken, vacant puppet Slade met back in Vietnam. 

The Winter Soldier was propped up against a wall, sewing himself shut. They’d been on opposing sides when Slade cut him open, but the mission was over. That war had already claimed too much collateral damage, and he wasn't about to spill more blood than he had to. Besides, he had a feeling the professional courtesy would pay off in his new line of work. 

But when Slade offered to help get him out, the Soldier said, “No. I have orders.” 

“Hate to break it to you, but your extraction team is bleeding out a mile upriver.” 

There was nothing in his eyes when he said, “I have orders. In 48 hours they’ll track me here.” 

No food, no water, no backup, and no sign that he cared one way or another whether he lived or died. 

Slade read the file in preparation. He knew what they did to the Soldier, to make him like this. But he never really understood what it meant. They scooped out everything that made him human, all the heart and soul, left nothing but a hollow shell. 

He was struck by the sudden idea that this could’ve been him. If things had gone just a little differently, if Slade hadn't gotten lucky... he could've been this. Dull and lifeless and bleeding in the jungle, unable or unwilling to save himself because of a goddamn order. The idea terrified him like nothing had in a long goddamn time. 

Barnes takes the last sip of his tea and pushes his chair back. “You know how to find us.” 

He lifts a hand in a silent goodbye, and then he leaves, shoulders hunched, blending in easily with the crowd on the sidewalk until he’s out of sight. 

Chapter Text

Slade follows him out to the little balcony with its smog-hazed view of the Gotham skyline, but he shakes his head when Bucky lights a cigarette and offers him the pack. 

“Those things’ll kill you.” 

“They’re welcome to try.” 

“Can you even feel the nicotine? I can’t.” 

“Nah.” 

“Why, then?” 

Bucky blows a thin stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I remember liking the ritual. And it’s good to have vices.” 

“How do you figure?” 

“It’s the human thing to do.” 

“Hmm,” Slade says quietly. 

Bucky checks the time on his phone. “He’ll be here soon.”

“Is that what Jason is to you? A vice?” 

Bucky bristles, muscles tensing instinctively before he can remind himself to breathe. “It’s not like that.” 

“Still haven’t told me what it is like.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I mean, it’s pretty clear what he’s gonna be getting out of it.” Slade’s still watching him, too close for comfort. “He gets laid, he gets to work through some daddy issues... What about you?” 

“What, you really can’t think of any reasons I might get off on being in control?” Bucky says. 

“Hmm,” Slade says again. 

“He’ll be here soon,” Bucky repeats stubbornly. 

“What did you tell him, anyway?” 

“Just that my job for the night was done —” 

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

“ — and I wanted to talk to him about something.”

“If he shoots me on sight —”

“You’ll live,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, he won’t be surprised. By the… timing, maybe, but not by this. Told you, we talked about what he'd want from you. Hypothetically.” Slade is giving him a skeptical look, and he sighs. “If he knew you'd said yes, he would just overthink himself into a spiral. Nobody wants that." 

Jason comes around the corner on his bike as Bucky finishes his sentence. He’s already back in civvies; they try to change in various Red Hood warehouses and storage units, instead of risking being trailed back to the apartment, considering that they don’t move around nearly as much as Jason would prefer. Bucky’s the one who wanted to stay put long enough to make the place comfortable, assuaging Jason’s Batlike paranoia with the insistence that nobody would be stupid enough to break in if they knew who Jason was living with. 

So far, he’s been right. There have been a few attempts on Hood, but never when he’s with Bucky. Yet another reason Bucky hates when Jason patrols on his own, but he maintains that people are more willing to talk to him when he’s alone; something about being a native and having a reputation for wanting to help the locals. Most of the locals are still so terrified of Bucky that they’re more likely to clam up and run than talk openly in his presence. 

Anyway, when it comes to all things Gotham, Jason’s the boss. 

Jason parks down the block. Once he takes off his helmet, Bucky whistles, a specific three-note call, and Jason’s eyes immediately snap up to meet his. Even from a distance, Bucky can see the way he does a double-take at the sight of Slade, and the way his hand flies automatically to the holster inside his leather jacket. But he takes a deliberate breath, gaze locked warily on Slade for just a second before he forces himself to relax and heads for the front door of the building. 

“You should go talk to him,” Bucky says softly. “Tell him what you told me. Your… conditions. I’ll give you two a minute.”

“Yeah, okay,” Slade says, and takes an audible deep breath before opening the sliding door. 

When Bucky goes to the edge of the balcony and leans over, he can see through the window of the main room. Slade goes to the sink, drinking a glass of water before resting his palms on the counter, shoulders rising and falling with another deep breath, straining his blue button-down. 

He almost seems nervous. Bucky didn’t expect that. 

He also didn’t expect the list of limits that Slade rattled off, when he came and found Bucky on a roof last night. Maybe that has something to do with it, the strain in his voice when he said, “No knives, no guns, no blood. I’m not actually going to hurt him. Not any more than some bruises. If he says stop, I’m gonna stop. I don’t give a shit what the rules are with you; I can’t.” 

Bucky knows, in an abstract sense, that the way he and Jason fuck is a hell of a lot rougher than what most people are used to. For some reason he never considered that it might be too rough for Slade. 

He watches when Jason opens the door cautiously, then stops short at the sight of Slade’s broad back. Slade turns to face Jason fully and says something that makes Jason’s mouth go slack. If Bucky listens closely, he could hear them through the glass. But Jason’s body language is loud enough. 

Jason glances right at the window, looking to Bucky, who gives him a tiny nod and a tinier half-smile. Jason’s cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink as he shrugs off his jacket, hiding his face for a moment as he turns to hang it up. 

Slade chuckles at whatever Jason says when he turns around again. He sidles into Jason’s space, holding himself in a way that makes it clear he’s not a threat. 

Jason’s eyes dart from Slade to Bucky and back again. Bucky wonders what he sees.

Slade is all prowling grace and elegant strength, comfortable in his skin like a predator is comfortable. Bucky was comfortable in his skin, once. He doesn’t remember what it felt like. He has to think about every move these days; he knows he looks stiff and strange most of the time. The only times he’s not self conscious are when he’s fighting, or when he and Jason are fucking in the way that feels like fighting. The pain gets him out of his head. The pain, and the control — the knowledge that he’s the one in charge. 

Jason gets off on losing control, or at least the illusion of losing control — having control taken from him. They’re complementary that way. If they weren’t, this (whatever the fuck this even is; they've never put a name to it, never even discussed it) would never work. 

Slade’s grin is warm and lazy. He steps into Jason’s space like he belongs there. Jason gives him a sultry smile in return, simmering hot, with a suggestive look through his lashes.

Bucky tries to ignore the burn of jealousy that he has no right to feel. 

Jason can’t tell if the shivery sensation in his gut is anxiety or excitement. Probably both. 

Jason keeps his chin high and his jaw set, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops as he takes a couple swaggering steps forward, hoping that it’ll hide the fact that his hands are shaking. The way Slade’s gaze rakes up and down his body is making him feel feverish in the best way, but at the same time, he’s nervous. 

God knows why. He knows what he looks like. He can see that Slade wants him. 

But. 

“You sure about this?” Slade asks quietly. 

Jason flashes him a cocky grin. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because most people would think twice before letting an inhumanly strong assassin get them pinned to a mattress,” he says, wry and smirking.  

“I’m not most people.” 

Slade raises an eyebrow. “Clearly. Look, kid —” 

“Not a fuckin’ kid.” 

Slade raises a hand, curls his knuckles and turns Jason’s chin up to face him. “I need you to promise me you’ll say stop if you want me to stop, or — whatever else.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jason says, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Promise.”

“Good,” Slade says firmly, sliding a thumb over Jason’s lower lip. 

“C’mon, I figured you and Bucky already did the talking thing, can we just… get on with it?” 

“Shoulda known you’d be a brat. We did some of the ‘talking thing,’ yeah.” He doesn’t make the gesture for the air quotes, but Jason can hear them in the sarcastic lilt of his voice. “But I want to hear it from you, too. What do you want?” 

Jason’s cheeks are hot. He flicks his tongue out over the pad of Slade’s thumb, tasting the slightest hint of salt, and watches the way Slade’s mouth goes slack. For all the open desire in his face, though, Jason feels self-conscious and strange. It was so much easier to tell Bucky what he wanted. 

The words are right there on the tip of his tongue: I want you to tell me I’m a bad boy and spank me until I’m close to losing my goddamn mind.  

Jason’s stomach squirms, and he can’t quite meet Slade’s gaze for a moment. 

“What do you want?” Jason asks, swirling his tongue around the knuckle. 

“What do you think I want right now? Three guesses.” 

“Hmm, probably thinkin’ all sorts of dirty shit,” Jason says. Then he slurps Slade’s thumb into his mouth, laving it suggestively with his tongue. 

“As if I could think about anything else when you’re doing that,” Slade says, low and heated. “But you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”

Jason smirks. “Got an oral fixation, so sue me,” he drawls, with an exaggerated wink. 

“Do you now?” Slade asks, biting his own lip. He slides his other hand down to cup between Jason’s legs, rubbing him through his pants, and Jason’s breath catches at the blunt pressure of that huge palm. 

“Yeah,” he says huskily, and flutters his lashes as he rolls his hips, shameless. “Y’wanna see?” 

Slade replaces his thumb with his index and middle fingers, sliding them between Jason’s teeth, and Jason closes his lips around those two thick fingers, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing. 

“He’s not kidding,” Bucky says, from the bedroom doorway. “Loves getting his face fucked more than anybody else I’ve ever met.” 

Jason lets out a barely-audible whine, jerking into the pressure of Slade’s palm again. 

“Is that what you want?” Slade asks. 

Jason bats his eyelashes and gives his fingers another hard suck in response. “Mmm-hmm.”

Slade pulls his fingers away, wiping Jason’s own spit on his cheek, and Jason has to bite back a moan. “Use your words.”

“Wanna suck you,” Jason whispers. 

Slade shoves both hands in Jason’s back pockets, hauling him forward, grinding their bodies together, and Jason can’t hold back his whimper. Slade teases, “Try that again. Politely this time.”

“Put your dick in my mouth already,” Jason says, enunciating deliberately, with a shit-eating grin. 

Slade raises an eyebrow at him, grinding Jason up and down his hip almost too hard, a blunt wave of friction that hurts as much as it thrills. “Say please.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Jason laughs. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“He’s the guy who’s gonna decide whether you get to come tonight,” Bucky says matter-of-factly. 

Other people seem to think Bucky’s hard to read, seem to find him cold and expressionless, but Jason’s never had any trouble reading him, and right now all he can find in Bucky’s eyes is pure heat — molten and promising.

“Asshole,” Jason says. “Fuck you.” But he sounds more breathy than angry, even to his own ears. 

“Big words coming from the guy who can’t stop humping his leg,” Bucky murmurs. 

Jason flushes hot, trying to stand still. 

Slade grabs Jason by the chin, tilting his head back, turning it from side to side like he’s inspecting Jason. “Look at me,” he orders, and the rough, breathless tone to his deep voice makes it clear that he’s just as affected by this as Jason is — which makes it easier to open his eyes and look at Slade’s gratifyingly hungry expression. “Somebody ought to teach you some manners,” Slade rumbles, but there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, something fond in the glitter of his eye. 

“Big goddamn hypocrite, is what you are,” Jason retorts, with a smile of his own, but he’s rocking his hips helplessly, tiny tremors of movement that he can’t seem to hold back, and he knows Slade must be able to feel how hard he is. He grits his teeth and forces his voice to stay steady as he says, “Thought you wanted to get your dick sucked, old man.”

“You’re not wrong,” is all Slade says, soft and bemused. 

 Jason hits his knees abruptly enough to make them ache, already reaching for his belt. 

“Wait,” Bucky says quietly. He got a hell of a lot closer while Jason was preoccupied staring at Slade; when Jason doesn’t comply immediately, Bucky’s metal hand shoots out lightning-quick and grabs him by the hair, pulling him away from Slade. “Not here. Get comfortable.” 

Slade and Bucky are exchanging a look over Jason’s head. He shivers at the wordless exchange. Slade steps away, turning to go over to the couch instead. 

“So fuckin’ eager to get on your knees, aren’t you?” Bucky says, low and lilting. He tugs Jason by the hair, forcing his chin up at a painful angle until he’s arching backward, looking up to meet Bucky’s icy eyes, and Jason can’t catch his breath. “He’s not kidding. You ask him before you finish. Understood?” 

Jason shudders. He tries to pull against Bucky’s grip and get to his feet, but Bucky holds him down. 

“Do you want that, or not?” Bucky casts a pointed glance over at the couch, using his grip on Jason’s hair to turn his head and give him a glimpse. 

Slade has his zipper open, stroking himself to full hardness. He’s fucking hung, just as huge there as he is everywhere else, and he’s watching the two of them with raw hunger, so intense Jason feels his stare like a physical weight. Jason is acutely aware of his own dick, rock-hard and undoubtedly obvious. His cheeks are burning. 

“C’mon, kid, haven’t got all night,” Slade says, smirking. 

“Fine,” Jason snaps. 

“Now, try again. What do you say?” 

“What d’you want me to say?” Jason spits, but it comes out sounding a hell of a lot more like a whine than he intended. 

“Please would be a good place to start,” Bucky says smugly. 

“Fine,” Jason huffs again. His stomach curls, lust and shame all mixed up in one, but it’s different with Slade watching; it’s different when it’s not just Bucky. He closes his eyes. “Can I please suck his dick now?” 

“Better.” Bucky releases his hair, and Jason almost loses his balance. “Up.” 

Jason’s knees are a little bit rubbery when he stands, but Slade is still watching him, gaze raking up and down Jason’s body, and that feels good. He walks over slowly, giving Slade his most flirtatious look, and settles between Slade’s spread legs with a wicked, practiced smile. He holds eye contact as he curls his tongue over the tip of Slade’s cock, then lets his mouth go slack.

Slade bites his lip. “Jesus,” he growls, one big palm cupping the back of Jason’s neck to bring him closer, the other feeding him his cock. 

“Go on, then,” Bucky murmurs. Bucky’s footsteps are barely audible, but Jason feels hyper-attuned to him, inescapably aware of his body’s position in space, and he hears the slight creak of the armchair to his right as Bucky sits down. “Show us what you can do. All the way.” 

Jason whimpers, almost choking before he manages to swallow Slade down. 

“Jesus,” Slade repeats, voice breaking into a rough groan. 

Jason would moan if he could get any air. His nose brushes coarse hair, and Slade hisses. 

“He’s good at that, isn’t he?” Bucky asks softly. 

“God, yeah,” Slade says.

Jason’s never thought of himself as an exhibitionist, but he sure as fuck loves to show off when he knows he’s good at something — and he’s really damn good at this. The fact that it’s Slade, goddamn Deathstroke whose thighs are shaking slightly under his hands, is just an added bonus. 

Slade’s exhale goes decidedly unsteady when Jason pulls back with an obscene slurping sound, hauls in a breath, and ducks down again. Jason moans around him and opens his throat, swallowing around the hot, thick intrusion while tears start to prick behind his closed lids. 

He feels powerful right now; counterintuitive, maybe, but it’s true. For all that his lips are starting to feel bruised and swollen, for all that his knees ache and his mouth stings where it’s stretched wide, he feels like he’s the one holding the cards here. He can feel Slade coming apart, muscles in his absurdly powerful thighs twitching under Jason’s palms, ragged breaths catching in his chest, tiny choked-off sounds getting louder… 

“Don’t have to hold back, y’know,” Bucky says. “He likes it.” 

“That true?” Slade asks. “Look at me.” 

Jason pulls off with a wet pop and stares at him through half-closed eyes, pumping him slowly with one hand, feeling lit-up and hazy all at once. He glances over at Bucky, who’s slouching back in the chair, eyes heavy-lidded. He’s hard, thick cock straining obviously against the seam of his jeans, but he looks impossibly relaxed and supremely unbothered by it. 

“Tell him,” Bucky orders, raising an eyebrow. 

It takes Jason a second to understand that he wants a response. He blinks up at Slade, who’s panting. “Yeah. You can — I can take it. I want it. Fuck my throat.” 

Slade shudders, tangling both hands in his hair as Jason goes down again. 

“Fuck,” Slade pants, twitching slightly. “That’s — Christ, you’re good at that.” 

He’s gentler than Bucky usually is, not shoving so much as holding him in place, loose and easy and oddly comforting as he fucks Jason’s mouth with a few shallow thrusts. 

Jason palms the front of his own jeans before he can think better of it, pressing the heel of his hand against his dick. It’s starting to hurt where he’s rock-hard against his zipper. 

“Jesus, you weren’t kidding when you said he got off on that,” Slade comments.

“You have no idea,” Bucky replies, with the mean, hard edge that makes Jason’s dick throb. “He’ll come in his pants if you give him somethin’ to rub up against right now.” 

“Now there’s something I’d like to see,” Slade says, voice ragged. “Somethin’ you want to ask me, kid?” He pulls Jason back by his hair until it’s just the tip of his cock in Jason’s mouth, pulsing hot and velvety against his lips. 

Jason lets out an embarrassing whine, and drool slides thick down his chin. He’s so goddamn close already, and his face goes hot, shame and hunger curling together to make his stomach clench. He closes his eyes, ignoring Slade’s stare and the tears that trickle down his cheeks, and swirls his tongue, trying to bob his head again — but Slade doesn’t give him any slack, and the flare of pain in his scalp makes his vision flash white. 

“Guh,” Jason grunts. He manages to open his eyes, squinting through the blur of tears and focusing with some difficulty on Slade’s face. 

“What do you want?” Slade asks breathlessly. He pulls Jason back even more, stroking himself with one hand while he twists Jason’s curls with the other. 

“At the moment? Want you to quit askin’ pointless questions and come down my throat,” Jason manages. His voice sounds destroyed . “Assumin’ you can go more than once, because it’d be a shame if I didn’t get to ride your cock at some point.” 

Slade barks out a shaky laugh. “Still gotta work on those manners, I guess. Just for that — open your mouth.” 

A tiny tremor goes through Jason, head to toe. “Your loss.”

He holds eye contact with Slade, tongue flicking out over his lower lip before he lets his mouth fall open. 

“Stubborn, aren’t you?” Slade asks breathlessly, still working himself with steady pulls, his cock a deep shiny red, hypnotic as it slides through the circle of his fist. He releases Jason’s hair and cups his face instead, swiping tears away from his cheekbone with one big thumb. “Fuck, you look good like this. Always knew you’d grow up pretty. Gonna wreck you, kid.”  

Jason whimpers, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, and his cheeks are so hot he feels like they must be the same color as his helmet. He squeezes himself through his jeans again, and Bucky lets out a little hiss of warning. 

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Slade whispers. “You want me to wreck you. Barnes said something about me putting you over my knee, teaching you a lesson —?” 

“Please,” Jason blurts out, and Slade groans, low and full-throated, before grabbing him by the hair and tugging him down. 

“Take it, then,” he growls, and thrusts up into Jason’s mouth hard enough that he chokes — but he shoves himself down again, over-eager and shameless, fucking his face down onto Slade’s cock. The sound Slade makes is absolutely obscene, a pornographic moan that reverberates through his chest as he shoves into Jason’s mouth again. 

The first bitter pulse floods his tongue and then he pushes lower, forcing Slade’s dick so far down his throat that he doesn’t taste the second at all, swallowing until he can’t any more. Jason actually gags before he’s done, and he wrenches himself back, wheezing as he tries to gulp down air; the last drops of Slade’s release hit his cheek and the corner of his swollen mouth. 

Slade fists a hand in the collar of his shirt and yanks , pulling Jason forcefully onto his lap. He tugs him down for a kiss that’s more of a bite, all teeth and hunger, stinging Jason’s pulpy, swollen lips and digging his thumbs cruelly into the hinge of Jason’s jaw until he has no choice but to open his mouth wide and let Slade lick his way inside. It’s the filthiest first kiss Jason’s ever experienced. 

By the time Slade lets him breathe, he’s whining, hips hitching forward uselessly as he tries to get some friction against his aching cock. 

“What’s got you all worked up, kid?” Slade says, in a voice that sounds more like a purr. 

“Not a kid,” Jason says petulantly.

Slade laughs, squeezing his chin in a silent threat. He slides a hand down to cup between Jason’s legs without really putting any pressure behind it, and Jason’s hips buck. He can’t get any leverage in this position, can’t grind against Slade’s stomach with the way his legs are spread wide, and it’s barely more than a tease. 

Jason pants and squirms. “Can we — c’mon.” 

