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Chapter Text

Boring. None of the jokes and jabs about gems—and Slade knows countless—tell you how very boring being a gem is.

It's easy enough to speculate and jeer about sex-crazed gems who can't get enough of their masters and are only good for spreading their legs and swallowing cock. It's even easier to choke on jealousy thinking about those gems allowed to plunge their hard, dripping cocks into their mistresses and tongue greedy high-class cunts for hours at a time. Maybe even fuck an ass or two for a more adventurous lord.

And gems make it so easy to hate them, walking around with their heads high, showing off their expensive collars and believing themselves better than any other slave out there.

Slade doesn't know a shield or a free man who doesn't have a fantasy or a dozen about pushing a gem against a wall and fucking the arrogance out of them. If it weren't for the fact that it'd get anyone stupid enough to try it killed in an extremely painful way—the nightmare inducing painful way people tell horror stories about centuries later—there'd be many more attempts.

As it is, all anyone can do is secretly or not so secretly hope for a gem to be stupid enough to anger their master or mistress into ordering a public Lapidary.

Slade's cock stirs a bit in memory. He’s witnessed it twice in his life, a master choosing Lapidary as punishment—tying their gem to the columns at the center of the market square and declaring them open season to anyone willing, free man or slave. Twelve days notice to make sure people from other cities have time to travel in if they choose—and so so many do, using a gem no matter how disgraced is the opportunity of a lifetime for the simple folk; anyone who can afford to travel finds the time—and then the fucking starts.

As death sentences go, Slade prefers the clean beheading reserved for shields. The last time Lapidary was applied, the gem lasted three weeks before he finally died. Piss and come the only nourishment keeping the poor thing alive while rows of travelers came to fuck him until he finally managed to die, torn and dirty and used-up, worst than the lowest of rags, a far sight from the arrogant gem he'd probably been at one point. Slade hadn't known him, but he sure as hell had been happy to get his cock into that torn-open hole that couldn't even close by the time it was his turn to fuck it. It had felt great, seeing at least one gem brought low.

And now here he is, one of them. The leather collar with Apollo's symbol is like a noose around his neck. Whenever he swallows, his throat brushes against it. It's not the sturdy, practical collar of a shield, but a thin, soft, expensive leather with the words "Lord Apollo's Gem" beautifully embroidered in gold and impossible to miss.

Of all the slave collars Slade's worn in his life, Apollo's is the heaviest for all that it is the finest made.

It's almost impossible to squeeze a finger between the leather and the skin of his neck. There's no give. A tight fit. A gem's fit. Nothing like the standard two finger width space that shields', rags' and plows' collars have. After all, they have to work for their existence: hard, honest work. Gems only need to look pretty, and moan, and choke for the masters' pleasure.

...and wilt from boredom when their masters aren't around to play with them.

No wonder most of them are so sex-crazed. Even Slade is counting the hours for Apollo to return from his Council meeting. He has nothing to do but wait. Nothing!

No training. No task. No work. No reason to mind the perimeter or attend to security or supervise other slaves. What do real gems do when they aren't fucking? Slade knew better than to talk to gems when he was a shield, so he doesn't know.

Of all his former owners, Lady Hive might have been the only one who'd have allowed Slade the liberty to address her gems, had she had any, but she always claimed that gems were something only insecure lords and ladies needed. A waste of good gold better invested otherwise.

Dispose of it. Even after so long, her words still echo in his mind.

Slade stands up, angry at himself. Dwelling on the past is useless. He is a gem now. Apollo's gem. Not a shield. Never again a shield. I'm my master's gem.

More than three years and the words still feel wrong in his mind, despite the way the magic tingles warmly and eagerly inside his chest whenever he remembers the gem binding.

Slade's anger spikes, at Apollo, at himself, at the stupid Council for being so eager to please the Head of the Mage Authority that they sold Slade to Apollo instead of giving him the clean beheading a feral shield warranted.

The urge to slam his fist against something is overwhelming. What's wrong with him? And where is Midnighter anyway? Maybe Slade can convince him to spar now that Apollo's has finally lifted the ban.