His knees are stiff and useless, and he almost loses his balance when he shifts back and stands up. He stumbles back from the couch.  

“Where d’you think you’re going?” Bucky asks softly, and he unfolds himself from his chair, sliding forward gracefully to steady Jason with the metal arm around his waist. 

“Bed,” Jason says. His voice cracks; he sounds like his throat is shredded, which isn’t far from the truth, really. He leans into Bucky, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he tries to pull himself together, but all he can feel is the steady throb of his pulse between his legs. 

When Jason glances pleadingly at Slade, he’s doing up his own button, smirking at the pair of them. He looks smug and contented, and he stretches like the cat who got the cream before he surges to his feet. 

“Is one of you assholes gonna get me off, or do I need to do everything myself?” Jason asks, and he reaches for his belt with shaking fingers

Slade steps forward. “C’mere.”  

Jason hesitates, and Bucky gives him a little push in Slade’s direction, urging him forward with a quiet, “Go on.” 

Slade hooks his fingers into Jason’s belt loops and slides one knee between Jason’s, forcing him to press against the muscle of Slade’s thigh. Jason’s mouth goes slack, and he rolls his hips. 

“That’s it. Let me see you.” 

“Want you to fuck me, not — this.” He tries to step back, but Bucky is right behind him. He grips Jason’s hips, forcing him almost painfully close to Slade, fingers digging in hard enough to make Jason’s vision flash white.

“Well, this is what you’re getting,” Slade says placidly. “Take it or leave it.” 

Jason takes a sharp breath and holds it for a second, eyes searching Slade’s face for some sign that they’re bluffing. Slade just raises an eyebrow. 

“You can rub off on his leg or you can not get off at all,” Bucky promises smoothly. 

Jason’s mouth drops open, and he rolls his hips, helpless and instinctive, as he grinds into the hard muscle of Slade’s thigh.

“That’s it,” Slade murmurs. He tugs until Jason’s balancing on the very tips of his toes, putting entirely too much pressure between his legs. He drags a curled knuckle along Jason’s jaw, wiping the corner of his mouth and putting it to his lips. 

Jason licks bitter, salty skin and grabs at the fabric of Slade’s shirt, trying to keep his balance as he sways in place. 

Slade hums approvingly. “Shit. Fuck-drunk and messy is a good look on you.”

Bucky reaches around him to snatch his wrists, and he wrenches Jason’s arms back, pinning both wrists with unforgiving metal fingers at the small of his back; it forces his spine to arch, makes him feel even more desperately slutty. 

Jason squirms, trying to fight the unyielding hold. He’s suddenly, abruptly aware that he’s sandwiched between two of the most dangerous men in the world — and god, he is fucked up, because that reminder sends a surge of blood to his dick, a shiver up his spine… he groans, letting his head loll forward, resting his forehead on Slade’s shoulder.

“Shit, you were right, he really is that easy,” Slade says to Bucky. He keeps shifting his leg, rocking and rubbing in a way that sends sparks through Jason’s gut. “You’re close, aren’t you?” 

Jason tries to deny it, but all he gets out is a gasp. 

“Gonna remember your manners?” Bucky asks pointedly, squeezing Jason’s wrists. 

“Say it, kid,” Slade whispers. “Ask me.”

“Fuck you,” Jason manages, orgasm tightening in the base of his stomach. 

“Goddamn brat,” Slade laughs. 

“Guess you’ll just have to teach him a lesson,” Bucky says. 

“Well, not like it’ll be a hardship for me to spank you raw. Bet you look real pretty covered in handprints.” 

Jason’s stomach swoops almost painfully. He comes with a broken, drawn-out whine, sobbing into Slade’s shirt, and his knees almost give out as the first wave of his orgasm twists him up and wrings him out. 

If they weren’t holding him up, he’d fall — but he just trembles for a moment, helpless and pinned, between the two of them. 

“Bedroom,” Bucky says. 

“Need a sec,” Jason grunts. 

Then Slade bends, hooks his hands behind Jason’s knees, and scoops him up like he doesn’t weigh a damn thing. 

“I wasn’t asking,” Bucky says coolly. 

Jason shivers, and clings, and lets himself be carried. 

Chapter Text

Jason hums contentedly, a low vibration against Slade’s chest, nuzzling in close. Slade presses a kiss to the top of the kid’s head before he can question the impulse, or the sudden surge of protectiveness he feels. 

He’s not actually a kid, though; he’s a grown man who’s built like a brick shithouse and hangs out with the Winter Soldier. This is the same guy who trained with Batman and (if Slade’s sources are to be believed) the League, before filling a duffel bag with heads and sending the Gotham mob bosses scurrying for cover like so many rats. He is the last person in the goddamn world who needs Slade’s protection. 

And yet. 

“Where do you want him?” he asks Barnes, who points to the empty bit of floor by the foot of the bed. 

Slade sets Jason down gently; he slithers down the length of Slade’s body and sways for a moment on his feet, glancing from him to Bucky and back again with a hazy-eyed sort of half-smile. Slade sits on the edge of the mattress and looks to Barnes for instructions. 

Barnes cocks a hip and leans against the dresser, watching Jason with a cool gaze. He crosses his arms and tilts his head, completely collected in spite of the way his erection strains the front of his jeans. 

Slade’s still not sure how he feels about Barnes, but the needle on the meter keeps veering unsteadily between “creeped the fuck out” and “turned the fuck on,” and he’s perplexed by his own body’s reaction. 

“Strip,” Barnes tells Jason, who hesitates. 

“But —” 

“C’mon. Let’s see you.” 

Jason frowns, petulant, like he’s ready to stomp his foot and pout like the whiny brat Slade keeps accusing him of being. “Hang on, can I just —” 

“You can strip, or I can cut you out of those clothes,” Barnes says nonchalantly, pulling a knife from a hidden sheath and twirling it between his fingers. Jason’s breath catches. 

Jason’s flushing, but he rolls his eyes, crossing his arms stubbornly. “You wouldn’t.” 

Barnes bares his teeth in a sharp, uncanny imitation of a smile. Then he corners Jason against the dresser, grabbing a fistful of cotton, pulling on it until he can slide the knife through the hem of his shirt like it’s nothing more than butter. He slices up the center like he’s gutting a fish. 

It’s not that Slade doubts the Winter Soldier’s control of his blade, exactly, but god damn if it’s not taking all of his self-restraint to stay where he is — to watch the way Jason’s lips part as he pants, and the way he blinks, slow and hazy and dreamlike, instead of shying away from the lethal edge that’s a fraction of an inch from his skin. 

When Barnes is done, the shirt gapes open in the middle, giving Slade a glimpse of a lot of scarring. Barnes lowers the knife slowly to the waistband of Jason’s jeans, letting the tip hover menacingly around the button for just a second before Jason shudders. 

“Fine,” he hisses. “Back off.” 

Barnes takes a step back with a self-satisfied smile. He puts the knife away, tucks his hair behind his ears, and resumes his oh-so-casual lean against the dresser. 

Jason keeps glancing between Barnes and Slade like he’s not sure which one is the greater threat. He shrugs off the remains of the shirt, letting it slide down his shoulders to the floor, and Slade tries not to let his shock show on his face when his chest is bared. 

There is, as he thought, a hell of a lot of scar tissue. He wasn’t expecting it to take that shape, though — a defined white Y. 

He thought it was a figure of speech, somehow, when he learned that Jason Todd had come back from the dead. It seemed too bizarre; he figured the kid had been in a coma the whole time, that details had gotten lost in translation, sensationalized in the game of International Assassin Telephone that he finds himself playing sometimes. It’s been known to happen. People embellish, or they make mistakes. 

An autopsy scar is pretty goddamn unmistakable. 

It’s not until Jason bends, unlacing his boots, that Slade realizes he’s still staring. He blinks, taking in the rest of it, all the other scars that litter his torso, the injuries both fresh and fading, the pretty purple finger-shaped bruises around his hips… the set on the left is far more defined, and Slade gets a vivid mental image of shiny metal fingers digging into that trim, cut waist while Barnes fucks him from behind. They’d match the silver barbells in his nipples — Slade can’t fucking wait to get his mouth on those. He has ink, too; something tribal on his upper arm, slanting script on his shoulder and ribs, words that Slade can’t quite make out. 

Jason’s flush deepens as he unzips his jeans, shoves them down his thighs, revealing tight maroon briefs with a wet patch across the front. He winces slightly as he pulls those down, and then he ducks his head as he does the awkward little stomp-kick of trying to get pants untangled from ankles. 

Barnes watches as he strips, too; there are three ice-cold eyes laser-focused on every inch of Jason’s body as it’s revealed. He scowls, straightening up with a defensive glare. 

“Like what you see?” Jason says, and his cocky smile is almost believable despite the way he’s clearly fighting the urge to cover himself up; his fists are white-knuckled at his sides. 

“Goddamn right I do,” Slade says hoarsely. Jason scans his face, suspicious, as if Slade might be lying. 

“Over his lap,” Bucky tells Jason. Slade scoots obligingly to the very end of the bed, leaning back on his hands so that Jason has access. 

Jason approaches cautiously. Slade can hear the uptick in his pulse as he bites his lip, and he’s not entirely surprised when he sees Jason’s flushed cock give a twitch of interest against his thigh. He’s still mostly soft, but he won’t be for long, by the looks of it. 

He seems flustered as he stands to one side of Slade’s legs, like he’s trying to calculate the most graceful way of putting himself in position, but keeps coming to the same conclusion Slade does: there isn’t one. His breathing is fast and shallow, almost panicky, and Slade hesitates. 

“You good with this?” he asks. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jason retorts immediately. He bends forward and drapes himself over Slade’s thighs, bending his knees and bracing himself on his palms so his weight isn’t on Slade completely. 

“I can think of a few reasons,” Slade points out softly, as he watches Jason squirm and readjust his position. “You forget who’s about to be hittin’ you? I could break you in half right now.” 

Jason’s inhale is sharp and shaky. “Yeah, I’m into that, didn’t you get the memo?” he snarks, and his voice sounds a little thinner than it should, less certain than Slade would like, but he doesn’t know Jason well enough to make that call, really. 

Instead he looks to Barnes for confirmation, and Barnes, with a computer’s sort of clinical detachment, gives Jason one calculating glance before nodding. 

“Ten,” he says. 

“Ten? That’s nothing,” Jason scoffs, turning his head and craning his neck to glare at Barnes. 

“Next time it’ll be twenty.”

“Not much incentive to behave, is it?” Jason laughs. 

“At some point, it’s gonna stop feeling good,” Barnes tells him. “Up to you whether you find your manners before it gets to that point.” 

“Whatever,” Jason says, with a bratty little wriggle on Slade’s lap. 

“Ten?” he confirms, and Barnes nods. 

Slade rests his left hand between Jason’s shoulders, feeling the rise and fall of his back as his lungs expand and contract. He sweeps his right palm down the curve of Jason’s spine, the swell of his ass, his upper thigh. 

Jason doesn’t even flinch at the first crack of his palm hitting skin. 

“One,” Barnes says quietly. 

“That shouldn’t count, barely felt it,” Jason mutters. “Can you just fuckin’ hit me already? Not gonna break, quit treatin’ me like I’m fragile.” 

Barnes rolls his eyes and raises one expressive brow at Slade, as if to say, “See the shit I put up with?” 

“Everything breaks eventually,” Barnes says calmly. “Even you.” 

He doesn’t say it as anything more than simple fact, and for some reason that’s even more chilling than anger or a threat would be.  

Slade wonders what it took to make him break, and then he shuts that train of thought down before it can make him sick. 

The next smack, a solid hit on the meat of Jason’s ass, makes him jolt. A second later, Slade feels Jason’s dick twitch against the side of his thigh. He deals two more in quick succession, one on each thigh — sharper, more painful — and Jason lets out a barely-there hiss. 

Barnes is biting his lower lip so hard Slade can see the bloodless white flesh denting around the pressure of his teeth.

“Can’t tell who’s getting off on this more,” Slade says. “You, or him.” 

Barnes gives him a look. “Might be me. Can you blame me? He looks good in red.”

Jason tenses up, bracing himself for a hit that doesn’t come. Instead Slade runs his fingertips up and down the reddening skin, quickly becoming more sensitive as Jason’s body responds to the pain with a rush of chemicals. Goosebumps trail down the nape of Jason’s neck. 

Slade brings his hand down again with a powerful snap of his wrist. Jason whimpers, shuddering ever so slightly, and Barnes lets out a harsh exhale of his own. 

“Five more,” Barnes says softly. “Make ‘em count.”

Slade watches Barnes as he lands the next blow, and when Jason twitches at the impact, Barnes shifts his weight, lashes fluttering shut for a moment. 

“Don’t hold back on my account,” Slade tells Barnes, who gives him a wary, unreadable look. 

Slade gives Jason a moment to tense up again before he deals out the next one, even harder, on the exact same spot. This time it earns a low, breathy sound from Jason’s throat, and Slade hears the barely-there rasp of a zipper. 

Slade drags his fingernails up the flushed, heated skin he just hit, and Jason squirms, arching his back. He whimpers at the next smack. 

“Last one,” Slade warns.  

Jason is tense, strung tight, hips shifting. Denim can’t feel good against his dick, but he ruts down anyway. 

The final hit is hard enough to make Slade’s palm smart with the force of it; Jason’s whole body jolts. Then he lets out an unsteady exhale. Barnes’s cock twitches in his grip, the head leaking out precome as he works himself slowly.

“Yeah, that was a good warm-up,” Jason says, sounding more than a little bit drunk. “Now what? Can somebody fuck me already?” 

“Not sure you deserve it yet,” Barnes tells him. 

“Asshole,” Jason mutters. 

He moves to sit up, but Slade grabs him by the hair with his left hand and squeezes his ass with the other, holding him in place. He massages and kneads red-hot skin, then pinches sharply, and Jason hisses. Barnes takes a deep breath, holding the base of his dick like he can barely hold off. 

“Where d’you want him?” Slade asks, curling a hand around Jason’s hip and stroking the bruises there with his thumb. 

Barnes’s eyes are locked on the movement of his hand, and there’s a dark, possessive gleam in them. Some small part of Slade is screaming out a warning — some animal instinct that senses danger. His body is really goddamn confused by the way Barnes gets his wires crossed. 

Jason makes an impatient noise. 

“Want his mouth,” Barnes says bluntly. He watches with a tolerant not-quite-smile as Jason wriggles off Slade’s lap and onto his knees, looking up eagerly. “No, not like that. Jay — straddle him.” 

Slade raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to —” 

“Stay right where you are. Gimme a second.” 

Slade hoists Jason up before he has a chance to move himself, gathering the kid up and settling him on his lap. 

Jason immediately leans in to kiss him, taking deep, hungry tastes of Slade’s mouth. Nimble fingers go for the buttons of Slade’s shirt, undoing halfway down so Jason can get his fingers in the white curls on his chest and grope his pecs. When Slade reaches down to touch him, wrapping his hand around blood-hot silky skin, Jason moans into his mouth, hard and eager and utterly shameless about it.

There’s something about that brazen desire, the way Jason’s so obviously enjoying himself, that gets Slade right in the gut. 

Causing pain doesn’t do it for him, but that response to pain does. Not that Slade doesn’t like it rough every so often — but he can’t ever really turn his full strength on anybody, so rough is always relative. Whether it’s in his nature or he’s just conditioned himself this way, he prefers to take it slow. This is pretty much perfect, between the sultry way Jason’s moving against him and the lush, sensual way he uses that swollen mouth. 

Slade’s half-hard again, too, by the time Barnes grabs Jason’s hair and yanks him forcibly away. He almost laughs out loud at Jason’s indignant, squeaky noise. 

Barnes is directly behind Jason, naked now, and Slade is starting to realize what he has in mind even before Barnes steps backward and tells Jason, “Lean back.” When Jason moves to twist around he smirks (Slade’s needle swings toward turned the fuck on) and says, “Nuh-uh. Not like that. Back.” 

Slade grabs Jason’s wrists pointedly. 

There’s a tiny frown line between Jason’s brows for a moment before they shoot up in surprise, and his voice is unmistakably hungry when he says, “Oh.” 

Then he leans back, and keeps on leaning, until his torso is almost parallel to the ground. Slade’s legs are spread enough that Jason’s not resting on them; his knees are still on the bed, clamped tight on either side of Slade’s hips, and Slade’s got a grip on his wrists to steady him, but he’s showing off, doing the lion’s share of the work with his abs, every single one of them bunched tight and displayed spectacularly. Even he won’t be able to keep that up for long, though, and Slade squeezes his wrists in silent reassurance. 

Barnes, meanwhile, is holding his head in both hands and sliding slowly into his upside-down mouth. His metal thumb strokes the long spidery scar on Jason’s jaw. 

The angle makes it even easier to avoid triggering a gag reflex — if Jason were a normal human who had a gag reflex, which apparently he doesn’t, and so it’s just an absurdly smooth glide before Barnes bottoms out with a grunt of approval. 

Barnes is… not what Slade expected, somehow. He looks healthier than Slade expected, well-fed and thickly muscled, his skin almost golden and smooth. There’s a faint flush that’s crawling down his chest, a barely-there sheen of sweat that makes the sculpted contours of his body glisten. Maybe Slade was just expecting him to be chiseled out of ice and stone. 

Slade searches instinctively for a scar across his stomach, one that would’ve been left by Slade’s own katana so many years ago, but there’s no trace of what he did. 

Around the metal arm, though — that’s more what he imagined. It’s a whorled, knotted mess of shiny scar tissue, pink and white layered with an odd gray in places, scars on top of scars. Some look like uneven stitches; some look like ragged claw marks. Slade’s stomach turns, and he wonders again (wishes he could stop wondering) what Barnes’s breaking point looked like. 

The last thing in the world Slade wants right now is to be caught staring, so he forces himself to drop his gaze to Jason instead. He realizes he can see Barnes in Jason’s throat with every thrust, a distended bulge in the column of pale skin, and for a moment Slade’s fucking riveted by the sight of it, the way he can see every swallow, every moment he struggles, even his pulse fluttering under his skin. 

“Jesus, kid,” he mutters. “Look at you. Fuckin’ incredible.” 

Jason makes a thick, muffled sound like a protest, and Barnes’s mouth drops open as he pushes in so roughly Slade can feel the impact, the way it grinds Jason’s ass down onto his lap. 

“Coulda sat him on your dick first,” Barnes says speculatively, staring down at Jason, whose cock drips onto those spectacular abs in response.  

“All sorts of things we could do with him,” Slade points out, smirking.  

“Think anybody’s tried that before?”

“Upside-down spit roast without him lying on anything? Doubt it’d end well for your standard-issue humans.”

Jason makes a soft, whiny sound next time Barnes lets him gasp in a breath.

Barnes reaches down to finger a pretty pink nipple, pinching lightly at the bud of it, watching the flesh pebble around the glinting silver barbell. He rakes his fingernails down the center of his chest, scratching red lines into the skin that’s shining with sweat, parallel to the scar tissue that runs from bellybutton to breastbone. Jason keens . 

“Got him?” Barnes asks Slade, with a wicked glitter in his eyes, and when Slade nods, he lets go of Jason’s head and pinches both at once, hard now, working the flesh between index finger and thumb in a way that makes Slade wince. Jason almost chokes, and his dick bounces again; Slade can see a vein standing out against smooth, silky skin. 

Barnes sucks in a breath, flushed high on those sharp cheekbones, and growls, “Keep him right there while I come on his tits.” 

He pulls free from Jason’s mouth with a wet, lewd sound, right hand stroking hard and fast as the metal fingers give one more vicious twist. Jason arches like he was electrocuted, crying out so plaintively that Slade’s genuinely concerned for a moment, and Slade has to work to keep him in place as he shudders. The first pulse of it lands right on the scratch marks Barnes left.

Barnes drags the head of his dick over Jason’s lower lip, wiping it clean. Jason’s abs are shaking. Slade's been holding some of his weight, but not all of it, and that's got to be hurting his shoulders by now, but Barnes takes his sweet time; he trails his metal fingers through the mess on Jason's flushed, heaving, sweat-slick chest and feeds it to him before tapping the back of his head in a silent command to sit up. 

Slade helps him lever himself up, tugging him into a sitting position. He blinks in disbelief at the dazed, lopsided smile on Jason's bruised lips. His eyes are more black than teal right now, glassy with tears, and he looks like somebody slipped him E instead of using his face as a Fleshlight. 

“Shit,” Slade laughs, with something like wonder.  

“What?” Jason says. A flicker of self-consciousness scuds across his face like a cloud, and he bites down on his smile, pulling himself together. 

“You’re somethin’ else, kid,” Slade murmurs, and before Jason can protest the nickname, he slides both hands through Jason’s hair and kisses him — kisses the ever-loving hell out of him, all liquefying heat and slow, sultry swipes of his tongue, until Jason’s whimpering and trying to get his jeans unzipped again. 

In his peripherals, he feels more than sees Barnes moving around; it’s eerie, how he slips under Slade’s radar. It shouldn’t be possible. 

Slade runs his hands down Jason’s back and palms his ass, and it’s not until he feels the slightly overheated skin that he remembers. 

“Somethin’ you want?” Slade asks, and nips Jason’s lower lip as he rubs a finger over his hole. 

“Want a lot of things,” Jason says. “A million bucks, a Ducati, world peace. A mayor who’s not corrupt. For goddamn Penguin to quit his bullshit power plays. Also, wouldn’t mind a nice fat dick up my ass.” Jason gives him a shit-eating grin and then ducks to nip at Slade’s jaw, then his neck. He immediately manages to zero in on the sensitive spot under his ear. 

Slade realizes Barnes is standing behind him, looming over the pair of them, wearing a pair of pajama pants and an oddly fond expression. He’s holding a bottle of lube, which he holds out with a raised eyebrow. When Slade extends a hand, Barnes drizzles some on his fingers and then ghosts off on utterly silent footsteps. 

Slade rubs the lube between his index finger and thumb before pressing a fingertip to Jason’s rim, just barely breaching him, and Jason groans, hips jerking. 

“How the hell —” he gasps, as Slade twists his finger in to the first knuckle. 

“Visit from the lube fairy,” Barnes deadpans, tossing the bottle to Slade. Slade’s so poleaxed by the fact that the Winter Soldier made a goddamn joke that if he was anybody else, he wouldn’t get a hand up to catch it in time. Barnes smirks and goes out onto the balcony. 

Slade falls backward, pulling Jason on top of him, and Jason goes easily, rolling his hips so his erection slides against Slade’s stomach. He crooks his finger until Jason’s elbow threatens to give out, and the kid melts down on top of him with a little full-body shiver.

“What do you want?” Jason asks, breathless. He’s rocking between the friction on his dick and the finger in his ass like he can’t decide which one he likes better.  

“Want a lot of things,” Slade says smugly, parroting his own words back at him, and Jason rolls his eyes. “Mostly just wanna make you feel good. Does that feel good?” 

“What does it look like,” Jason snarks. 

“I could watch you fuck yourself on my hand all night,” Slade murmurs. Then he gives him a second finger, pumping them in and out slowly, until Jason’s moaning on every exhale, his kisses more like bites as he gets distracted.  

Jason finally pulls back, flushed deep pink. He lets out a little huff of laughter, like he thinks Slade was kidding. “No, seriously.” He pops the button of Slade’s jeans one-handed, worming a hand down to squeeze his length with a breathy, eager sound. 

“There’s an idea,” Slade muses. “But I’m pretty sure you need a whole lot more stretching before you take that.” 

“I don’t,” Jason insists, before diving in for another bruising kiss. “You could —” 

“Like hell,” Slade says. “I’d split you open.” He’s not prepared for the way Jason moans at that, clenching around his knuckles, velvety and hot and so tight Slade’s worried his fingers are too much, let alone his dick. Slade sucks in a shocked breath and says, “Jesus, you really do like that idea, huh?” 

“What, now you’re surprised I like it rough?” Jason says, and his voice is almost belligerent but his expression goes strangely off-kilter, uncertain. He’s still touching Slade, cupping and rubbing him, but he ducks to hide his face in the crook of Slade’s neck, dragging in rough, unsteady gulps of air. 

“Not a bad thing,” Slade says. 

Jason insists, too quickly, “I know it’s not.” 

He gets a hand around Slade for real now, giving him a stroke, but it’s the first time he’s seemed shy tonight, and Slade wonders if he hit a nerve.  The kid’s been so up-front about what he likes, so shamelessly eager, but — 

“Just want to make you feel good,” Slade says. He starts to pull his fingers away, and Jason whimpers against his mouth, squeezing around his knuckles like he can’t bear the idea of being empty right now.

But there’s no hesitation on his face when he sits up. He shoots Slade a deliberately seductive glance, pulling one swollen lip between his teeth and blinking slowly. “You can fuck me, I swear I can take it, or… fuck my mouth, I don’t care.” 

I don’t care isn’t exactly what Slade wants to hear from a partner. 

“And if I want you right where you are?” Slade says, as gentle as he knows how to be, like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal. The shake in Jason’s voice is barely audible, but it’s alarming for reasons Slade can’t quite place. 

Jason doesn’t answer, just shifts, fumbling with Slade’s zipper. The movement changes the angle of Slade’s fingers as he pumps them in and out slowly, and Jason’s mouth drops open with a punched-out exhale. He leans over to grab the lube and slicks his hand, and then he gives Slade one experimental stroke, then another, studying his reactions — base to tip, wrist twisting, until Slade lets out a low groan and rocks up into his grip. 

“Yeah?” Jason asks, with a tiny, genuine smile, and leans in for a kiss. 

“Sit up for me,” Slade says. “I like lookin’ at you.” He curls his fingers just right, and Jason whimpers as he straightens up, grinding down on Slade’s hand. “Hey, easy. We got time.” 

Jason’s got strong fingers and a whole bunch of calluses Slade doesn’t have, and it’s so close to perfect. But he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself now that he knows Slade is watching him. There’s a strange sort of panic creeping into his face, eyes too bright and breathing too shallow, and something clenches in Slade’s stomach. He grabs Jason’s wrist to stop him as he pulls his fingers free, and Jason closes his eyes, screwing them up like it really does hurt. 

“Don’t stop,” he rasps, rough and strained. “Just — let me? I can be good, I promise.” 

That hits Slade like a sucker-punch. Then Jason opens his eyes, and Slade catches a split-second glimpse of heartbreakingly raw emotion before Jason is tilting forward. He goes for that sensitive spot under Slade’s ear with unerring accuracy, working the skin between his teeth as he twists his fist, and Slade chokes on the reassuring words that were forming on his tongue. 

“Just like that,” he groans instead. “Shit. Believe me, kid, I’m nowhere near done with you.” 

“Good,” Jason says fiercely, and kisses him so hungrily there’s no doubt in Slade’s mind whether he means it — and the little surge of relief he feels sends him over the edge just as much as Jason’s low, gravelly, “Please?” 

Fearsome metahuman or not, Slade probably would’ve been dead a long time ago if it was common knowledge that he could be knocked on his ass by a pretty smile and an above-average handjob. 

He peels his eye open and looks up at Jason, and decides he needs a better vocabulary, because pretty doesn’t begin to cover it. 

He remembers asking Barnes, “What is it about the kid?” and all Barnes could say was, “You’ll see,” and Slade… sees. Before he can open his mouth and say something stupid, he grabs the kid by the hair and reels him in for a kiss, crushing him close in spite of the sticky mess between them. 

Jason rolls his hips pointedly, and there’s a quiet snort from the balcony door. 

“Go get cleaned up, Jay,” Barnes says. “Shower. Now.” 

Jason’s head shoots up, and he glares. “But —” 

“Go on,” Slade tells him, with more warmth than even he expected. 

Barnes flaps a hand, shooing him away with a dangerous little smirk. “Let the grown-ups talk. Clean yourself up. Thoroughly.” He raises a pointed eyebrow, and Jason flushes even darker. 

Jason visibly debates putting up a fuss, but eventually, he just rolls his eyes before standing up, his dick slapping up against his stomach with the movement. He gives himself a little squeeze, watching Barnes as he does so like he’s testing the waters. 

Barnes says, “You really think two guys with super-senses aren’t gonna notice if you get yourself off? We’ll smell it on you, if we don’t hear you first. You’re not subtle, sweetheart.” 

It’s the first time Slade’s heard him use any sort of endearment or pet name, and it’s so acerbic, dripping sarcasm, that it almost sounds more like an insult. 

Jason scowls and heads for the bathroom. The water starts up a few seconds later. 

“Was it something I said?” Slade asks quietly, sitting up and running his fingers through his hair, shrugging out of the shirt, generally trying to get himself together. 

Barnes waits until he hears the faint sound of the shower door opening and closing before he says, “If he asks you what you want, just tell him. Don’t put it on him to decide. Trying to focus on him, make him feel good – that freaks him out. Just give him so much to feel, or do, that he can’t start thinking. That’s when he gets all tangled up.” 

“But…” He trails off, staring at Barnes while Barnes stares at the bathroom door, lost in thought. 

“I forget sometimes,” Barnes says. “That he’s complicated, for other people. He makes sense to me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

There’s no answer for so long that Slade thinks he’s just forgotten what they were talking about. Jason is singing quietly to himself in the shower, surprisingly on-key, a deep resonant voice. Then the words become a hum, muffled — he’s brushing his teeth. Barnes actually smiles at that, genuine and soft. It transforms his entire face. 

Barnes only ever looks like he’s having genuine human emotions when he’s thinking about Jason. 

“We both came back with some things broken, inside. Broken or lost.” He makes a vague gesture at his own bare chest, then his head. “We’re both fighting to get them back. Makes it difficult to understand people who are… whole. Sane. Not fighting. Can’t remember what it’s like.”  

Slade blinks in stunned silence for a few seconds. 

He likes himself, in spite of all the people who seem to think he should feel guilty about his life and his choices. Maybe he shouldn’t be as psychologically stable as he is; maybe the fact that he can be content with all the blood on his hands is, in itself, a sign of insanity. But paradoxical philosophical questions aside, he likes himself, and he’s generally stable, and he can’t imagine being any other way. 

He’s reminded of his missing eye. Civilians (if they dare to mention it at all) act like it was some great loss, something a normal person would mourn or miss. But it wasn’t, and he doesn’t. He doesn't walk around feeling like there's an empty space where pieces of himself should be. 

He’s never lost any part of himself that mattered. 

“Even before he died, though. Jason spent his whole life not getting what he wanted,” Barnes says abruptly, gazing at nothing, with a tiny line between his eyebrows. “Or… not getting to keep it, not without strings attached. Everything was a trade, and he used some pieces of himself as bargaining chips, and this is — I think this is because of that . He forgets, sometimes, that not everybody wants something from him.” 

Slade doesn’t know what to say. For the first time, he thinks he might understand the way civilians act when they see the eye patch: the awkward platitudes they offer in their moments of sympathy, the pity in their expressions, the uselessness of their words. Slade is so far out of his depth right now. 

“Jesus,” Slade mutters, swiping a hand over his face. “How do I fix it? Should I… apologize?”  

“No,” Barnes replies, without hesitating. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and he’s not something for you to fix. Don’t even — don’t acknowledge it in words, just make it clear you’re not angry with him.” 

“He thinks I’d be angry with him?” 

“Frustrated, impatient. Whatever.” He frowns. “I should’ve — explained him. I forget, sometimes, that normal people are used to just feeling good. It’s not complicated for you.” 

Slade very narrowly stops himself from saying, “Yikes.” 

Barnes takes a few steps into the room, and Slade reaches out to intercept him, fingers brushing his forearm before Barnes dodges. Then he stops, and steps closer — a single jerky step that he obviously has to think about. Slade stays seated, and he doesn’t reach out again. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly. He’s not sure what he’s referring to, specifically. Could be a lot of things. 

Thanks for telling me; thanks for looking out for him; thanks for letting me anywhere near him.

“Sure,” Barnes says, quiet and confused, but when his face softens, it’s almost a smile. He glances at the door again. “I’ll go make sure he’s not thinking too hard. Honestly, the best thing you can do for him sometimes is just hurt him. If he’s in enough pain, he stops thinking for a while.”  

And with that, he heads for the bathroom. When he pushes the door open, Slade hears Jason complain, “Ever heard of knocking, asshole?” 

“Do I need to take that soap and wash your mouth out?” Barnes retorts. The door closes. 

Slade puts his head in his hands and releases a long, slow exhale, and reminds himself that it’s important to be realistic about his skill set. He’s never been good at fixing things. Now isn’t the time to start trying. 

But if it’s pain Jason wants, Slade’s an expert.  

Jason’s relatively confident Bucky won’t follow through on the threat to wash his mouth out, so he ignores it. 

He’s got two fingers in his ass and a soapy hand on his dick, and it’s only a (nasty, brutish, and short) lifetime of practice playing it cool under pressure that prevents him from going hand-in-the-cookie-jar guilty-faced. He’s all wound up, his mind racing even faster than his heart, body strung tight with frustration, but he doesn’t even glance over his shoulder as Bucky comes into the shower. 

Bucky sidles up until he’s right behind Jason. He’s close enough that when Jason twists his wrist, his elbow nudges against Bucky’s bare stomach. Jason shivers. 

“Anybody ever tell you you’ve got issues with personal space?” 

“Anybody ever tell you you’re filthy?” Bucky counters, and slides his palm from Jason’s shoulder to his hand, wrapping his hand around Jason’s, squeezing just a little too tight. “Thought you were supposed to be getting clean.”  

“I am,” Jason says innocently, or as innocently as he can manage given the circumstances. His voice is giving him away, husky and unmistakably aroused.

“Need a hand?” Bucky asks. 

“Perfectly capable of washing myself,” Jason says. “Wait, did you just —” 

“Is that what you’re doing?” Bucky uses one fingertip to trace the place where Jason’s fingers disappear into his body, teasing the sensitive stretched-thin skin. “Nothin’ clean about this.” 

Then he presses one of his own metal fingers in next to Jason’s. It’s almost too much, riding right on the edge of painful and pleasurable, right where Jason likes it. He groans at the stretch, loud and shocked. 

“I can’t leave you alone for five goddamn minutes, apparently,” Bucky says, punctuating the words with twitches of his finger, pressing it to Jason’s prostate. “Filthy.” Another, harder; Jason gasps, and his knees threaten to give out. “Can’t even trust you to get clean —” 

He might keep talking, but Jason misses whatever comes next; his vision whites out, and all he can hear is a rushing in his ears as he comes. He lets out a low, fervent curse and tilts forward, resting his forehead on the cool tile until he trusts himself to stand up on his own. 

“That’s twenty,” Bucky says smugly. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Jason actually forgot that time. 

“Honest mistake,” he pants, with absolutely zero expectation that Bucky will believe him. 

Sure enough, Bucky huffs out a laugh. “It was some kinda mistake, that’s for damn sure. But — that can wait. Wanted to talk to you about something.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmm,” Bucky says, and grabs the shampoo. “On your knees.” 

“What? Why? You just got your dick sucked, talk about greedy, god damn.” 

“I’m gonna wash your hair.” 

Jason makes a face. “Why?”

“Because it needs to be washed,” Bucky says bemusedly. “On your knees. Now .” 

“I can do it myself,” Jason insists, bristling for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. 

Bucky grabs him by the hair, yanking roughly. Jason yelps and clings to his wrist, startled; Bucky forces him down, and Jason winces as his knees hit the tile. He has a hard-wired physical response to this, the sting in his scalp and the ache in his knees, but it’s way too soon for that, and the twinge in his dick is more pain than pleasure. 

“Don’t,” Bucky warns, before Jason can complain. “Just listen for five fuckin’ minutes. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Jason hesitates, because on one hand, he’s a disobedient little shit down to his fucking marrow, but on the other hand, Bucky rarely offers rewards. He’s much freer with the stick than the carrot. It might be a good carrot. 

Jason is perfectly willing to admit that he’s the donkey in this situation. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says cautiously. 

“Stay still or this’ll go in your eyes.” 

Jason squeezes them shut, bracing himself for rough, scrubbing fingers, but instead — 

“Oh,” he says quietly, as Bucky’s fingers start to massage shampoo into his scalp. His knees ache, but that — “That’s not so bad.” 

Bucky doesn’t answer, too busy working the shampoo into a lather. There’s something almost sweet about it. If Jason and Bucky weren’t the people they are, he might call it innocent. 

“Don’t need you to take care of me,” he says quietly, embarrassed. 

“You don’t need to get railed into next week by two super-soldiers at once, either,” Bucky mutters. Jason snorts. “But we’re gonna do it anyway. New rule, okay?” 

Jason frowns. They have a couple rules. Some are standard; others are temporary, mission-specific. Bucky doesn’t argue with Jason about Gotham bullshit, for example. Jason doesn’t ask questions about the metal arm. 

“Rule rule? A temporary one, or —” 

“You’re not gonna second guess Slade, or question his motives. Not even in your head. Not tonight. I’m in charge of that shit, okay?” 

Jason shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click. His throat feels tight with sudden panic. “But —” 

“Just for tonight,” Bucky repeats. “Not gonna let him pull anything on you. Tilt your head back for me. There you go.” He shields Jason’s eyes as he starts to slough the bubbles away.  

Jason turns it over in his head a few times, letting the near-hypnotic movement of Bucky’s fingertips lull him into a trancelike state. 

The last time somebody did this for him, he was a kid. Five, maybe? Six? That was around the time his mom got sick and he was expected to do this sort of thing on his own. 

“You want a hand signal?” Bucky asks, and starts finger-combing conditioner through his curls. 

They use hand signals for things that are easier to say when they’re not said out loud. It’s like safewords, except that Jason’s never used his safeword. He likes when Bucky pushes his limits in bed. Not so much in the rest of his life. They’re more like non-negotiable trump cards, a way of determining who gets the last word. 

When Jason makes the ASL symbol for “J,” for Joker, Bucky drops whatever subject they’re talking about (conversation over, no questions asked) until Jason brings it up again. Same with Bucky and the “H” symbol, for Hydra. “Stop” from Jason means that he can’t keep up, that Bucky is doing something his standard-issue-human body can’t handle; from Bucky, it means that Jason is pushing himself too hard and needs to take a break. When he sees that, he has to walk away — from the training mat, or whatever plan he’s been losing sleep over — and just go take a goddamn nap while Bucky keeps watch. 

It’s a good system. It works for them. It took them a while to sort it out; it took a while before Jason decided he could trust Bucky to be honest, to only signal when he actually needed to, and not to use them to just boss Jason around. But now it works. 

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles. 

“You remember S in ASL?” 

Jason does it obediently in front of himself: a fist with the thumb tucked in front of his knuckles. “S for Slade.” 

“If you do that, I’ll figure out what he’s up to and make sure it’s not goin’ somewhere you won’t like… intervene if needed. And you turn the mental detective off and focus on enjoying yourself.” Bucky twists his fingers in Jason’s hair and hauls him bodily to his feet, just pulls him by the hair until he’s standing, and his scalp stings — it hurts in such a perfect way, bright and blinding and real. “If I do it, it means you’re overthinking and you should stop. Sound like a plan?”

Jason nods. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again. 

“Spit it out,” Bucky says dryly, picking up the soap. 

“Why didn’t he want me?” Jason blurts out, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw. 

If it was anybody else, he’d feel like an idiot for needing to ask. 

“He did,” Bucky says simply. “He does. But we’ve got all night, and if he hurt you, he might’ve put you out of commission before he was done with you.”  

Jason exhales. That makes sense. 

Bucky pauses, and then adds matter-of-factly, “He doesn’t enjoy causing pain. Not that he would’ve said no, if you asked him outright — he doesn’t mind it, and I think he’d give you just about anything you asked for — but I don’t think he wants to fuck you until you can take it without pain. A normal amount of pain.” 

It’s another way he and Bucky work with each other. 

Jason’s self-aware enough to realize that he’s fucked in the head, that his trust issues have trust issues, and that sometimes he jumps to the absolute worst conclusions. He refuses to take people at face value, and he assumes that everybody around him is constantly playing mental chess in the same way he does — that everyone is just as manipulative, just as contrary, just as convoluted. 

Bucky, meanwhile, studies people like he’s got them in a slide under a microscope. He’s good at reading body language; he can hear everything people aren’t saying out loud, and he doesn’t have so many feelings that they interfere with his reasoning. Most of the ugly human feelings were frozen out of him. It’s incredibly helpful sometimes — incredibly irritating other times, and Jason wishes Bucky didn’t have such an easy time reading him. But when Jason starts spiraling, he can ask Bucky to double-check his logic. 

As a kid, he would let something slip, make an assumption based on his own experiences, and then Alfred and Bruce and Dick would give him those awful, pitying looks that made him realize that his experiences weren’t actually normal — that he was, in fact, pretty fucking fucked up. Jason hates being pitied more than just about anything. 