He doesn't find Midnighter in any of the usual places Mid likes to linger while he waits for Apollo's return. He's probably watching over Jason on Apollo's orders, making sure Apollo's newest gem doesn't tear himself apart while no one is watching.

Half the time, Slade can't believe the boy's truly feral. He's so pathetically broken. How in the name of the Empire did the kid find enough courage to kill his old master? He's terrified of breathing without Apollo telling him he's allowed.

"You! Where's Midnighter?" Slade barks at a rag cleaning the windows of the hall.

The girl flinches at his tone and hurries to answer, "In the library, Gem."

The deferential treatment angers him even more, and Slade has to fight the sudden urge to slam the girl against the wall and show her her place. She already knows her place. She's nothing but a rag and she knows it. A wrong word, a false accusation and Slade could get her sold.

It's what every slave thinks gems would do. Don't touch a gem. Don't cross a gem. Don't fuck a gem. The three rules every slave knows years before they are old enough for their first auction. Good breeders make sure to teach their stock how to behave, lest masters and mistresses stop buying from them because their merchandise isn't trained properly.

Slade wonders if the rag will joke about him in the safety of the kitchens, the way Slade used to do about other gems when he still was a shield. The desire to snarl at her and force her to her knees is overwhelming.

What's wrong with him?

He walks away, barely resisting the urge to shoulder-slam the unlucky girl. It's just—he needs to do something, anything to distract himself. The boredom is driving him mad.

Jason's voice carries through the open door of the library, a melodic cadence to his words, almost like music, even though he isn't singing. Slade stops to listen. Poetry. Some romantic nonsense about the color of someone's eyes and flowers and broken hearts and blood spilled for love.

Midnighter is leaning on the cushions on the broad marble windowsill. It's the brightest spot in the room, designed for resting and reading. Sunlight streams through the windows the way Apollo likes it. Jason is sitting between Midnighter's legs, back resting on his chest and head tucked beneath Mid's chin.

Midnighter's eyes dart to Slade, instantly aware of his presence, but he doesn't move otherwise, content to stay still and listen to Jason read. With his legs spread and bent to accommodate Jason, Midnighter's tunic has moved up all the way to his hips. His sun-tanned skin gleams with the golden powder that is mixed into the oil the rags rub on their bodies every morning after their bath. Another luxury only gems enjoy, another thing Slade loathes but doesn't have the power to stop.

I like my gems to glitter prettily for me, darling. One of the hundred things Apollo has never been willing to compromise on.

Shields don't get to bathe every morning in warm, scented water, and they don't have rags carefully massaging expensive oils into their bodies until their skins glow soft and moist under the sunlight. They aren't treated like something delicate and precious. True shields are fighters, warriors, not useless accessories bred to kneel and yield.

Slade's eyes catch on the enticing, barely visible edge of Midnighter's buttocks and his cock stirs with interest.

What's wrong with him? He wasn't like this before. He wasn't! He shared public baths with fellow shields, warriors as strong and imposing as Midnighter and Slade never desired them—not like this. Sex was a fun pastime, something he enjoyed but could do without if the opportunity didn't arise. He liked it well enough but he didn't—there wasn't this constant craving in him. Slade loathes it.

"How can you stand such trite drivel?" He interrupts Jason's reading, voice sharper and meaner than he intends.

Jason stops at once and shrinks into Midnighter's body, frightened eyes taking Slade in with wariness. It kindles Slade's anger further. Not at Jason. It's not the kid's fault that Slade is in such a foul mood, but just... The way he cowers makes Slade want to lash out.

"I like it." It's Midnighter who answers, unbothered by Slade's outburst. He caresses Jason's arm soothingly. "Keep reading. I want to know how it ends."

"He loves her, but oh, no, she's another lord's gem," Slade jeers mockingly. "What a tragedy!" he says in an overly dramatic tone, and then snorts with contempt. "Everyone knows how it ends in the real world. He'll go to the same breeder, buy a younger sister from the same stock and fuck her instead. No one cares!" Slade snarls.