But Bucky doesn’t seem to be capable of pity; as he’s pointed out, it’s not like anybody’s sob story can compete with his own, so Jason doesn’t have to worry about getting one of those looks. 

Jason’s aware that they’re both pretty fucked up. Luckily, between the two of them, they balance each other out enough to make one mostly-functional human. 

“All clear?” Bucky asks. When Jason opens his eyes, he’s completely still, just watching, eyelashes spiky with water, lips red. 

Jason nods. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Bucky smirks, attitude shifting almost immediately, and he says at his usual volume, “Wilson.” 

Shit. Jason almost forgot that they weren’t alone, and he wonders what the odds are that Slade overheard some of that. They were both talking quietly, and the water covers most of the noise, but — 

“Stop that,” Bucky says, and Jason takes a deep breath, making a conscious effort to relax. 

The bathroom door creaks slightly as it opens. When Jason glances over his shoulder, Slade is leaning against the frame, watching them. There’s a funny look on his face, almost sad, but maybe that’s a trick of the steamy shower glass. He ditched his clothes, leaving him in nothing but a tight black pair of Saxx boxer-briefs. Jason takes a moment to enjoy the view. 

“Twenty this time, right?” Slade says, with a little smirk. 

Right. That. 

“How did you —” 

“You get loud when you’re about to come,” Slade points out. “Come here.” 

“Pretty good where I am, actually,” Jason says, grinning. “Gettin’ nice and clean.” 

“Get your ass out here, kid,” Slade says, in a way that sends a perverse thrill up Jason’s spine. It’s stern, scolding, the tone of voice that hits a kink Jason really hates to acknowledge. He wanted to hate the way Slade keeps calling him kid, but he’s starting to enjoy it in spite of himself. Brat , too. Sometimes Slade makes it sound like an endearment, and sometimes it’s a reprimand, and Jason’s not sure which he likes better. 

Bucky gives him a pointed shove toward the door, tilting his head back to wash his own hair. Jason heaves a put-upon sigh. 

Slade laughs and tosses Jason a towel. Then he just watches as Jason dries himself with rough, careless movements. His gaze rakes up and down Jason’s body, making him feel off-kilter and exposed. 

It’s like the way he was staring earlier; not visibly disgusted, at least, and not staring at the scars in particular, just… looking. Like he’d look at a painting in a museum. But Jason’s pretty goddamn far from a work of art. 

In his experience, when men want him they’ll reach out and touch , instead of smiling and staring and keeping their distance. He doesn’t know what to do with the way Slade looks at him. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Jason asks. 

“You.” 

Jason frowns, but before he can say anything else, Slade closes the distance in one long step; he shoves Jason back against the counter, hard enough that the edge of it digs into his ass, and captures his mouth in a rough, dirty kiss. He’s like a fucking wall of tan skin and solid muscle, right in Jason’s personal space, keeping him trapped, and it rouses the familiar spark of fear-anger-fight in his chest, pure and wild. 

Now that’s something Jason knows what to do with. 

His mind is already racing, calculating whether he wants to fight or flee or flirt his way out, trying to figure out the likelihood of escape (if he did escape, would Slade care enough to chase him?) and the best way to push Slade’s buttons, the surest way of getting a reaction — getting what he wants, without having to admit what he wants. 

He bites down on Slade’s lip, sharp and sudden, and tastes copper. 

Slade pulls back, big palms cradling Jason’s jaw, and gives him an infuriatingly unbothered half-smile. The split is already closing up. “Turn around.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jason retorts. 

“Yeah, clearly you hate being told what to do,” Slade drawls, glancing down pointedly. Bucky’s quiet laugh echoes off the shower tile. “Do you want me to go easy on you, or do you want to keep being a brat?”

Slade’s thumb is stroking back and forth over his scar. Jason swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and he knows Slade can feel it.

When he doesn’t get an answer, Slade slides one hand down to curl around Jason’s throat and force his chin up, looming over him so Jason’s forced to bend backwards, trapped against the counter. Jason can’t help it — he whimpers, and his cock twitches. 

Before Slade can comment, Jason flutters his lashes and says, “What are you waiting for?” 

“I was waiting for Barnes to come out so he can watch,” Slade says. 

Jason glances sideways for a split-second, realizing that the water isn’t running any more, and Slade takes advantage of the distraction to grab his arm and wrench him around, bending him over so quickly that Jason almost breaks his nose on the countertop. He catches himself just in time. 

Jason hears the crack a split-second before the pain sets in, flaring bright and sharp. It’s followed by the heat blossoming under his skin, pooling in his gut, pulsing between his legs. 

He struggles to get his arms under himself, to brace himself, but it’s pointless, because the next one makes his arms give out completely.  

The intensity of it doesn’t leave room for anything else. Fear, anger, memories. All the other men, all the other fights. Too many memories; they get mixed in sometimes. But right now there’s just his body, and the pain, and the certainty that if he’s still fighting and still hurting, then he must still be alive. 

He takes a deep breath and fights his way up all over again, and he manages to lift his head enough to get a glimpse of Bucky’s sharp, sparkling eyes in the steamy mirror. 

“He can take it,” Bucky tells Slade coolly. 

Jason’s smiling when the next blow lands. 

Chapter Text

Bucky wasn’t always like this. 

When he digs around the dark dusty corners of his brain, it becomes clear how much he’s changed. His memories of sex are fuzzy like fading sepia-toned portraits: laughter and flirting, girls dancing and flushed, guys following him behind the bar with the giddy closeness that comes from sharing something forbidden. It was always sweet, though. 

He doesn’t remember hurting anyone. He doesn’t remember wanting to. 

But Bucky watches Slade hurt Jason, and he wants. He gets harder with every sharp smack of Slade’s palm, with every flinch and whimper and bitten-off curse. He can’t take his eyes off the deep red flush that’s blazing across the skin of Jason’s ass and thighs. 

Jason’s trembling, half-collapsed with his forearms braced on the bathroom counter and his face hidden in the crook of one elbow. His voice breaks when he tells Slade to hit him harder, goading and teasing and demanding. But he’s still coherent, still mostly on his feet, which means he’s not there yet, not in the broken stripped-down state that Jason once likened to a rebirth. He says it’s like scraping off his skin, washing the guilt and shame away, scrubbing until he’s raw, and emerging a hundred pounds lighter — if a bit fragile. 

Bucky suspects that baptism’s not supposed to feel the same as self-flagellation, but what does he know? 

Bucky doesn’t feel shame or guilt any more. Jason carries around so much of those that Bucky’s amazed they haven’t crushed him. There can’t be room for air in his lungs with all that weight sitting on his chest. 

“That’s fifteen,” Bucky says softly. 

Slade pauses. Jason’s sigh sounds more like a sob. He spreads his legs wider, shifting his weight uncomfortably. 

Bucky has to do the same where he’s leaning back against the bathroom wall. He’s still wearing nothing but a towel around his hips, and he’s not really sure why he’s bothering to keep it on when his dick seems so determined to poke a fucking hole in the cotton. 

His modesty was one of the first things Hydra tortured out of him. But he knows most people would be uncomfortable with a naked, erect cyborg hovering over their shoulder in a small bathroom that was not built to hold this much muscled man, and Bucky can see that he makes Slade uncomfortable even when he’s fully clothed, and so he’s standing out of the way and covering his junk. He’s polite like that. 

Slade runs his knuckles down Jason’s ass and thighs, brushing fever-flushed skin — checking on him. Assessing the damage.  

It’s not that Bucky questions his accuracy, his ability to hit the perfect places with the perfect amount of force — Slade’s a goddamn professional, and his legendary precision and self-control are part of what made Bucky decide he was okay with this. But he can practically feel the rosy heat of Jason’s body under his own palm; he’s felt it, he knows it, he wants it. Jason whimpers, and Bucky’s fingers twitch in spite of himself. 

Slade must see the movement in the mirror, or in his peripheral vision, because he turns to look at Bucky. His hand is still resting on Jason’s back, between his shoulderblades. It’s exactly the sort of soothing weight Jason needs right now. 

Slade is good at this. Sweet. 

“Five more,” Bucky says sharply. 

Slade’s wrist snaps before Bucky’s mouth has fully closed, too fast for Jason to brace himself, and this time he flinches, his entire body twisting up, as he slams a palm down on the counter; it makes a sharp, shockingly loud noise that doesn’t do anything to cover up Jason’s shout, or the way it turns into a moan. 

Bucky bites his lip and crosses his arms tightly, resisting the urge to step forward and press his cock between the hot, rosy cheeks of Jason’s ass — or maybe the urge to reach out and leave a handprint of his own. Either way, he wants to hear Jason shout like that again. 

The next three hits are quick and deceptively light, but they’re on sensitive spots, and Jason’s starting to lose control, gasping and shuddering with every impact. 

God knows Slade isn’t hitting him with his full strength, but Bucky wonders what that would look like — what it would feel like — and heat surges in his veins, pulses between his legs, hot and thrilling. 

By the time number twenty lands, Bucky’s so fucking hard that the brush of damp terrycloth on his hyper-sensitive skin feels like a form of torture, and Bucky of all people would know. He closes his eyes and tries to think about anything else. When he opens them again, Slade is bent over Jason, rubbing his shoulder soothingly, murmuring praise in a gentle voice. 

Bucky sucks in a breath that feels like a knife in his lungs. In the mirror, his eyes look like bottomless pits, hungry and dangerous behind the damp locks of hair that have fallen in his face. He slips away before either of them can look at him. 

When the door closes behind him, he leans his forehead against the wall and just breathes for a moment. 

He considers going back into the bathroom to rescue his sweatpants, but then he hears a low, decadent moan, and he decides to get a clean pair from the dresser instead. He’s not sure what he’ll do if he has to face the two of them together right now. He might combust. 

Bucky knows the way he feels about Jason isn’t normal. 

He thinks most people would consider it obsessive, bordering on insane. He sure as fuck feels insane most of the time.

He doesn’t remember feeling this way about anyone Before. He remembers caring about a lot of different people, before, but none of them with this single-minded ferocity. 

Maybe it’s just that the way he feels about Jason feels too intense when compared to the way he feels about everything else — which is to say, nothing at all. 

The incident with Steve shattered Hydra’s control over him, but once the shock of free will wore off, he was left numb. He didn’t feel anything beyond fear of recapture. He had some of the basic human drives, of course — food, shelter, sleep… sex took longer than those three to return, but for the most part, his survival drives were functional. 

The thing that was missing was the emotion. Shame and anger and loss. Loneliness. Guilt. Caring, wanting. Bucky was just numb, really. Cold. Until Jason found him. 

Jason burns so goddamn bright; it’s like he has so much fire that Bucky can borrow some of it, steal a spark, warm his hands by the flames. Bucky started to train him, and Bucky started to feel again. Started to thaw. 

Jason’s all fire, pure heat and life and emotion. He cares too much. Hurts too much. Wants too much, too many things, all these conflicting desires at once, so much aching want that when they met, Bucky wondered how one person could hold it all without losing their mind. 

As it turned out, Jason maybe was losing his mind a little bit. The way he tells it, he was never exactly stable, but it was worse after the Pit. He went down an empty shell and came up a volatile, seething mess of pain, only barely held together by scar tissue and rage. 

The opposite of a baptism. Instead of being reborn pure and clean and new, all sin washed away, the Pit burned off what little innocence and optimism Jason had left, until nothing but the hellfire remained. 

They both have complicated relationships with the concept of rebirth. 

Bucky came back different. Warped. Twisted and strange. His sex drive came back different too. 

The only benefit is that the shame and shyness and guilt he used to feel about sex never returned. He has a memory of shame, but he doesn’t feel it. 

So he’s not ashamed of what gets him off these days, but he has a vague idea that he should be. Those sweet shy memories from Before don’t spark anything, but watching Jason cry out in pain makes him want. It’s like a glowing ember in his gut, and the memories of guilt, in comparison, are like mist evaporating with a little sizzle as it hits coals — nowhere near enough to dampen the heat. 

And for a while he could write it off, blame it on Jason, because that was what Jason asked for, and the way Bucky feels about Jason is a goddamn wildfire. Being around him in any capacity feels like self-immolation, whether Bucky’s kissing him or fucking him or beating him until he cries. 

But he’s starting to realize that the nasty impulses he feels aren’t necessarily just about Jason. 

Bucky imagines Slade holding him down, holding that sword to his throat, pulling his head back by the hair and resting that lethal edge against his skin until it started to bleed, and — 

Oh, Christ, he thinks, and squeezes the base of his dick, carefully thinking about nothing at all, until he can move without coming in his pants.

Then he goes out into the kitchen and sticks his head in the freezer and just breathes. 

When he finally gets himself together and goes back into the bathroom, Jason’s right where Bucky left him — sort of. He’s still got his forearms resting on the sink, at least. 

Slade’s kneeling behind him, but he’s such a goddamn giant that he’d have to bend to get his tongue in Jason’s ass. Instead Jason’s all folded up, almost like he’s on all fours, except Slade’s holding Jason’s legs in place; Jason’s basically kneeling on Slade’s palms. It means he’s all spread open, exposed, but it also means he’s essentially helpless. He’s only steady because Slade is holding him in a rock-solid grip. Wriggling and fighting isn’t going to get him anything but the risk of falling on his face and braining himself on the counter. 

Jason squirms like he’s trying to look back at Bucky, but Slade gives him a sharp little jerk and Jason has to put all his energy into holding still. 

“Motherfucker,” Jason gasps. 

In response, Slade nips the curve of Jason’s ass, and Jason lets out a sound that’s equal parts indignant squeal, pained whine, and moan. His muscles are trembling. 

“Shut up and stay still,” Slade says, deeply amused. 

Huh. Bucky’s impressed, in spite of himself. 

Slade does something with his tongue that makes Jason groan. Then he pulls back and scoops Jason up in one smooth movement, shifting his grip and his weight and then standing fluidly, without giving Jason a chance to adjust; Slade ends up with Jason’s back against his chest, his hands under Jason’s thighs, pressing Jason’s knees back against his torso so he’s almost folded in half. 

But Jason’s legs are still spread, exposing him, and when Slade stands, he’s facing the mirror. Jason takes one look and his cheeks go as scarlet as his… well, cheeks. 

“Look at you,” Slade says, spreading his knees even wider, tilting him back to give him a better view. He’s a hell of a sight: red thighs and ass framing his hard dick, his balls drawn up tight, and the shadowy pucker of his hole slick and messy with spit. Jason squirms at being so exposed — but he can’t go anywhere, can’t move, can’t escape, not with Slade’s hands hooked under his knees, spreading him open. 

“What do you think?” Slade asks, and turns to face Bucky with a wicked smile — Jason still on display in his arms. This close, Bucky’s extremely aware of the size difference between them, the way Slade towers over him and the ease with which he holds Jason. 

Someday Bucky would like to fight him, one on one, no weapons or armor or rules. They might be evenly matched, but even if Slade couldn’t beat him, he could probably do some damage, and the thought thrills Bucky in a way he needs to think about at another time. 

“Not a bad view,” Bucky says softly. 

He reaches out, brushing the inflamed skin at the top of Jason’s thigh; it’s just as hot as he knew it would be. He traces down, teasing at his hole, pressing two fingers in experimentally. Jason’s spine arches, making him bow up and strain against Slade’s hold. 

“Probably should have more prep before he takes that tree trunk you call a dick,” Bucky says, and ignores Jason’s little whine of protest. 

“Probably a good idea. Take him for me while I brush my teeth?” Slade asks, and deposits him unceremoniously in Bucky’s arms. 

“Gotta be kidding me right now,” Jason says, but he wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist like an overgrown koala. He’s way too goddamn tall to be carried around like this; they must look ridiculous. 

Jason tucks his face down against the curve of Bucky’s neck, mouth pressed to the skin, and clings. Slade gives Bucky a curious glance. Maybe he can hear how fast Bucky’s heart just started beating. 

Barnes is still really goddamn unnerving, but Slade’s starting to understand the appeal. 

At first, he wasn’t sure what the fuck Jason saw in him. Jason always struck him as borderline feral, a barely-tamed creature who’d spook if he was approached too quickly — who’d lose his soul in captivity. Barnes, icy and flat and emotionless, seemed like exactly the kind of cold steel that could break a wild animal all too easily. He seemed like a goddamn psychopath. 

And maybe, if Slade’s being honest with himself, it wasn’t just interest in Jason or his pretty mouth that made Slade sign on for a threesome with two of the most dangerous men this side of Nanda Parbat — two of the most dangerous men other than himself, that is. He might’ve been a little bit worried about Jason, once he put it together that Red Hood was the former Robin. 

He went digging, found combat footage of Jason as Hood, and didn’t like what he found; he barely recognized this Jason, with his razor-sharp aggression and immoveable muscle. Robin used to throw himself into fights with his teeth bared in a snarling smile, so full of kinetic joy that it was hard not to smile right back at him. 

Slade couldn’t help but wonder whether Barnes was to blame for some of the changes he saw. He wanted to decide for himself whether Barnes should be allowed anywhere near the kid. 

Now Slade wonders whether he should be allowed anywhere near the kid. He’s starting to think that it’d be all too easy to do irreparable damage with a few careless words. 

Jason threw himself into sex the same way he always threw himself into fights, reckless and eager and single-minded, and with zero regard for his own well-being. He’s got a pathological desire to please and a breathtaking lack of respect for his own limits; he’s the sort of fighter who’d bleed out before admitting he was injured. Slade stripped him naked and realized he’s one big open wound under all that armor. 

He’s starting to realize exactly how much energy Barnes puts into taking care of Jason, and doing so without letting Jason know what he’s doing. This whole thing would’ve been a disaster without Barnes and his cool, steady directions. 

It’s more than that, though. The more Slade pays attention, the more he notices the intensity of the expressions that do flit across Barnes’s face — fizzing to life and then disappearing just as quickly, inconsistent but full of potential, like misfired electric signals that spark unpredictably. 

Now, for example, as he pins Jason’s wrists to the mattress with one hand and works him open with the other, Barnes has an inhuman, all-consuming hunger in his eyes. Jason throws his head back, mouth open in a silent red O, and Barnes stares down at him like he wants to devour everything he sees… but then Jason looks up at him, fluttering his lashes, biting his lip, and Barnes gives him this tiny, sweet smile. He releases Jason’s wrists, shoulders rolling as he settles closer to kiss him, and Jason’s hands come up to clutch at his back, his sides, every part he can reach. 

They look good together. 

“Barnes,” Slade says quietly, and both heads snap around to look. Barnes blinks at him, licking his lips, for all the world like a predator crouched over its fallen prey, about to sink his teeth in. Slade forgets what he was going to say. Instead he blurts out, “Do you want to fuck him first?” 

“Hm?” Barnes does something with his hand that makes Jason arch his back, chest heaving as he lets out a pained, barely-there sound. He turns to watch Jason’s reaction as he does it again. 

“Show me what he likes,” Slade offers. 

“You do have a reputation for thorough planning,” Barnes says, deadpan. “Wouldn’t want to go in unprepared.”

“Are you seriously doing a recon mission on my ass right now?” Jason grouches. 

Slade barks out a laugh. “Never hurts to know what you’re working with. Besides, if you could see the pair of you right now — yeah. I want to watch.” 

“Want to watch me open him up for you? Get him nice and messy?” Barnes asks, and the words are for Slade but he’s watching Jason, who whines low in his throat. 

Then Barnes goes blank again, suddenly and completely. Slade almost misses that too-intense animalistic hunger. 

“Two things,” Barnes says softly. “One — do your limits apply to me, too?” 

“Come again?” 

“If I asked you to hurt me,” he says. “Would you?” 

“Hurt you ?” Slade asks.

“Yeah,” Barnes says, and there’s no embarrassment on his face, but there’s nothing else either. 

Slade hesitates, but he remembers (all too well) the first time they met. He cut the guy open with a goddamn sword, and there’s no trace of it now. How much damage could he really do? 

“Yeah, alright,” he says huskily. 

Barnes nods. “Also — think we’re probably at a point where you can call me by my first name.” 

Slade barks out a laugh. “Sorry, you’re right. I just… can’t quite seem to think of you as a Bucky.” 

“Fair enough.” Barnes — Bucky — the Soldier — sits back on his heels, ignoring Jason’s protest, and tilts his head to stare. A slow smile curls the corners of his mouth, and Slade wonders if this is a glimpse at the person he used to be, the charming rakish hero whose real smile he’s only seen in museums. “You can call me James.” 

“That’ll work,” Slade says, with a smile of his own. 

“I don’t give a shit if you call him Princess Sparkle the Third, so long as somebody fucks me,” Jason says irritably.

Quick as a flash, James grabs his left knee and half-flips him so he’s twisted at the waist, and with his other hand, he delivers a smack to the flushed curve of Jason’s ass, hard enough to make the meat of it jiggle at the impact. 

“Fuck,” Jason gasps, his entire body twitching, and Slade winces in sympathy. 

He wanted to go easy on the kid, but he had a feeling the gentleness would’ve bruised his ego worse than the handprints bruised his skin… and it is bruising, dots of red and purple dappling the flesh like pinpricks under the generalized red glow. 

“Behave,” James tells him, with a wicked little smirk. 

“Not really my thing,” Jason retorts. 

Slade wonders how much it’ll take before he stops arguing, stops fighting, stops making this harder for himself — because that’s what he keeps doing; fighting tooth and claw when it’s clear that all he wants is to roll over and show his belly in surrender. To be cared for. 

Barnes — James — gives him a wolfish, promising look and then leaves him there on his own while he gets up from the bed. Jason props himself up on one arm, scowling, and he’s clearly about to say something bitchy when he decides to watch instead, curious. 

There’s a funny little moment where James’s expression fritzes out, goes blank, then confused, like he’s wondering how he got there… but then he steps into Slade’s space anyway, shoulders squared. He surges up on his tiptoes, and Slade meets him halfway. 

The first kiss is more like a bite, rushed and frantic. James pulls away with a little puzzled frown line in his forehead. The second one is fucking electric, bruising in the best way, and Jason makes a soft punched-out noise from the bed, sounding just as overwhelmed as Slade feels. 

“Yeah, okay,” James says decisively, as he steps back. Slade has no idea what was just decided, but he follows when he’s gestured over to the bed. 

He sits, back to the headboard, and watches as James slicks himself perfunctorily before he crawls up the bed, caging Jason in all over again. He gets his hands under Jason’s thighs, wrapping them around his waist, and the kid snakes his arms around his neck. James lifts him in one smooth movement, sitting back on his heels. 

Slade can see his fingers digging into flesh, metal and flesh alike, as he lifts and lowers Jason, setting him down on his dick like he weighs all of five pounds. Jason lets out a desperate, ragged cry, muscles in his back bunching and rippling as he tenses up. 

“Shit,” Jason groans, squirming as he’s lifted and adjusted and bounced like he’s a goddamn doll instead of six-foot-whatever of solid assassin-grade muscle.

The two of them are forehead-to-forehead, and James says something Slade can’t hear, and he holds his breath. 

“Enjoying the view?” James says hoarsely, glancing at Slade over Jason's shoulder, smiling. “Or — do you want to see his face right now?” 

"Yeah," Slade says, mouth dry. 

After a moment of calculation, James scoots back on the bed a bit, then tips Jason onto his back, which puts the kid’s head next to Slade’s thigh as he arches his back and moans. James pulls out, adjusts his grip, and flips Jason onto his stomach. 

Jason whimpers, eyes squeezed shut. He braces himself on his forearms and arches his spine prettily, and Slade has a perfect close-up view of the way his red mouth drops open as Barnes presses in behind him. 

“God damn,” Slade says quietly, and the kid’s eyes snap up to look at him, wide and soft. 

Then James bends forward, draping his body over Jason’s for a moment. He wraps the metal arm around Jason’s ribs, gets the other in his hair, and sits up abruptly, taking Jason with him, so that Jason’s up on his knees. 

James sets a steady, even rhythm, and Jason shivers, clutching at the metal arm like he’s trying to keep his balance, even though James is so solid and steady that there doesn’t seem to be any chance of him faltering. 

Yeah, that’s a hell of a view. Jason’s flushed and shining with sweat, beads of it starting to gather and trickle down his breastbone between the swells of his pecs. The sight of his weeping dick slapping back against his belly with every impact, flushed nearly purple, makes Slade’s own cock throb.

He lets out a low, appreciative hum, which seems to remind Jason that they have an audience. He gives Slade a heavy-lidded smile and reaches down to touch himself, only for James to say a sharp, “Nuh-uh,” and grab his wrist. Jason moans as his arm is pinned behind his back. 

“Fuck,” Slade breathes, taking in the picture they make. 

“C’mere and hold him,” James grunts, slowing down to a steady, rolling movement, holding back with obvious effort, and it takes Slade a moment to process that he’s talking to him. 

“What —” 

“Grab him by the throat. Both hands. Hold him in place.” 

Slade hisses out a breath. “You sure that’s —” 

“Do it,” James snaps. 

Slade kneels in front of Jason, facing him, barely inches between their knees on the bed. He reaches out tentatively with one hand, curling his fingers around sweaty corded muscle and feverish skin. Jason clutches at Slade’s wrist with his free hand, tight enough to bruise, or it would be if Slade could bruise. 

Then Barnes grabs Jason’s other arm and pins both of them behind his back. The kid squeezes his eyes shut with a whimper, biting his swollen lip. 

Slade wraps his other hand around Jason’s throat, feeling the blood pounding against the skin, the muscles working as he strains and struggles to get oxygen. Jason manages to drag his eyes half-open for just a moment, giving Slade a glimpse of bright glassy teal around blown-huge pupils, but he looks gone. 

James’s free hand roams Jason’s skin, tormenting whatever sensitive spots he can find. His fingernails rake scratches up Jason’s thigh, across his hip, anywhere he can dig his fingers in, leaving bright red lines. 

“Hurts,” Jason says, but it sounds more like a moan than a complaint.  

“And we all know how much you hate being hurt,” James drawls, without stopping. He grinds in deep, and Jason’s eyes roll back in his head. 

Slade’s seen Jason fight as Robin and Red Hood alike. He knows exactly how strong the kid is, exactly how lethal he is when he wants to be; he’s not sure he’s ever seen somebody with that sort of strength relinquish it, give themselves up, let themselves be vulnerable. Not like this. Not willingly. 

“Jesus, kid, you look so fuckin’ good like this,” Slade whispers, tightening his fingers, and Jason makes a high, reedy sound.

“Gonna remember your manners this time?” James says. A hitch in the last word is the only sign of exertion; he’s still fucking into Jason like a machine, precise as a metronome, and Slade is starting to see where those thigh muscles came from. “Touch him.” 

Slade drops one hand to Jason’s cock; the angle is awkward enough that he can’t get much leverage, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He squeezes with both hands and then loosens them again, and Jason thrusts wildly into his fingers at the same time as he drags in a desperate breath. His eyes roll back, and his mouth drops open soundlessly. 

 “Don’t you dare,” James growls — which is all the warning Slade gets before Jason comes, shuddering. He doubles over like he was punched in the gut, or he tries to; Slade still has a hand around his throat, and all Jason manages to do is choke himself further, twisting up in Slade’s grip and practically convulsing with the release. 

“Guess we’ll see if thirty helps the lesson sink in,” James says. He fucks in hard again, and Jason lets out a low, raspy moan. “Oughta make you lick up your mess first.” 

 It isn’t much of a mess, a few weak spurts that mostly ended up on Slade’s bare stomach, but he can’t really find it in himself to care, not when he’s got a trembling, panting Jason in his hands. The kid’s fucking gorgeous . Slade could watch him for days, especially when he’s like this, every bit of tension and rage draining out of him. 

Slade feels like he’s cradling something dangerously fragile, easily destroyed, like a goddamn newborn kitten or an exceptionally sensitive homemade bomb. 

Jason drags his eyes open with what looks like real effort; he’s all dreamy and unfocused, smiling up at Slade. Slade shifts closer, keeping one hand around his throat, sliding the other up to his jaw, and kisses him. James slows just enough that it’s a kiss and not an awkward clash of teeth. His movements are precisely controlled, steady, but Slade can still feel the impact of every thrust through Jason’s body. 

Slade is about to let go, but at the first sign he’s loosening his grip, Jason whines low in his throat. 

“Just gonna get clean. Be right back.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Jason says, with a drunken little giggle. “Sorry ‘bout that.” 

“Are you, though?” 

A beat. Jason smirks. James still has his wrists pinned at the small of his back, and Jason is arching his spine, squirming, rocking back to meet every thrust as he bats his lashes at Slade. 

“Jesus, kid, you’re somethin’ else,” Slade murmurs, and kisses him one more time before he moves away. 

He grabs a tissue from the nightstand, but he can’t stop staring. 

James shoves Jason down to the mattress, still holding his arms behind his back so his weight lands on his chest and his cheek. Then James lets go of his wrists, and Slade can see the way he whimpers and twists uncomfortably as blood flows through the stiff muscles of his shoulders. But he doesn’t have time to breathe, or to get his weight up on his hands. All he can do is clutch at the sheet on either side of his head, gripping it in his fists, as James starts to fuck him harder. 

He picks up the pace until it’s brutally fast, sharp vicious thrusts that slap against Jason’s ass and jolt him up the bed. Without stopping, James smacks the side of Jason’s thigh, and Jason shouts, his entire body tensing. 

Slade slides onto the bed, scooting over until Jason’s face is barely an inch away from his thigh. He lounges back against the headboard and runs his fingers through Jason’s hair, the curls at the nape of his neck, where the fine tendrils are damp with sweat, then back up, until he can get a good grip, twisting his fingers in and tugging. Jason groans, long and heartfelt, pulling against his hold to strain forward and nuzzle the side of Slade’s thigh. 

“Fuck,” James breathes, rough and choppy. “Will you — hit me.” 

Slade freezes for a moment. Jason has worked up enough motor power to grope him, cupping and squeezing through the fabric, and it’s immensely distracting, but also — 

“Hit me,” James repeats, with a wild, unhinged need in his eyes and an edge of desperation in his voice. 

Slade slaps him on the cheek, hard enough that his head snaps to the side with a crack , and James sucks in a breath and lets out a crazed, raspy moan of approval. Slade backhands him, gets the other cheek, and he looks absolutely blissful, lips curling in a real smile as he shudders. 

“Fuck, yeah,” he sighs, and his hips stutter, rhythm faltering for the first time as he lets out another ragged sound. “Again.” 

Slade hesitates for just a split-second before giving him a quick right hook to the mouth. He feels teeth split his knuckles, sees blood spatter from a split lip. 

“Fuck,” James breathes, and his eyes roll back in his head as he bites down on the open wound. Then, “Ah, fuck ,” he repeats, and comes, shuddering, with blood still dripping down his chin.  

Jason can barely see straight. He twists his fingers in the sheets and tries to stop panting, all too aware of the way he’s drooling. 

“Shit,” Slade rumbles, petting at Jason’s curls absently. He leans over Jason’s bowed head to kiss Bucky; Jason can hear the slick wet sound of it, and it twists him up inside with heat and jealousy. 

Bucky pulls out slowly, and Jason tries not to sob at the sudden emptiness. “Stay there,” he orders Jason. 

“Yeah, right,” Jason chokes out, and tries to sit up instead. Bucky’s metal hand plants between his shoulders and folds him forward again, and a moment later, it’s replaced by Slade’s hand, bigger and warmer and just as strong. Jason shivers. 

“For once in your goddamn life,” Slade chuckles. “Stay down.” 

“Fuck that,” Jason says, swallowing the lump in his throat.  

He can’t bring himself to open his eyes yet, but he strains to listen to Bucky, trying to figure out what he’s doing — sounds like he’s at the nightstand, and Jason’s stomach swoops. A moment later, he hears barely-there footsteps and feels the mattress dip with Bucky’s weight again. 

“Spread yourself open for me,” Bucky says calmly. “Let me see.” 

Jesus. Jason feels like he’s on fire, skin crawling and stomach squirming and nerves singing. 

“Do you want more, or not?” Slade says. His voice is deep and resonant, and something about the way Slade looks at him, talks to him — the sternness of it — is setting off alarm bells in Jason’s gut. It’s one of those paternal things that comes with the heavy weight of expectations and the promise of pride or disappointment, depending on whether Jason can live up to them.

Jason’s shoulders heave as he takes a deep breath, and then he reaches back, grabbing his own cheeks, spreading himself, skin prickling with feverish heat. 

There’s a slight pressure, not quite enough to feel like a stretch on the puffy, over-sensitized rim of his hole, and he grinds his teeth, refusing to make a sound as the toy slides into place. It doesn’t feel like his plug — maybe a little slimmer overall, a little less flare to it — and he shifts, clenching around it, shuddering. 

“What’sit,” he manages. 

“Something to keep you nice and wet and ready, for when Slade’s done hitting you and wants to fuck you,” Bucky says casually, and a thrill goes up Jason’s spine. “Assuming he decides you’ve earned it. Thirty this time.” 

“C’mere,” Slade says, but manhandles Jason into place without waiting for him to move, and god, Jason’s so fucking into that. 

He lets himself be hauled into position again, but this time it’s better, because he’s draped over Slade’s lap but he can rest his weight easily on the bed and hide his face under his arms. He can even roll his hips and grind against the hard muscle of Slade’s thigh, and holy fuck, he already had a dangerous thing for those thighs, but it’s going to be so much worse now; he’s not going to be able to watch Slade fight in that tight uniform without watching his thighs and getting hard under his cup.

Shit. He’s going to have to fight Slade again someday. 

Before he can think too hard about that, he shoves away the weird squirming anxiety in his belly and says, “Just get it over with already.” 

Then Slade’s palm comes down, and Jason shouts . 

He maybe didn’t think about what it would mean, to wait between beatings. Not that Bucky wasn’t sparking up a little pain with every brutal thrust, his hips smacking against Jason’s ass, but that was different, a more diffuse sort of pain. This is targeted and precise, and at this point, there’s no part of Jason’s ass and thighs that haven’t taken a hit tonight, which means that every precisely targeted slap lands on top of the throbbing reminder of another one, multiplying the pain exponentially. 

But it’s still just pain, right? Jason can take it. Pain has never been a problem for him. 

“Gonna behave, Jay?” 

“Nah,” Jason says, and almost chokes on his tongue at the next hit. 

“We’ll see,” Bucky says, with a low note of amusement that sends up a warning signal in the back of Jason’s mind. 

Jason can pinpoint his voice as coming from the vicinity of his feet, next to Slade, where he’ll have a perfect view of Jason’s ass as the new set of handprints start to show on his skin, but it sounds like he’s very far away; maybe Jason’s just having trouble tuning into reality. 

“Ten,” Bucky says. 

Then Slade’s hand comes down again, and at the same moment the impact rattles Jason’s teeth in his skull, the toy in his ass buzzes to life, pulsing with a staccato rhythm.

“Fuck,” Jason yelps, clenching automatically around it and arching his spine, which only presses it against his prostate and makes his dick jerk painfully under him. “Fuck! Oh, Jesus, what the fuck?” 

“Miracle of modern technology,” Bucky says, light and teasing. 

Slade’s palm catches the same place he just hit, harder now, and then he does it again in the same spot with all the precision of a sniper, and three in a row in the same spot is so much, it’s so much , and Jason lets out a choked little whimper. 

The vibration isn’t that intense, but it’s a layer of stimulation that Jason’s already-overstimulated body can barely process. He’s hard, never really went soft, because he’s easy for getting fucked — and this whole situation is so brain-liquefyingly hot that he can’t imagine not coming at least once more tonight, but he’s at the point where he doesn’t even want to, because Jesus fucking Christ, even though it’s good, it hurts . 

Slade switches sides, one-two-three all in a row on the same exact spot. Jason groans, squirming and accidentally rubbing himself against the sheet, wincing at the too-rough fabric on his dick. He’s so fucking sensitive. 

Slade’s hand catches a particularly tender spot, and the toy vibrates harder. 

“Fuckin’ bastards,” Jason gasps. 

It’s too good. Oh, Jesus, it’s too fucking good. Jason’s ass is on fire and everything is throbbing and his dick is so hard, and it all hurts so much he can’t think straight. 

“Twenty,” Bucky says. 

Slade’s palm connects with another vicious sting. Then he pushes at the toy, working it deeper inside Jason, twisting it until it’s pressed viciously against his prostate, and the next slap is hard enough to send a fucking shockwave through Jason. 

Jason gasps out an ugly, choked sob, grateful he can hide under his arms as the tears start to escape. He’s shaking almost violently, and it doesn’t get any better when Slade pauses, caresses his red-hot skin, gives him a moment to breathe. 

Jason grits his teeth. For some reason he can’t stop thinking about the fact that this is Slade . It’s one thing to be crying and begging when it’s Bucky. Slade is different. In so many ways.

Doesn’t matter. He can get through this. He’s gotten through worse. 

“Jus’ do it,” he slurs. 

“Almost there,” Bucky promises, and turns the toy up another notch, and Jason bites down on his own forearm to muffle a scream. 

Almost there.  

He thinks he should try to hold back, vaguely conscious of how goddamn pathetic he sounds right now, spitting an incoherent string of curses and half-formed words. 

Almost — 

Christ, he’s writhing over Slade’s lap, and he wishes he could convince himself he’s trying to get away, but the truth is he’s bucking his hips and arching his back and — 

Bucky turns the toy up and counts down the last three. Jason wants to just give in, let go, let the pain and the pleasure fucking obliterate everything else in his skull, but he’s almost there — 

“Fuck,” he shouts, at the last blinding flash of pain, and it’s done, he did it, but the pain doesn’t stop. Everything hurts. 

Bucky turns the toy off, and Jason bites down on his lip, trying to hold back the pathetic sounds he keeps making: whines, hiccuping gasps, broken little whimpers. 

He did it. 

Jason’s vision is white fuzz, and his skin is lit up with static electricity. His entire body is buzzing, shivering, like he’s touching a live wire. Jesus, he’s so fucking close he feels like he could come all over himself at the first sign of a stiff breeze. But he made it. 

For a few endless seconds there’s nothing but his body, the electroshock sensation of his over-sensitive dick excruciatingly hard between his legs, the rushing in his ears, the trembling in his muscles, and those godawful childish sounds he can’t hold in. He starts to come back to himself. He’s still shaking all over. 

“You alright, kid?” Slade rumbles. 

He’s not a kid. He’s not , he’s not the kid in those fucking shorts who could be swatted away like a fly, who could annoy Slade and distract him and get in his way, but never actually stood a chance against him in a fight. 

He could fight now. He could . 

He’s not sure he’s alright, for a moment. Then there are metal fingers on his cheek, and Jason turns into them like a cat, letting out a little sigh of relief. 

He whispers, “Not a kid.” 

“No, you’re really not,” Slade says, warm and gentle. “Do you want me to stop calling you that?” 

Jason thinks about it and grumbles, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” 

“Brat,” Slade says fondly. 

Bucky’s fingers comb through his curls, smoothing them back from his temple, unnaturally cool and soothing. They catch on a knot and Jason shivers, breath hitching, before closing his eyes again. He rocks his hips experimentally, rubbing himself against Slade’s thigh, and moans out loud. 

“Shit,” Slade says shakily, and when Jason shifts again, he feels how hard Slade is, pressing against Jason’s stomach, thick and steely and hot through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs. “I, uh. Gonna go get water, okay?” 

“But —” Jason starts, and cuts himself off, hesitating. “D’you want —”  

“Honestly, kid, I think I’d come the second I was inside you,” Slade says, low and gravelly and heated. 

“Oh,” Jason breathes, and lets out a shaky exhale. 

He can feel them exchanging a look over his head, but he’s too overwhelmed to really focus on what they might be thinking. He’s in the good, floaty headspace right now, where the pain feels distant and his head feels full of clouds. It’s not quite as intense as it could be — as it will be, if he comes again, because too much pleasure is always worse than too much pain — but it’s good , drugging and exhilarating. 

“Hang on, I’ve got you,” Bucky says. 

They’re both moving. Jason can feel the mattress dip as Bucky shifts, and then Slade basically scoops him up bodily and passes him over. Bucky adjusts, makes him turn so he’s curled up against Bucky’s chest, but doesn’t put him so far on his back that his ass really comes into contact with anything, which is good, because his poor abused nerve endings are screaming . 

The rules are different in these moments, where he’s hurting so bad he can’t move and he’s blissed-out on endorphins and the tears are still drying in his lashes. He doesn’t bother trying to hide how badly he wants to be held right now. 

“I guess we can take five,” Jason mumbles. 

“Ten,” Bucky says firmly. 

“You did good, kid,” Slade says. “You deserve a break.” 

“Really?” Jason asks, before he can stop himself. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “You’re — that was intense, Jay. I’ve got you.” 

Jason swallows hard, cheeks going hot. He curls against Bucky’s chest and closes his eyes. His cheek rubs against the ripply bit of scar tissue where metal meets skin. 