Jason shrinks further. Slade hates that the kid is afraid of him even though he knows he's the one to blame. He's being an antagonistic ass, but just... He is not a nice man. He's not going to change just because the kid can't hear two harsh words without going to his knees or trying to hurt himself. Jason will just have to learn to deal.

Unless Apollo interferes again. He's made it clear that he doesn't like Slade being Slade around the kid. There's the anger again, hotter than before.

"I care," Mid says, and throws Slade a warning look. Another one who's made it clear he'll side with Jason if push comes to shove.

Slade glowers. "I want to spar. You can read that crap later. The book isn't gonna go away."

"When Apollo is back," Midnighter agrees. "He likes to watch."

"I don't care what he likes!" He ignores the jab of pain from the slave brand on his chest. He's had worse. "I want to spar now." If Slade doesn't burn the excess energy in him, he's going to implode. Or explode. Probably at Apollo, in the worst possible moment.

He's terrified of that. Apollo's punishments are insidious. They aren't unnecessarily cruel, but they are clever and effective.

Slade's disobeyed owners before. He took risks. A beating or a lashing never deterred him much. They hurt, sure, but Slade healed and in the end, he seldom regretted what he did that got him punished in the first place. The same way he never regretted killing Lady Hive. If he had to do it again, knowing how it'd end, he'd do it without blinking. The only regret he has is not having done it sooner.

Apollo's punishments are different. He seldom uses violence or pain. There aren't beatings or lashings, not even something as basic as withholding food. It's the reason why people believe he's an indulgent master.

People are idiots.

Apollo is a patient master, Slade will grant that, the most patient master Slade's ever known. But when he's truly displeased... when there's something he wants Slade never to do again... By the time he's done, Slade is unmade at Apollo's feet, broken in ways he didn't know it was possible to break, fervently wishing he'd never done whatever it was he did to earn himself Apollo's displeasure.

I exist to answer His desire. Slade loathes those words, even if he can't deny the truth of them. Not anymore.

But there's displeasing Apollo, and there's displeasing Apollo. There are complex layers to it that Slade has learned to navigate over the years.

A spar isn't something Apollo will mind too much, especially if Midnighter uses that mouth of his to ask for forgiveness. "Come on, Mid, I'm bored."

Midnighter sighs. "You could listen to Jason read. The story is actually quite good."

Slade glares at him. "I could also stab myself with a kitchen knife and wait for the wound to heal and then stab myself again."

"I can read something else if you want," Jason offers in a small voice, looking to the floor, too afraid to meet Slade's eye. "Are there stories you like better?"

The kid's trying to be nice. He's always trying to be so nice. It won't make Slade like him more. Slade doesn't want him here, stealing Midnighter's attention with stupid stories, making Apollo punish Slade because he isn't mindful enough of Jason's fears. There's no way to be mindful of the kid's fears. He's scared of his own shadow! Slade can't stand him! Everything was better before.

"What I want to do is spar," Slade snaps, "and you're getting in the way. Leave before I make you."

"I'd like to see you try," Midnighter says, a dark edge to his voice Slade has never heard before.

Well, if Midnighter doesn't want a friendly spar, Slade will turn it into a real fight if he has to, Apollo's punishment be damned.

"Who's gonna stop me? You?" He lets contempt drip into his voice. Midnighter is an excellent fighter, but in the three years since they've known each other, he hasn't managed to defeat Slade once.

"If you make me," Midnighter says, voice icily cold. "Don't make me."

Something in Midnighter's tone gives Slade pause. A part of him wants to back down. This is stupid; he isn't angry at Midnighter or even the kid. He doesn't know who he's angry at.

A true fight will displease Apollo. Truly displease him.

And you only exist to please him these days, don't you? It's his own voice whispering mockingly in the back of his head. Slade's shield voice. Deathstroke's voice.

Suddenly, breaking Apollo's rule isn't just willful defiance. It's a necessity, a bone-deep need so powerful that Slade can't think beyond it.

"You don't have what it takes to stop me, Gem." He wields the word like a knife aimed to cut Midnighter.