After the first time they got really rough, Bucky pulled him in before Jason could even process the fact that he was starting to panic, called him a moron in that same blunt tone, and refused to let him go when he protested. The contact was so comforting it made Jason cry all over again. 

He doesn’t bother trying to protest any more. 

“Thanks,” he whispers. 

“Don’t be an idiot, there’s nothing to thank me for,” Bucky mutters, in the no-nonsense tone that makes it a little easier to breathe. 

Jason can’t remember the last time he had anything like this — a source of physical comfort so steady and reliable that Jason lets himself reach for it without doing a lengthy risk-reward analysis. He’s never had that sort of safety with anybody he’s fucked, that’s for damn sure. 

“Open up,” Bucky tells him. 

Jason opens his embarrassingly wet eyes just enough to see that Slade came back with a water bottle, one of those sport ones. He taps it against Jason’s lower lip, and when Jason opens his mouth, Slade squirts some in like he’s a boxer sprawled against the ropes between rounds. Jason wonders fuzzily if Bucky and Slade have put money on how long it’ll take him to tap out. 

Another couple mouthfuls of water. Bucky cups a hand around the back of Jason’s head, petting him lightly. Jason hides his face again and swallows, biting his lip to hold back the soft, wounded noise that wants to escape his lips. 

“I mean it, kid,” Slade says. “You’re incredible, you know that?” 

Jason squints at him through the tears and says accusingly, “You’re sweet .” 

Slade makes a face. “Don’t tell anybody.” 

Bucky lets out a barely-there huff of laughter, and Jason mumbles, “Secret’s safe with us.”  

Chapter Text

Bucky’s fingers trail down Jason’s spine, down to the cleft of his ass, and Jason shivers at the unnaturally cool brush against the overheated skin. Even the smallest movement, the involuntary clench of his muscles, is a reminder of the toy in his ass, rubbing against where he’s raw and sensitive; Jason kinda expected his dick would calm the fuck down with a break from all the stimulation, but nope, he’s still mostly hard, and it keeps bobbing against his stomach, brushing Bucky’s abs when it twitches occasionally. 

“You’re gonna have some real pretty handprints, Jay,” Bucky says.  

“Mmmm,” Jason hums. 

“You still in there somewhere, or has Jason left the building?” Slade asks fondly. 

“Poke me with your dick a few times and see what you can find,” Jason suggests, still too lazy to open his eyes. Slade barks out a laugh, but doesn’t say anything, so he adds, “No, seriously, get in me already.” 

“I think we can probably make that happen,” Bucky says wryly. 

Jason takes a deep breath and cracks his eyes open enough to assess. Slade’s standing next to the bed, head tilted as he studies Jason’s bruised skin.  

“Yeah, okay,” Slade says. “Get over here, then.”

Bucky gives Jason a little push, pointing to Slade; Jason crawls obediently closer, letting Slade manhandle him into position at the edge of the mattress. When he’s on all fours, his ass is almost level with Slade’s dick. Jason blushes hot, but he arches his back, spreads his legs, showing off.

When he glances over his shoulder, Slade’s eye is raking over his body hungrily. The shape of his dick is fucking mouthwatering, straining against the thin black fabric of his boxer-briefs, and he palms it absently, still staring. 

Bucky, half-seated on the bed next to him, curls his fingers around the back of Jason’s neck, forcing his face down against the bed like he’s a naughty puppy being scruffed. He bends forward with Jason, so his mouth is right up against Jason’s ear when he says, “Stay. Behave.”  

Jason snorts. 

“You good if I go out for a smoke break?” Bucky asks softly. 

“Knock yourself out.” 

Bucky gives his hair a little tug of acknowledgement and steps away. Jason watches him slip through the door to the balcony, fighting the shiver of anxiety he feels at Bucky’s absence. 

But Slade hesitates and asks, “You sure you’re good? Those bruises are gonna hurt like hell, especially in this position.” 

“Sorta the point,” Jason mumbles. 

“Smart-ass,” Slade retorts. “But — ask this time, will you?” 

“Uh-huh,” Jason says noncommittally. 

“Hey, I mean it,” Slade says sharply. He sounds disappointed, or — there’s the potential for disappointment; Jason’s close to fucking this up. “I want you to ask. Okay?” 

Jason closes his eyes and takes a breath, wondering how to explain that Slade’s personal investment in his behavior makes it worse, not better. Right now, with that stern expression and his vow of faith in Jason’s ability to do the right thing, Slade reminds him a little too strongly of — well. 

It’s easier with Bucky; Bucky doesn’t care, one way or another. Bucky tells him what’s going to happen, tells him what’ll happen if he behaves one way or the other, and then he follows through — but the punishments are always physical, not emotional. Bucky’s never disappointed in him. 

And Jason knows, he knows how fucked up he is, knows exactly why he feels the way he does… but he absolutely refuses to acknowledge it right now. The fact remains: physical consequences are one thing, but disappointment… if he disappoints Slade, it’s going to hurt in ways no amount of pain could touch. 

“Kay,” Jason whispers. 

“Taking this out now,” Slade says. He nudges the base of the toy, and Jason bites his lip. 

He hangs his head down between his arms, and he can see the way his dick jumps and drools between his legs as the vibrator slips free. He tries to hold back his whimper. He glances back over his shoulder, fighting the urge to squirm with nervous anticipation. Slade lost the boxer-briefs at some point. He’s palming that massive cock, and Jason might honestly start crying if he has to keep feeling this empty space. 

Jason hears the click of the lube cap and then Slade’s got two thick fingers in him, and oh, god, Jason’s going to lose his goddamn mind. Slade’s fingers are startlingly soft, but they’re thick, and he’s twisting them so perfectly, and Jason’s so fucking sensitive that the easy curl of friction feels violent . 

Slade gives him a third finger, and enough lube that Jason can hear the filthy squelch of it with every thrust. Jason just fists his hands in the sheets and gasps. 

God, he thought a fourth orgasm would take a while — would be pushing his limits — but the vibrator got him painfully close, painfully fast. Slade crooks his fingers and Jason sees stars, and he knows it’s not going to take all that much to push him over the edge again. 

Forty. Christ. That’s going to be too much even for him, and the idea of it, the idea of another punishing slap on the already-throbbing skin, makes him tremble. 

There’s a part of him that wants it. He wants to be pushed over the edge, broken down to a crying, helpless mess of raw emotions and sheer animal pleasure, wants everything other than that feral fight-or-fuck instinct driven out of his head by the force of the pain. It’s the total obliteration that he’s always craved from sex, and — 

Why is the idea making him feel all panicky? He’s done so much worse than this; it’s not even that intense, compared to some of the shit he’s done with Bucky. He’s not even bleeding. 

Slade adds a fourth finger. He’s twisting and scissoring them, opening Jason up so perfectly, sending a simmering heat through his skin. He’s being so careful. Jason hates it. 

“Just do it,” Jason whispers. “I can take it, promise.”

Slade inhales like he’s about to say something, but the words don’t come. Instead Jason hears the lube cap again, and the barely-there whisper of friction as Slade slicks himself up, and then there’s a hot, blunt pressure stretching Jason open, and he whines in spite of himself. 

“Breathe, kid,” Slade says gently, and before Jason can muster any coherent snark in return, Slade’s pushing in. 

And in, and in, and in. 

Oh, Jesus, Jason’s going to break, and what a way to go. 

Slade pauses before he’s fully seated, draws a breath, works himself in slowly… until Jason gets impatient and shoves himself back, greedy and stupid. 

Then he chokes on a scream, paralyzed by how full he feels — how much he feels, god, his entire body lit-up and buzzing with something close to panic. It’s electric, overwhelming, and he just freezes for a moment, barely daring to breathe, certain that if he moves too abruptly he’ll split open. 

He sucks in air like a fish out of water. There’s no room left in his body for oxygen. 

His dick is so hard he can’t think straight. It’s hanging between his legs, a deep angry red when he looks through slitted teary eyes; it jerks and twitches and drips when Slade starts to pull out again, near-unbearable friction dragging along the sensitive nerves that were already zinging from the vibrator. 

“God, you have any idea how good you feel?” Slade mutters, so quiet it’s like he’s talking to himself more than Jason, his rumbling voice less steady than Jason’s heard it so far. “Look at you, takin’ it so well.” 

Slade’s not really fucking him, just working the fat head of his dick in, pulling out until Jason can feel it tugging at him, pushing in again just before the stretch starts to feel unbearable, and it’s nowhere near enough. 

Jason hiccups out a moan and tries to find his voice, but it comes out all thready and wrecked and far away: “Fuckin’ fuck me already, c’mon.” 

Slade leans forward, gets a hand on the back of Jason’s neck to hold him down, and then he rolls his hips. It barely counts as a thrust; he doesn’t pull away, just grinds, and it feels like he’s crushing Jason from the inside. Jason lets out a choked, ragged shout.

“Is that what you want?” Slade asks roughly. 

“Fuck, yeah,” Jason groans. “Harder. Gimme it, Jesus fucking christ, I need —” 

The first real thrust has Slade’s hips smacking against his ass, and Jason’s vision almost whites out. 

It’s too much. It’s perfect. 

He arches and squirms, thrashes, just to feel the way Slade grips the back of his neck and holds him down. All he can do is take it, take the way it makes him feel small, take one searing thrust after another, so deep and merciless that he feels like he’s being ripped apart. 

God, it’s too fucking perfect. 

“Harder,” he moans. “Feels so fucking good, I can’t —”

Jason’s eyes are rolling back in his head, and his arms are shaking so hard it’s all he can do to keep from face planting onto the mattress, but then Slade grabs him by the hair again — yanks him up and back, forcing his spine into an uncomfortable arch. Every thrust rattles his teeth in his skull. 

If this keeps up, he’s going to come again, all too soon. He’s not sure he could stop even if he wanted to. A shudder goes through him. 

He can’t. He can’t do it. Can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t escape, can’t fight back, can’t do anything. 

He’s so fucking close he’s not sure he can hold back. His body isn’t obeying his brain; it’s just shaking and writhing and shoving itself back on that too-thick cock. He’s going to keep stuffing himself full until he’s stretched to his breaking point, until there’s nothing to do but come all over himself. 

It all keeps building, pain and pleasure and his pounding pulse, white-hot panic cresting until he’s paralyzed, and just when he can feet the clenching tension of his orgasm starting to draw up his spine — 

Slade stops. 

Jason rocks back with a desperate, broken whine to meet a thrust that doesn’t come. Slade just goes still. He grips Jason’s hips, too tight, and he doesn’t pull out all the way, but he doesn’t fuck back in either.

“No, fuck, why’d you stop?” Jason manages, dazed by the loss.  

“Because you asked me to,” Slade says uncertainly. 

It takes a second. Jason’s frantic, gasping, still instinctively trying to fuck himself on that perfect cock again.

Then the words sink in, and Jason almost chokes on his panic. He opens his mouth, ready to deny it, but nothing comes out for a moment. His chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath. 

He did say it, didn’t he? He wasn’t paying attention, but he said it. 

Jason tries to apologize, but all he can get out for a few seconds is a ragged little gasp.   

“I didn’t mean to,” Jason says, with a too-fast hitching breath. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.” 

“You didn’t fuck anything up, kid, it’s not like that.” 

He did, though. He fucked up. That was one of Slade’s limits, and Jason made him uncomfortable. He crossed a line. 

“I didn’t mean to, I swear,” Jason whispers. “Just — keep going?”  

“Hey,” Bucky says, from the doorway, low and fierce. “What is it?” 

Jason manages to open his eyes to give him a pleading look. Bucky’s still got a hand on the door handle, frozen in the act of pulling it closed, but he’s also unmistakably hard, like he was enjoying the show through the glass. Until Jason fucked it up. 

And now he’s making a whole scene about it, making a fuss… 

Slade says, “I don’t —” 

“I want it,” Jason blurts out, too quickly. “I just — I can’t always — past a certain point, I just —” He closes his eyes, shaking his head in frustration. “I didn’t know I said it. I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.” 

Slade hesitates. “If you’re past the point of knowing what you’re saying, then I’m not sure —” 

“Maybe — can you just gag me?” Jason interrupts. “Gag me so I can’t say anything, and that way—”

“I’m not gonna do that, kid,” Slade says, quiet, pained, and — oh. He sounds like he’s wearing one of those expressions, like Jason said something really fucked up, and then he starts to pull out. Jason whimpers, clenching around him instinctively, and Slade hisses, faltering for a moment before he pulls free. 

It’s all Jason can do not to start crying at the emptiness. He screws up his face and balls his hands into fists and hangs his head low between his arms, trying not to panic, but it’s not working. He shifts back, catching his bruised ass on his heels, and tears well up despite his efforts. 

“Tell me what happened,” Bucky says, steely and calm. 

There’s a weight on the mattress, a quick pause that feels like an eternity. Slade just wanted an easy fuck, and Jason’s not worth the trouble. That’s what happened.

“He said stop, so I stopped,” Slade says. 

Jason thinks in a vague, unfocused sort of way, that he never in a million years imagined he’d hear Slade fucking Wilson sound like that, confused and a little bit sad. 

“Jason,” Bucky says. 

Jason blinks away tears. He feels so small right now, so childish and helpless, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, because one way or another, somebody here isn’t going to get what they want. 

He doesn’t know how to fix this, and he has to fix this, before Slade just walks away. Jason wouldn’t blame him for walking away. 

“Jason,” Bucky repeats. 

Jason tilts to one side, half curled up. He braces himself and chances a look up at Bucky, who’s sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Jason’s not sure what he’s expecting; maybe disgust, or impatience, or irritation, but instead it’s just Bucky. Blank. Unruffled. The same as always. 

Bucky extends a hand, but instead of reaching to touch, he makes a fist — thumb on the outside, the S sign. And Jason sucks in a breath, because he promised, he promised that when Bucky did that he’d stop thinking so hard, but — 

“Are you pissed?” Bucky asks Slade, point-blank.

“What?”

Slade doesn’t leave, at least. He sits on the mattress, right next to Jason, who is crumpled up in a useless pile of trembling muscles. 

Jason squeezes his eyes shut again, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, and he can feel the tears trickling down his nose onto the sheet. 

“Are you — angry? Frustrated? Disappointed?” 

“Jesus, no.” Slade hesitates for an endless moment before he offers, “You didn’t do anything wrong, kid.” 

Jason shifts to look up at him. Slade’s got the sheet around his waist, weirdly modest, but with his broad shoulders and tan skin, he reminds Jason of — Zeus, maybe? Golden and statuesque and stern. Paternal. But he really doesn’t look angry. Not really. Not yet, at least. 

“I did, though,” Jason whispers. “You told me you weren’t comfortable with — with me saying no, and —” 

“That’s really not what I meant,” Slade says, with a hint of a growl in his voice. Jason goes tense, can’t help it; if his legs didn’t feel like jelly and his bruises weren’t screaming at him, he’d try to run away, maybe slam the bathroom door and lock it, curl up in the tub to ride out the panic attack. But Slade puts a gentle hand on Jason’s back, brushing the thumb back and forth, soothing, and his voice is quieter when he says, “Said I wasn’t comfortable ignoring it if you said no.” 

“Yeah, but —” 

“Hang on, Jay,” Bucky says, and Jason shuts his mouth. “Look — Slade, if this means you’re done, that’s fine. No hard feelings if you want to call it and walk away. But is that what you want?”  

Jason bites his lip too hard, trying to hold back a whimper. His body is still flooded with all those crazy-making chemicals, mixed signals lighting him up, making his heart race. 

“Of course I don’t want to walk away,” Slade says heavily. 

“You still want him?” Bucky asks.  

“Yeah. Yeah, of course I do.” 

“Oh,” Jason says, less a word than a sharp, sudden exhale, and feels some of the awful leaden weight lift from his chest. 

Slade makes a shocked, punched-out sound that Jason doesn’t know what to make of. He finger-combs Jason's hair for a moment. Then he says, “Hey, you’re okay. We’re good. If we can make sure that doesn’t happen again — is that what you want? You wanna keep going?” 

“Yes,” Jason insists. 

“Just not — not when you’re completely out of it,” Slade says. “Not like that. That just… doesn’t do it for me.” He curls one absurdly big arm around Jason and pulls him upright, settling back against the headboard again with Jason straddling him. “Did I do something wrong? Whatever made you panic just then — can you just tell me, so I can make sure I don’t do it again?” 

Fuck’s sake. Slade’s asking all the right questions, doing all the shit he’s supposed to be doing, and it makes Jason want to crawl under the covers and hide. He can’t stand being taken care of like this, all gentle and pitying and comforting. It makes him want to shut down the conversation, move back to safer ground, where he knows what he’s doing. He closes his eyes and lets out a wordless little growl of frustration, rocking down against Slade’s dick, which is still mostly hard and extremely distracting under Jason’s ass. 

“Was I hurting you?” Slade presses. 

There’s a weird, disbelieving sort of hysteria in Jason’s laugh. He muffles it against the side of Slade’s neck and then nips the skin there, soft and teasing, feeling the way Slade shivers under him. “I mean, yeah, but — in the good way.” 

“Fair enough,” Slade mumbles. “Jesus. Are you trying to distract me?” 

“Is it working?” 

Slade tangles a hand in his hair, yanking his head back forcefully to meet his eye, and Jason bites his lip, feeling scolded and turned the fuck on in equal measure. 

“Did I make you feel like you weren’t safe?” Slade asks. 

Jason gives him a disbelieving look, but Slade’s dead serious, painfully earnest, and Jason doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Of course Jason didn’t feel safe. He didn’t feel safe, but that’s not Slade’s fault. Sex has never felt safe. 

Or — it never used to feel safe. Jason never even expected it to. 

But he realizes abruptly that something has changed. Somewhere along the line, his expectations shifted, so subtly that he didn’t even notice it happening. 

Sex never felt safe until he was with Bucky… and now that he’s with somebody else, it’s un safe again. He hasn’t changed; the act itself hasn’t changed. Slade’s doing everything right, saying all the things he’s supposed to say, and yet — 

He steals a glance at Bucky, bewildered. 

Then he realizes Bucky is watching him closely, waiting for an answer from where he’s sprawled out against the headboard. 

“No,” Jason mutters, belated and unconvincing, still reeling. 

“Wanna try and tell me what was going on in your head, then?” Slade prompts. 

“When I lose control — I say stop,” Jason says, in a small, embarrassed voice. “That’s just — how it is, past a certain point. When I’m… out of it. It’s not a bad thing.” 

“What if it’s not so rough?” 

“It’d be okay, I think.” Jason shrugs. “But — if I gotta take forty —” 

“Is that what this is about?” Slade says. Jason shrugs again, hiding his face, nipping the sensitive spot under Slade’s ear until Slade’s hands tighten on his thighs, a silent warning. “If you don’t want that, all you gotta do is ask, remember?” 

Right. Jason sucks in a breath. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? He knew that. He’s just… not in the habit of asking for things.

“But,” Jason blurts out. “But what if —” 

“If you forget, you take forty,” Bucky interrupts. As Slade opens his mouth to protest, Bucky cuts him off: “But not from him, not now. I’ll take a rain check. Understood?” 

It seems too easy. Feels like cheating. If he fucks up, he deserves to be punished. 

He fucks up. It’s what he does. And if he fucks this up — 

“But,” he starts hollowly. “That’s not — that’s not how it works.”

“It’s not like I’m gonna go easy on you,” Bucky promises, face expressionless. Jason almost wishes Bucky hadn’t put on pajama pants again, but even through cotton, he appreciates the way Bucky’s thighs look when he’s got his legs spread and one knee up, sprawling imperiously. “Believe me, Jay, I’ve never once gone easy on you, and I’m not gonna start tonight. To make up for the wait, I’ll use the metal hand.” 

“Oh,” Jason says, with a sigh of relief. “Yeah, okay.” 

Slade is looking between the two of them, puzzled, and Jason drops his gaze. 

“It’s easier with rules,” Bucky says, very quietly. “When you know what consequences to expect. Instead of — wondering.” 

“Okay,” Slade says, with a heavy, slow exhale. Then he moves in close again, cupping a hand around the back of Jason’s skull, filling his field of vision. “I mean it, though. I want you to ask. I know you’ve got it in you to be sweet, kid.” 

Jason closes his eyes and whispers, “You’ll say yes? If I ask. You won’t just —” 

When he opens his eyes again, blinking away tears, he sees one of those godawful pitying expressions on Slade’s face, but only for a moment before he leans in and kisses him. 

“Yeah, kid, I’ll say yes,” he says. “Promise.” 

Jason nods slowly. He says, “‘kay.” 