"Mid, no! You'll get in trouble." Jason's voice is high and scared. He clutches at Midnighter's arm desperately when Midnighter pushes him softly away and stands up. "You'll anger the kind master."

Midnighter shrugs, slowly prying Jason's hand away, attention fully on Slade. "Apollo will have to deal."

Good. They are on the same page then.

"Mid, please, don't do it," Jason pleads. "You'll get punished. Please!" The kid's breath is heaving and he's seconds away from falling into one of those crazy spells of his.

Slade sees the hesitation on Midnighter's face, the way his attention wanders back to the crying boy. Slade can't have that. "Robin, stop being such a pathetic, piss poor excuse for a gem and shut up!"

The effect is immediate. Jason gasps and his eyes go to Slade and something in him breaks. He screams as though he's being murdered. Then, just as abruptly as it started, he stops. For a moment Slade is afraid the boy has stopped breathing altogether. His body is there in the room, but his eyes are completely empty.

"What did you do?" Midnighter asks slowly.

The library seems darker, as though all the light is being leached away. The air crackles with magic. Not just any magic, but Death Magic. Slade's only ever seen it on the battlefield before, wielded by invaders from the North. Death Magic is forbidden in the Empire.

Is Midnighter a Death Mage? That's impossible. Mages aren't slaves, and Death Mages aren't allowed to exist. The Council would never condone it.

But even though every rational thought in him is telling him that it's impossible, Slade knows what he's seeing. The light in the room is gone and death looms closer, eager to strike. Its presence is undeniable.

Slade swallows. "Mid, calm down." He tries to make his voice even and soothing.

"What did you do to Jason, Slade?" The room temperature drops further and when Midnighter speaks the words are like the edge of a knife pressing against Slade's neck, one breath away from becoming lethal.

A light appears next to Midnighter, smaller than a walnut but so intense that it blinds Slade when his eye wanders towards it. It expands, piercing through the darkness, widening. Apollo steps through and the portal closes behind him, leaving the library swallowed by shadows once more.

"What's going on here?" Apollo's voice is like a whip, laced with the kind of anger Slade spent the last three years learning to fear.

"Midnighter, you will control yourself immediately," Apollo says. It's not an order. It's a statement of fact. Something that will be done because Apollo wills it so.

Midnighter closes his eyes and breathes in and out. The room temperature rises and the shadows fade slowly as the natural daylight creeps back through the windows.

"As you will it, Master," Midnighter answers at last. He seems deceptively normal. Not... whatever it is Slade saw before.

Apollo snaps his fingers once, the sound that means he wants Midnighter's attention, and points to his feet. Midnighter sends one last poisonous glare at Slade, before he walks across the room and kneels at Apollo's right.

Slade swallows nervously, unsure of what to do. Did Apollo notice? Slade doesn't want to see Midnighter executed, but surely if Apollo noticed, he would have to do it. Death Magic is forbidden.

Apollo holds Midnighter's chin with his hand and caresses the corners of his mouth tenderly. "Thank you, love."

Apollo knows. Apollo knows. He didn't just find out. He already knew it.

Why is Midnighter alive? Apollo better than most understands the kind of destruction Death Mages wreak. Slade saw what one of them did during the Northern Wars. A whole army of the best soldiers and shields the Empire had, felled by a single mage, and all surrounding areas razed to the ground within seconds. Decades later the land is still scorched. Nothing grows on those fields.

Even the Triumvirate hadn't been strong enough to fight the Death Mage. They needed... the Authority. They needed Apollo. Of course Apollo knows exactly what it is he owns. He's owned Midnighter for over five years.

Apollo knows.

"Master," Midnighter's voice hitches, and he presses his forehead against Apollo's thigh, burying his face into the folds of Apollo's white toga.

"Hush. Just kneel and breathe for me, love, that's all you have to do." Apollo pets Midnighter's head tenderly until Midnighter’s breathing evens out and the tension uncoils from his shoulders. "Close your eyes. Keep breathing nice and steady for me. Stay here and don't move," he orders, caressing Midnighter's head one last time before letting go.