Bucky grabs his wrist and yanks him, sharply enough that he almost falls sideways; Slade grabs his hips, steadies the lower half of his body, while Bucky forces his torso into an awkward twist and kisses him hard enough to draw blood. 

“I wouldn’t let him do that to you,” Bucky says, low and abrupt, and gives his lip one more merciless suck before releasing him. “If he fucks with your head, I’ll kill him.” 

Jason closes his eyes for a moment, dizzy with relief and with the way that fucked-up promise goes right to his dick. 

“Message received, loud and clear,” Slade mutters. He hesitates for a moment before kissing Jason again, almost as roughly as Bucky did, worrying at the split in his lip. He wraps his arms around Jason, hooks them up around his back, grabs Jason’s shoulders, pulling him forcefully down onto his lap. 

Jason’s body lights up with a bright, hot spark of all systems go. Everything he put on hold comes flooding back at once. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he pants, and starts fumbling with the sheet, trying to get it untangled from Slade’s legs without putting any distance between their bodies. “What’re you waiting for?” 

Slade looks at him hungrily, and Jason swivels his hips, rocking against the thick, hot length of Slade’s dick. Slade gives him a considering stare, and then his lips start to curl up in a smirk. 

“Yeah, we’re doing it my way this time,” Slade says thoughtfully, and when Jason scowls, he raises one eyebrow in a silent challenge. 

“And what’s that, old man?” Jason snarks. “Candles and rose petals?” Until tonight, it’s the last thing he would’ve expected from Slade fucking Wilson, but stranger things have happened. 

“Not so much,” Slade says, rolling his eye expressively. “Gonna teach you to slow down and enjoy yourself, though.” He gets a hand in Jason’s hair again, twists and tugs, holding him close to say, “Don’t have to be rough with you to wreck you, kid.”  

Jason chokes on nothing. 

Then Slade drags his fingertips down the length of his back, pressing them in hard without using his nails — more like a massage than a scratch — but when those three lines of pressure meet Jason’s extensive collection of bruises, he hisses and arches, even before Slade trails all the way down to Jason’s ass. His fingertips dig into the abused flesh and Jason shakes, squirming, caged in against Slade’s chest with one massive arm. 

Slade just keeps touching him. Slow, but intense, squeezing and gripping hard enough to bruise. Big hands cup Jason’s ass, his throat, fingers raking through his hair and sliding along his jaw, roaming his body possessively. Every time Jason tries to wriggle his way into hurrying Slade along, Slade just holds him in place, crushing and inescapable as a straitjacket. 

When he finally does touch Jason’s dick, there’s none of the intense pressure he uses on the rest of Jason’s body; he curls his knuckles, brushes them up the length of it, and the unexpectedness of it makes Jason’s insides go molten; his cock throbs, twitching, smacking Slade’s knuckles. 

Slade laughs at him, low and taunting. 

“Oh, you fucking bastard,” Jason pants, curling forward to rest his forehead against Slade’s shoulder. 

“Thought you’d learned a lesson about manners,” Slade says, with a wicked grin. Then he rubs the pad of his thumb over the tip of Jason’s cock, smearing a little clear bead of precome into the skin, before bringing his finger to his own mouth and sucking it clean. 

Jason feels overheated. He’s enveloped in Slade, like this, wrapped up in a way that should feel constraining but mostly just feels safe. Because if he’s caged, trapped — if he doesn’t have a choice — then he doesn’t have to feel guilty for how good this feels; he doesn’t have to worry about returning the favor, or looking pretty, or figuring out what Slade wants in return. 

Slade’s just as hard as he is, cock flushed dark where it curves up against his stomach, but it doesn’t seem to matter how much Jason squirms against him, rocking his hips, trying to press himself against the line of steely heat between them — Slade doesn’t move any faster. He caresses and squeezes by turns, alternating deep-pressure kneading with gentle, feather-light brushes, bruising hands on his hips and then a careful flick of a finger, grazing the barbell in his nipple… 

“Fuck,” Jason groans, panting harshly at the next delicate touch. He’s jerking reflexively against the arm around his waist, twisting constantly in Slade’s hold, but he’s given up any hope of getting away. 

“Jay,” Bucky says. 

When Jason opens his eyes, Bucky’s watching him, intent and fond. Jason whines softly, already starting to feel desperate, hazy. He gives Bucky a wordless, pleading look, and he doesn’t even know what he’s asking until Bucky studies his face and lets out a sigh. 

He reaches out, pressing his metal fingers to Jason’s lower lip; Jason licks and sucks at them instinctively. 

“He wants this as bad as you do,” Bucky says, and if Jason’s mouth wasn’t occupied he’d try to argue. “He just wants to hear you beg. Don’t you, Wilson?” 

“He’s not wrong, kid,” Slade says, voice rough like gravel. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky promises. 

“Please,” Jason whispers, head lolling to the side as he shudders and then goes boneless in Slade’s arms. “Please — I’ll be good. Please fuck me?” 

Slade moans, muffling it in a kiss, a deep, forceful kiss that makes it impossible for Jason to focus on anything else for a moment. Then Slade’s gathering him up, lifting him. It takes Jason a moment to piece together the fact that it’s Bucky at his back; by that point there are slippery metal fingers opening him up, spreading him. 

“Please,” Jason whispers, voice breaking and fading out as he sinks down on Slade’s cock. Now that he’s started, he can’t stop. He gulps in a breath and gasps a curse, and then: “Please, please, ah, please —” 

“That’s it,” Slade sighs, and fucks up into him, shallow easy thrusts that still, somehow, feel like they have enough force to split him open. “Just want to make you feel good. No reason to be stubborn. You’re making this so much more difficult for yourself than it has to be.” 

And Jason has to screw his face up at that, grinding his teeth in an effort to hold back a sob, or maybe a laugh, because fuck if that isn’t a good summary of his life. 

But something in him is stretched to his limit; if he doesn’t bend, he’ll break, and he’s not ready for Slade to see him break. 

“Turn him around,” Bucky says suddenly. “Want to watch his face.” 

Slade lifts him off, lifts until Jason’s empty. 

“No,” he whimpers. “No, god, don’t stop, I’m so fucking close, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, just —” 

It’s unbearable for the handful of heartbeats that they spend turning and twisting him, until it’s Bucky holding him bodily, keeping him hovering over Slade’s cock with a merciless grip on his upper thighs, the bruised crease just under his ass. 

“I’ve got you,” Bucky promises softly. 

He really does; Jason couldn’t move if he wanted to. Jason’s legs are folded under him, but Bucky’s got him hovering right where Jason’s knees aren’t actually on the mattress. Jason’s clutching at Bucky’s arms, but he’s not doing anything, just clinging for the sake of holding onto something. He can barely comprehend the strength in the easy way they keep passing him back and forth, like he’s nothing more than a doll. 

Jason meets Bucky’s eyes for a moment, and he realizes that it’s exactly what he needed; that he feels safe now. He sucks in a breath and blinks away stunned tears. 

Then Bucky’s settling him in Slade’s lap again, lowering Jason down onto Slade’s dick with a blazing fire in his eyes — except he doesn’t just put him down, he shoves , using his grip on Jason to grind him forcefully onto Slade’s dick. 

“Oh, god,” Jason moans, spine arching, head falling back against Slade’s shoulder. He’s never been this full in his life. It feels like Slade’s massaging his guts from the inside, overwhelmingly intense. “Oh, fuck, I —” 

Slade wraps one big, hot palm around Jason’s cock without warning, giving him a slow stroke that sparks up like a match along his spine. 

“You feel so goddamn good,” Slade breathes. 

“Fuck,” Jason sobs, and works himself down into Slade’s lap, then bucks up into his fist, until he’s so close he might burst. 

“Ask and it’s all yours,” Bucky says, dangerously soft, and he grabs Jason by the throat, forcing his head up, forcing Jason to meet his steady, fierce gaze. “Jay. All you gotta do is ask. It’s okay.” 

“Please,” he manages, and his vision starts to dissolve at the edges. “Can I please come?”

Then Bucky shifts back, folds forward, gets his mouth around the head of Jason’s dick, and Jason shouts. 

“Good boy,” Slade groans. “That’s so good. Do it, kid, let me feel you.” 

Jason’s vision goes sparkly, fades out, and his brain goes blissfully blank. 

Slade rubs little circles into the knotted muscles of Jason’s back, his shoulders, running his palms up and down the kid’s absurdly thick arms. It doesn’t seem possible that somebody this strong can be this fragile.  

He’s mostly been doing the no-strings-attached thing for the last few years; his life doesn’t lend itself well to strings, or emotions, or the mess that comes with them. He doesn’t want to be held accountable for hurt feelings or broken hearts. He knows better than to let somebody rely on him for emotional support. 

He’s realistic about his skill set. "Big spoon" is significantly lower on the list than any sort of ranged weapon. 

The trade-off of emotional tidiness is the lack of intimacy. Intimacy requires vulnerability, and it’s rarely worth the mess that happens when people let themselves be vulnerable. Most of the time, Slade doesn’t miss it. But right now, he’s reconsidering, because Jason is boneless and pliant in his arms, cheeks still wet with tears, and Slade’s remembering how good it can feel to be trusted with vulnerability.

He sure as hell wasn't expecting this sort of emotional intensity from a threesome, but the sex was worth it. The sex was goddamn spectacular, so. 

Jason stirs for the first time, squirming back and then flinching when the red-hot skin of his ass comes in contact with Slade’s body. Jason wriggles onto his front instead, turning his head enough to open one hazy blue eye and squint at Slade. 

Then he cranes his head slightly to look around, cracking the other eye open, and slurs, “Wh’re’s B’cky?”

“He just went to grab a couple things, he’ll be right back,” Slade tells him, and watches Jason settle again. “Don’t worry, okay? All you gotta do is rest.”

Jason lets out a quiet hum, curling himself in and burrowing closer to Slade’s chest. 

Slade’s not usually a cuddler, but this isn’t so bad. 

It makes a world of difference, knowing that he doesn’t have to stick around and pick up the pieces, to put Jason back together again, deal with the fallout. The emotions aren’t his problem. And maybe he’s a piece of shit for thinking it, but he can live with that. 

He’s going to enjoy himself, until it’s time to walk away and let someone else worry about the kid. He’s always figured that in his line of work, it’s important to take the moments of physical comfort and pleasure wherever you can. 

Barnes comes back with juice, water, ibuprofen, and a cool cloth, and he proceeds to fuss over Jason like a goddamn mother hen. Barnes even helps the kid up, acting like he’s about to carry him over to the bathroom door until Jason makes a face and waves him off, grumbling that he can “piss by my own damn self, fuck you very much.” 

When the door closes, Barnes turns and focuses on Slade instead; Slade can see him doing a visual inspection, checking for damage, assessing the situation. 

“You alright?” 

“Me?” Slade asks gruffly, stretching out with his arms behind his head. “Don’t need to worry about me. Save it for the kid.” 

“Not how it works,” Barnes says quietly. He tilts his head thoughtfully. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Slade makes a dismissive sound. He knows it; he knows he did everything he was supposed to do, and he’s not going to apologize for setting his boundaries and then sticking to them. 

But it helps to hear that — it helps more than he’d like to admit.

“I know,” he confesses, after a moment. “I just — still.” 

“You feel responsible,” Barnes supplies. “Even though there was no way of knowing that would happen and nothing you could’ve done to prevent it.” 

Slade remembers the way the kid shook and apologized and offered to gag himself, and he winces.

“I still — I hurt him,” Slade says. “I may not have done it on purpose, but I did it.” 

There’s a long, pointed moment of silence before Barnes smirks.  “Wonder what that’s like.” 

And before Slade can even consider touching that with a ten-foot pole, he hears the toilet flush. 

“Anyway, that wasn’t what I was getting at,” Barnes says matter-of-factly. “It’s called dom drop, it’s a thing. Just — hold him for a while, okay? I’ll give you some time.” 

Slade blinks, and then Barnes is gone — back to the kitchen. 

Jason opens the door with the wariness of a soldier, hyperaware of all the dangers that might be waiting on the other side. 

“C’mere,” Slade says, and holds out an arm, gestures to the space next to him. The kid relaxes a fraction. 

If Slade wasn’t so well trained to spot weakness, he’d miss the tension in the way Jason's holding himself as he walks, the minute tells of someone hiding pain. He hides it well. He scoots in hesitantly, but once he’s there, he plasters himself to Slade’s side, sprawling out half on top of him, with his cheek on Slade’s chest.

He’s probably got a lifetime of touch starvation to make up for. Slade curls both arms around him. 

“Was that — was that good?” Jason whispers. “For you. Was that what you wanted?” 

“Yeah,” Slade says. “That was — look, kid, all I wanted was you.” 

“Really?” Jason asks shyly. 

“Yeah.” Slade runs his fingers through the sweaty tendrils of hair that stick to his temple and the nape of his neck. “And you did so good. Fuckin’ perfect.” 

Jason lets out a soft sigh of relief. 

Somebody (several somebodies, if he had to guess) cut the kid open and left him to bleed out so many times that he’ll never heal properly. There’s a bottomless hunger there, an empty space Jason doesn’t know how to fill. 

Slade knows the kid isn’t his problem; he knows he’s not much of a fixer. Jason would take every bit of affection Slade’s capable of offering, and it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to fill that void. But he can offer this, at least. Reassurance, praise, compliments on a job well done. He understands the need for those things. It’s the emotional landmines waiting in Jason’s head that he doesn’t know how to navigate. 

“‘M sorry,” Jason says. 

“For what?” 

“For… bein’ such a headcase,'' Jason mumbles, barely audible, whispering the words like a confession in the space between his lips and Slade’s skin. “Making it all — heavy, and weird.” 

“Honestly, kid, my ex-wife stabbed me through the skull. Headcase is kinda my type.”

Maybe not the most sensitive answer he could've chosen, but he only has so much capacity for sensitivity. 

Jason lets out a quiet but genuine laugh. “Really, though. I know I’m… fucked up. I don’t want to be this way.” 

“Nothing wrong with you,” Slade says, and at Jason’s dismissive grunt, he frowns up at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath and asks, “Do you know how I got this way?” 

Jason hums. “Meta-fuckery?” 

“Sure. That’s the short version.” He hesitates. “I lied about my age and joined the army a couple years early, because I wanted to protect people. Was already part of an elite squad when Vietnam started; we got shipped over there, and — and I realized pretty fuckin’ fast that we weren’t protecting shit. Have you — you ever learn about that war? What some of the soldiers got up to?” 

“Yeah,” Jason says, quiet and riveted, tense. 

“I signed on to fight, not — that.” 

“Oh,” Jason says. Some of the tension eases out of him. 

“Don’t go forgiving me just yet,” Slade says flatly. “Just because I didn’t join in on the rape and torture — didn’t stop them, either. Just took off in the middle of the night.” 

“Oh,” Jason says again. 

“Got back to command, told ‘em what had happened, threatened to go back to the States and start talking to the press, and they gave me a choice: I could sign up to be experimented on, and probably die, or I could be labeled a traitor and — left to rot, basically. Left to die alone.” 

“I didn’t know,” Jason says. 

“I don’t make a habit of talking about it.” 

“And they just let you go, after the — meta-fuckery?” 

“God, no. I ran solo missions for a while. Black ops. It wasn’t pretty, but it was… more clear-cut than the rest of the war. That’s where I encountered the Soldier.” He hesitates. “I think — coming face to face with him — with Barnes — I realized how easy it would’ve been for me to end up brainwashed too. How lucky I was to be able to make my own choices. And the next time they gave me an order I didn’t like… well, I figured I should make my own choices while I still could. So I gathered up enough evidence of — of corruption, and war crimes, that they had a vested interest in keeping me happy, and then I got my honorable discharge, and that was the end of it. Made sure nobody would ever be able to control me. No more orders.” Never again. 

“I didn’t know,” Jason repeats softly. 

“Most people don’t,” Slade tells him, uncomfortable, because he’s not sure Jason really understands what he’s saying. And he’s not sure he has it in him to explain, so he mutters lamely, “I just thought you should.” 

Jason’s quiet for a moment before he says softly, “Thanks.” A pause. He yawns, and then he licks his lips and says sleepily, “If you want to compare flashback material, I can try to list all the men who’ve told me I deserved a good spanking. Start with the Joker, work my way back? But it’s a long list, and I do need to sleep sometime before dawn.” 

Slade sputters incoherently for a moment before he manages, “Jesus Christ, kid.” 

“Nope, not actually him,” Jason says, lifting his head enough that Slade can see the corner of his cheeky grin. “Just one of his priests.” 

Slade stares up at the ceiling for a moment and grinds his teeth. 

“If I tell you their names, will you put them on the naughty list like some sorta fucked-up Santa?” Jason asks flippantly. “Not that I have great associations with him, either. Gotham mall Santas: not exactly known for their upstanding moral character.” 

Slade makes a strangled sound. Then he puts his anger away neatly in a little box, to deal with later, when he can do something useful with it. He probably will make a list. 

“Quit bein’ a little shit and get some rest,” Slade grumbles. “You earned it.” 

“Thanks,” Jason repeats. “For telling me.” He yawns again, deep enough that his jaw cracks.

“Comfortable?” 

“Mmm. Not gonna be able to sleep like this, but—” Jason shrugs and snuggles closer. “S’nice.” 

“Not staying,” Slade says. “But… I’m not in any particular hurry to get out of here, either.” 

He can hear the hesitant warmth in Jason’s voice when he says, “Kay.” 

Barnes reappears in the doorway. A small, wistful smile flickers across his face, there and then gone again before he forces a tight, wooden replica in its place. The metal hand flexes at his side, plates whirring and clicking. He hasn’t put on a shirt; Slade can see the movement ripple all the way up the arm, to where it joins scarred flesh. 

It goes against every instinct in Slade’s body to close his eye in the face of a lethal threat, so he meets Barnes’s cool gaze steadily. 

Jason shifts, and the movement reminds Slade that they’re both a mess, sweat starting to dry all tacky and gritty in the places where their bare skin touches. He makes a face. 

“Hey, before you really settle in,” he says. “Wouldn’t mind rinsing off. You okay with that?” 

“Mmm,” Jason says. 

Slade jerks his chin at Barnes, who hesitates before getting in the bed on Jason’s other side. The kid wriggles over to him eagerly, nuzzling blindly into the crook of his neck, and Barnes lets out a soft sigh. When Slade gets up, heads for the bathroom, glances back, Barnes is petting Jason’s hair with a tenderness that hits him right in the chest. 

Slade turns the water as hot as it’ll go, bracing his hands against the shower wall, hanging his head down and letting the steamy spray pummel his head and shoulders.

The two of them are a goddamn mess. They’re all wrapped up in each other, dangerously entangled, both unstable and unhealthy, and there’s no way this won’t end in disaster. Broken hearts, hurt feelings. Nothing Slade wants any part of. 

But he can’t stop hearing that little sigh of relief, the way Barnes exhaled as if everything was right in the world as soon as Jason was within arm’s reach. 

He’s still zoning out a few minutes later, when there’s a knock on the door. Slade says, “Come in.” One more deep breath, and then he grabs the soap, starts to lather up. 

It’s Barnes — James, he reminds himself. He doesn’t look, but he can tell by the silence of the footsteps.  

“He asleep?” 

“Yeah. Just about the second he heard the door close.” Judging by the direction his voice comes from, James is leaning against the wall next to the shower — not watching him, giving him his privacy, but nearby. 

“Thought that might be the case.” Slade turns off the water, and says into the silence that follows, “Do you ever say no to him?” 

“Come again?” 

“Do you ever say no?” Slade repeats. He grabs the towel off the hook, scrubs it over his skin roughly. 

When he steps out of the shower, James is staring at him, head tilted curiously, examining him and the question alike — except he’s wearing his blank, vaguely confused Soldier mask again. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze goes to Slade’s scarred eye socket. 

“Why would I?” Barnes asks. 

“Because the things he wants — do they ever push your limits? What about what you want?” 

Barnes blinks at him a few more times. “Can you put on pants before we have this conversation?” 

Slade laughs quietly. He nods.

Barnes leaves without another word; Slade takes a moment to get dressed before following him, padding silently around the bed where Jason is sound asleep. Barnes isn’t on the balcony, his usual haunt, so Slade checks the kitchen, where he finds him measuring tea into an old-fashioned metal strainer ball and messing with the kettle. 

“Want some? Chamomile.” 

“Got anything stronger?” Slade asks. 

Barnes blinks at him once and then fishes in the freezer, comes out with half a bottle of really good vodka. He glances at a shelf of glasses before just passing Slade the bottle. 

Slade pulls up a stool across from him and says, “Cheers.” 

Barnes leans on the counter, arms crossed, and stares, brow furrowed like he’s calculating a long-distance headshot.

“I don’t want things,” he says, after a moment. 

Slade frowns. “You know what I mean.” 

“I really don’t.” He shrugs. “Just him.” 

Slade takes a sip as he tries to figure out what to say to that. He comes up blank. Something about this isn’t adding up. 

Barnes purses his lips. The kettle is starting to steam; he picks it up before it has a chance to boil, pours delicately.   

“Why’d you invite me here?” Slade asks bluntly. “Still can’t figure it out.” 

“Come again?” 

“Me — being here. Why’d you invite me here?” 

“Jason wanted you,” Barnes says. 

“What do you get out of it?” 

“How do you know I’m not getting anything out of it? You’re not exactly unattractive.” There’s that fizzing spark of flirtatiousness again, there and gone, like he’s trying his old face on for size.  He adds honey to his teacup, stirs delicately, and licks the spoon clean. 

“Come here,” Slade says. 

Barnes narrows his eyes and considers it for a moment before coming around the counter, stepping slowly into Slade’s space. He’s not skittish about it the way he was earlier; when Slade leans in, tugs him into a kiss, Barnes returns it easily. He parts his lips — they taste like honey and summer flowers — and molds himself to Slade’s chest, tongue flickering over his lip curiously… but there’s nothing behind it, no heat, no urgency, not the way there was when Slade watched him kiss Jason like he wanted to devour him. 

Barnes steps back with a thoughtful expression. “Point taken. You’re not wrong. I’m not attracted to you.” He thinks about it for a moment without completely backing away. “I’m not not attracted to you, either. I’m attracted to the fact that you’re… strong enough to be a match for me. But tonight wasn’t about me. It was about Jason. I wanted to give him what he wanted.”  

“Even if it hurt you.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So it’s not that you want him,” Slade says. “You’re in love with him.” 

Barnes stares at him for a moment, wide-eyed and shocked, like an animal snared in a trap. “What?” 

“You’re in love with him,” Slade repeats gently. “If you just wanted him, you’d keep him for yourself.” 

Barnes’s gaze darts from side to side, frantically searching for an escape, but the rest of him is frozen. 

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. 

“It wasn’t a question.” 

“I don’t remember.” 

“What does that even —” 

“I don’t remember what love is supposed to feel like.” 

“Christ,” Slade huffs, and he swipes a hand over his eyes. “You… want to protect him. You want to kill anybody who tries to hurt him. It’s — you care more about his happiness than your own.”

“Not hard, considering I don’t really feel happiness any more,” Barnes says. He ducks his head, slinks behind the cover of the counter, and takes a sip of tea. 

“You’re in love with him,” Slade repeats. 

Barnes lets out a low, strangled sound, staring up at the water-stained ceiling like it has some answers for him. 

“I was worried about him, you know,” Slade confesses. “Whether this whole thing with you was… healthy. Good for him. But now —” 

“I’m not healthy. I want him too much. It makes me feel — fucking insane.” 

“Yeah, that’s love,” Slade says mildly. “What does he want?” 

“He wants a whole lot of things.” Barnes rolls his eyes. “He wants to right every wrong, and single-handedly ensure that nobody else suffers in the ways he’s suffered, and to eradicate injustice… and he wants to meet and exceed everyone’s standards, at everything .” 

“That doesn’t sound like a sane man to me,” Slade remarks. “And — he wants to be wanted, doesn’t he?”

“That too,” Barnes says quietly. 

“More than just about anything. To the point he’ll contort himself into all sorts of fucked-up shapes to give people what he thinks they want.” Even if it comes at the expense of his own body, neglecting his own needs, or his own fear. His triggers and his traumas. 

Barnes gets the fondest little half-smile on his face as he shrugs. 

“You want him too much,” Slade says. “Which is exactly what he wants: to be wanted in that crazy, too-much way.” 

“He deserves better,” Barnes mutters. “Somebody stable. Or at least somebody who’s not so completely fucking broken.” 

“When does anybody get what they deserve?” Slade retorts. “Anyway, if he was with somebody stable —” He trails off, shaking his head, trying to find the right words. 

Slade’s good at staying centered. Not known for letting himself be pulled around by other people, always been good at boundaries; too good, according to everybody he’s ever loved. He knows he didn’t do anything wrong tonight, and he still feels all twisted up about it. Anybody with healthy boundaries of their own is gonna be the same way. 

The kid reminds him of a black hole. Instead of his own center of gravity, his own boundaries, he’s got that need to be wanted . It distorts everything else. He could warp anyone who got too close; he’d suck up every bit of affection they’d give him and still want more, drag them out of orbit with the power of his wanting.

Nothing against Jason. He’s incredible, and maybe that’s part of the problem. He’s the kind of person you want to bend for. 

“He’d fuck himself up trying to be what they wanted,” Slade finally says. “Or fuck them up wanting more than they could give. Almost fucked me up tonight. One of us would’ve done some damage if you hadn’t been there.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Barnes says. 

“I know. That’s… sort of my point. Did everything I was supposed to do, and it only set the kid off. If you hadn’t been there, tonight would’ve been a disaster.” Slade clears his throat and finishes brusquely, “Look, you’re both absolutely goddamn certifiable, nobody’s arguin’ that. But — all your broken pieces fit each other’s.”

Barnes physically shivers, closing his eyes for a moment as he takes a deep breath. Slade hands him the bottle, watches him fill his empty teacup and drain it in one gulp. He grimaces. 

“Don’t — don’t tell him, okay?” Barnes asks weakly. 

Slade gives him a long, incredulous look before shaking his head. “Of course I won’t. But you should.” 

“He doesn’t — it’s not —” 

“Look,” Slade says cautiously. “I'm not one to offer advice, usually, but — somehow I’m the most emotionally intelligent person in this apartment, so. I’m just gonna say it. As somebody who… spent a whole lifetime not telling people I loved them? Don’t fuckin’ do that.” 

“Emotionally intelligent might’ve been stretching it,” Barnes says bitchily.  

“You’re blind if you don’t see the way he trusts you,” Slade says. “And this is coming from the guy missing an eye.” 

“Trust isn’t the same as love.”

“No, and I bet it’s a lot harder to come by for somebody like Jason. Just talk to him.” 

“But —” 

“I’d bet a good chunk of money that the kid thinks you’ve been sticking with him because it’s convenient,” Slade says. Barnes recoils. “He’s the kinda person who — unless you say it flat-out, no room for interpretation, he’s going to assume the worst. Gonna be like everything else he wants; he won’t accept it until you hold him down and make him take it.” 

Barnes blinks at him a few times. He’s holding his breath, and there’s a raw, tumultuous expression in his eyes, more emotion than Slade’s seen from him all night.

He finally sighs, raking his hair back from his forehead, and snaps, “Shit.” He fills the teacup with vodka again and takes another hefty slug.

Yeah, that’s love.

Slade leaves a note for Jason, and Bucky is reminded, yet again, that Slade’s much more of a gentleman than most people give him credit for. 

“He’d probably like to see you again,” Bucky says quietly, as they pause by the front door. “If that’s something you’re interested in.” 

“And you?” Slade asks, sharp and perceptive. 

For Jason’s sake, Bucky forces himself to be honest about it: “I’m trying to figure out… some things. And I’m not opposed to experimenting with the one person I know can go toe-to-toe with me.” The one person he’s on speaking terms with, at least. Bucky frowns. “It’s still difficult being close to people other than him. But I think it’s probably good for me. And you — you’re good to him. So.” 

“Any time,” Slade says quietly. “Thanks for trusting me with him. It’s been a while since —” He hesitates, shakes his head. “Never mind. Just, thanks.” 

He pauses, waits for Bucky to take the lead, and that’s the main reason Bucky feels comfortable enough to step in and rock up on his tiptoes for another kiss. The thrill up his spine is becoming familiar; it’s a warning, a proximity alarm, but he ignores that and focuses on the unsettling warmth in his gut, the knowledge that this is another apex predator who could rip out his throat. It probably shouldn’t be a turn-on, but it is. 

Slade leaves. Bucky locks the door behind him and then just stands there for a moment, leaning his forehead against it, breathing. 

He wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t sleep much, and at this point in the night, he’d usually be curled up on the couch with a book or prowling around the streets looking for a fight. But right now he can’t imagine not being close to Jason. He turns off the living room light and pads quietly through the dark bedroom to the balcony. He smokes a cigarette, watching Jason sleep through the door.  

One of the first things he did when they moved in was install bulletproof glass with a fancy blackout feature — because it’s one thing to be confident in his ability to keep Jason safe, and another thing entirely to be a careless idiot. Because Jason, for all his strength and intelligence and fierce self-sufficiency, is terrifyingly human under all that defensive armor. 

Human, and vulnerable. When he lets his guard down, he does so completely. 

Bucky almost forgot, until tonight, how lucky he is to have been entrusted with that vulnerability. Jason doesn’t give up his armor easily. Tonight, for example — even when he was naked and covered in Slade’s handprints, he didn’t know how to let himself be defenseless for Slade in the way that’s become second nature with Bucky. Jason didn’t fall asleep until the door closed behind Slade. 

The worst part is, he’s pretty sure Slade was right. He’s pretty sure that Jason has trusted far fewer people than he’s loved, in his lifetime. 

Jason snuffles in his sleep, rolling onto his back to sprawl out, pale skin and bruises and scars on display, and something clenches around Bucky’s ribcage. It’s so much bigger than want; he recognizes that now. Because yeah, he’s vaguely turned on, has been all night, stuck in the tingly pre-arousal state even when he’s not actually hard, but this has nothing to do with that. 

Bucky wants to open him up, tug at the thread of that white Y-shaped scar until it pulls apart like a seam, burrow inside, curl up under Jason’s skin, where Jason would have to cut him out to get rid of him. 

“The kid thinks you’ve been sticking with him because it’s convenient, ” Slade said, and Bucky’s worried he was right about that too. 

He goes inside. Locks the door, flips the switch to black out the glass. There’s still enough ambient light that when he slides into bed and scoots close, Bucky can see the way Jason stirs, the way he opens his eyes, lashes fluttering, and then smiles, soft and intimate and sweet. 

“Goddammit,” Bucky sighs. 

“Hmm?” Jason asks, half-asleep and slurring. “‘Sup?” 

Everything Bucky should say gets tangled up in his chest, choking him. Emotional overload. System jammed. Insufficient processing power. 

Doesn’t seem fair; he only just got used to having feelings again, and now Slade expects him to talk about them? 

“Feelin’ okay?” is what he says instead. 

Jason scoots closer, curling up on his side and giving Bucky a hazy blink. “Mmm.” 

“Was that what you wanted?” 

“...yeah.” 

“That wasn’t convincing.”

Jason makes a face and says, "It was an old fantasy. Shit's more complicated now." 

"Fair enough." 

“I thought it’d be easier,” Jason admits quietly. 

“Hm?” 

“It was… good,” Jason says. “Real good, like, holy hell, but — think he kinda reminded me that I’m not — that I’m really fucking fucked up.” 

Bucky huffs out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, you n’ me both.” 

A little frown line appears in Jason’s forehead, and his puffy, perfect mouth turns down at the corners. 

“What is it?” Bucky asks. 

“You’d tell me, right?” 

“Hm?” 

“If I was asking for too much? I know I can be… too much. You’d say no?” 

“Y’know, he asked me the same fucking question?” Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “When I tell you that I like all the shit you ask me for — what do you think I mean by that?” Because he has told Jason, over and over, and he’s not sure why they’re having this conversation again. 

“That you — that you’re fine with it?” Jason says hesitantly. “That it doesn’t… bother you.” 

Goddammit. Unless you say it flat-out, no room for interpretation, he’s going to assume the worst.  

Right again. 

Bucky sighs. “Everybody’s wired differently. Right?” 

“Yeah, I get it, to each his own,” Jason says impatiently. “But the shit that gets me off —” 

“I need you to shut up if I’m gonna get this out,” Bucky blurts out. 

There’s a long moment of silence before Jason nods. 

“I wasn’t always wired this way,” Bucky says. “I remember being different. Before. Hydra — without getting into too much detail, they re-wired me. Re-programmed me.” Bucky waits a moment for that to sink in, understanding dawning in Jason’s eyes, accompanied by a vague nausea. Then he says, “Yeah, it’s exactly what you think.”

“Oh,” Jason says, soft and sad. 

“It’s not that the rest of me wants those things. They had to train that into me separate from the rest of what they did to my head. And now, morally, not a fan. But, y’know. My dick likes it. That’s what gets me off: pain, humiliation, violence. Luckily I happen to be fucking somebody who gets off on being hurt, humiliated, and violated.” He can see the little flinch in Jason’s face as he processes the words. “Do you think I’m a bad person for that?” 

“Of course not,” Jason says immediately. “But —” 

“So why do you blame yourself for the way you are?” 

“It’s different!” 

“It’s really not. Thanks to factors we couldn’t control, we’re wired to get off on shit that the rest of us finds ethically questionable.” 

After a long moment of silence, Jason asks, “What if we hadn’t met?” 

“Hmm?” Bucky says, instead of admitting that he can’t even consider the idea without feeling like he’s losing his grip on the side of a train. 

“I mean, yeah, it’s lucky. I just — what would you have done?” 

“Not had sex, probably?” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh that sounds more bitter than it should. “Because, honestly, I don’t care enough about sex to pursue it. Don’t care about my body’s needs in general, really. And like I said, the rest of me doesn’t want the same things. My head, my heart, whatever.” 

Jason is watching him, heavy brows furrowed, eyes puzzled. Thinking it through. 

“Look, sex is… secondary,” Bucky says slowly. “I like it; I really fucking like it, with you. But.” Bucky takes a deep breath and grits his teeth. “The rest of me? That’s more important. And the rest of me wants you in a way I can’t imagine wanting anybody else.” 

“You mean —” 

“You fucking idiot, you know what I mean,” Bucky growls. 

“Oh,” Jason says, in a soft, punched-out huff of air. 

“Jesus, just... come here?” Bucky says.

He grabs Jason, yanks him in, but Jason was already reaching out too, pressing closer, panting into the desperate, biting kiss. Jason starts rolling his hips, pressing a thigh between Bucky’s legs, making him hiss and rock against it, getting hard so fast he can barely breathe. 

“Goddammit, Jay,” Bucky whispers. "Aren't you worn out by now?"

“Don’t care,” Jason says huskily, shoving Bucky’s sweatpants down and climbing on top of him.  

“You can't honestly expect that to feel good right now," Bucky grunts. 

“Not gonna come again, I just — just want you inside me, please.” Jason spits into his hand, wet and messy, and smears it up Bucky’s length. “I gotta — gotta feel you, c’mon, I —”

Then he shifts into place, rubbing the head of Bucky’s dick against his puffy, used hole with a low moan, and Bucky, all enhancements aside, is only fucking human. 

He plants his feet on the bed, and presses up into him inch by inch, savoring Jason’s drawn-out gasping groan, equal parts pain and pleasure.

“Jesus, you’re — all fuckin’ loose and wet like a girl right now. Still fucking dripping, god.” Bucky rocks up into him again, torturously slow. 

“Fuck me,” Jason snaps. 

Bucky grabs him by the hips, rolling him onto his back without pulling out, driving into him so hard Jason throws his head back on the pillow with a cry that’s half-moan, half-scream. 

“Sound like a fuckin’ whore, you know that?” Bucky says. He can’t help the way his voice comes out fond and soft, incongruous against the skin-on-skin slap of his next brutal thrust. He reaches down to pinch Jason’s nipple, feeling the shudder that goes through him in response, the immediate squeeze of his body all velvet and hot around Bucky’s dick. 

When he straightens up again, he adjusts his grip, lifting Jason’s hips off the bed. He grinds in deep and delivers a quick, sharp smack to Jason’s ass with the metal hand, and Jason clenches around Bucky so tight it hurts — but that’s got to be nothing on how much it hurts Jason. His back is arched, his entire gorgeous muscled body straining with the tension, hands scrabbling in the sheets looking for something to hold onto as Bucky starts to fuck him in earnest. 

“Liar,” Bucky says.

Jason stares up at him dazedly. “What?” 

“Just told me you weren’t gonna come again,” Bucky says, and he shoots a pointed look down at Jason’s dick, hard and heavy and bouncing slightly with the impact of every thrust. 

“There’s no way,” Jason says, with a breathless little laugh.  

“Bullshit.” When Bucky wraps a hand around his dick, it’s rock-hard, veins standing out against silky, hot skin. 

“Fuck,” Jason yelps, as Bucky strokes him, too fast and too dry. There are tears in his lashes. “Too much. I can’t.” 

“Bullshit,” Bucky says again, and punctuates the word with a sharp, jolting thrust, changing the angle in a way that makes Jason groan. “Does that hurt?” 

“God, yeah,” Jason chokes out, face all screwed up. 

“Good,” Bucky snarls, and snaps his hips with so much force that Jason’s pushed up the bed a couple inches. He’s starting to get that glazed, overwhelmed look in his eyes. “I want it to hurt. Want you to feel me for a week. Every time you sit down, every time you move, want you to remember this.” Bucky smacks him again, right on the perfect bruised curve of his ass. 

Jason’s spine bows up like he was electrocuted, and he cries out. “I can’t.” 

“Wasn’t a question,” Bucky says. He pulls himself back, bracing his hands on either side of Jason’s head and stares down at him, rolling his hips, slow but deep. Jason grits his teeth and squirms, shaking his head from side to side. “You can, and you will, because I said so. I’m not giving you a choice here, sweetheart.” 

A fat tear wells up and trickles down into Jason’s hairline as he lets out a quiet curse. 

“Jesus,” Bucky whispers. “You really have no idea, do you?” He bends to lick the next teardrop from Jason’s temple before claiming his mouth in another vicious kiss, tugging at his swollen lip with his teeth, until he tastes copper mingling with the salt. “I like it when you cry. Makes me so fuckin’ hard I can barely stand it.” 

“Stop,” Jason groans. “God, don’t —” 

“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky whispers. He’s already hovering right on the edge of the point of no return, heat simmering through him, threatening to boil over. “If you wanna struggle and fight and act like you hate it, go right ahead. I like it when you fight back. I wanna hurt you, Jay.” 

Jason shudders. He draws a breath like he’s going to say something. Instead he grabs Bucky by the hair and yanks him into a violent kiss. Bucky grinds into the living blood-hot clench of his body and crushes their mouths together, over and over again. 

Bucky barely remembers what it was like to be whole, and at the moment, he doesn’t care. He’s so deep inside Jason that it doesn’t matter; it doesn’t matter that they’re both broken, fucked up beyond repair, because they’re this close together it’s impossible to tell whose skin is whose — whose scars are whose. 

He still wants to get closer. 

Jason’s clawing at him, fingers raking down his back, tilting his hips up to meet each thrust, even as he gasps, “Stop.”

“Not until you come for me.” He pulls back just enough to get a hand on Jason again, and to get a look at his face, his wide, shocked eyes and his slack mouth. “Hell, not even then. Gonna keep you. Just like this, keep you in my bed all fucked-out and crying for me to use whenever I want.” 

Jason’s still thrashing and squirming. He lets out a mangled whine that sounds like, “Asshole.” 

“Doesn’t matter if you try to run, I’ll tie you up if I have to. Gonna hold you down and fuck you until you forget all about anything else. You’re not getting away from me any time soon, you hear me?” 

One last hitching cry, and Jason spasms around him, mouth dropping open as he comes, nearly dry. The first shockwave of it makes him go tense, paralyzed, but the second wracks him with tremors. Bucky braces himself to get better leverage, fucking into him hard and fast and relentless, trying to keep his eyes open to watch the way Jason writhes and shakes under him — but all it takes is a handful of thrusts before his orgasm crests like a rogue wave, and pulls him under.  

The first thing he’s aware of is the way Jason’s shivering, trembling violently through the aftershocks. The second is the way he’s sobbing, so intense that each ragged cry sounds like it’s wrenched out of him. 

“Jay?”

“I’m fine,” Jason snarls. “Fuck off.” 

But Bucky knows him; he knows that when Jason says I’m fine, it usually means I’m terrified, and when Jason says fuck off, it usually means don’t leave me.  

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky promises. 

Jason shoves at him weakly, sucking in big ragged gulps of air, like he’s drowning. 

“Struggle as much as you want, won’t make a difference,” Bucky murmurs, so tenderly it comes out more like I love you. 

He holds on, waiting, until Jason stops fighting and lets himself be held.