"Yes, Master," Midnighter says, and it's not Midnighter's usual defiance disguised as lip-service. This is how Midnighter sounds when he's riding the heights of absolute obedience only gems understand, the complete surrender of self for a master's pleasure.

That's another thing other slaves don't know. No slave is owned as intimately, as thoroughly, as pervasively as a gem is. Gems aren't a tool in a master's hand, they are an extension of the master's will, something incomplete and desperate and hungry, which can only ever be whole when the master is near.

Apollo goes to Jason next and shakes the boy's shoulder softly, but Jason doesn't react. Not when Apollo touches him, nor when he speaks to him, not even when Apollo places his hand on Jason's slave's brand and pushes waves of magic through it. Jason's chest lights up, Apollo's brand pulsing with power, but Jason's remains still, his mind gone to whatever dark corner Slade's words sent it.

After a small eternity Apollo stops trying, and his attention shifts to Slade.

Slade does his best to control the turmoil of his thoughts. Goosebumps rise across the skin of his neck and arms. His heart rams against his ribcage like a spooked stallion as Apollo moves inexorably closer.

There's no place for Slade to run. He goes to his knees without a conscious decision on his part: The basic survival instinct of a slave who knows the only thing left to him is his master's mercy.

"Master." The word is feeble and weak in Slade's suddenly too dry throat. The collar tightens around his neck as though it somehow senses Apollo's anger and is reacting to it, keeping Slade constrained. Or maybe it's just the sudden, paralyzing fear playing havoc with Slade's mind.

Apollo has never looked at Slade that way before. He doesn't look angry—Apollo never looks angry—but his eyes still glow with the remains of whatever magic he tried on Jason and despite the light, or because of it, his face seems cold and otherworldly. Slade can't breathe, can barely think. At that moment, he's acutely conscious of the fact that Apollo has been the Head of the Mage Authority for over a decade and no one, no one, no matter how powerful could get that position and maintain it by being merciful.

"Darling," Apollo's voice caresses the word, deceptively soft.

The worst of Apollo's punishments start with that word—the best of his rewards, too—and Slade doesn't know if he craves or hates the sound of it coming from Apollo's lips.

"Please explain to me what happened. I was in the middle of a Council meeting—a rather boring one, I'll admit—when Jason's bond flared with absolute terror and Midnighter's with absolute fury. It's been a months since I felt terror on quite that scale from Jason and years since Midnighter let his control slip this much."

There's a part of Slade that, despite his fear, is stuck on the realization that Apollo knowingly owns a feral Death Mage. Who is insane enough to turn a feral Death Mage into a gem?

"You seem to be the only one who managed to somehow keep a level head," Apollo continues conversationally, as if he's talking to a casual acquaintance he just met in the Sunday market. "So please explain to me in detail what happened."

No matter how he turns the events in his head, all of it comes back to him. Slade won't be able to talk himself out of it. It'd require a lie, and while the slave bond lets him get away with lies of omission and misdirection it'd never allow him to outright lie to Apollo.

"I asked Midnighter to spar with me to pass the time while we waited for your return," he says at last. That's the easiest part.

"I see," Apollo says, sounding much too calm. He doesn't point out that sparring is something they are allowed to do because it pleases Apollo to watch them fight for his entertainment.

"Midnighter wanted to wait until you were home," Slade points out.

Mid is in enough trouble as it is. Despite Apollo's deceptive calmness, Slade is certain that Midnighter broke one of Apollo's hard limits by losing control like that. The fact that in over three years Slade has never seen it happen once is proof that it's not the kind of misbehavior Apollo is willing to ignore.

"We fought about it." It's hard to look at Apollo for the next part, but Slade forces himself to. "Jason got in the way. I snapped at him, and he..." Slade shrugs. "You know what Jason's like. I wasn't trying to—"

The brand on his chest burns, and his lips can't shape the words to form the lie. Yes, Slade was absolutely trying to hurt the boy. "My words were ill chosen," he gasps, and the pain fades. "I didn't expect him to react that strongly." That much is true.

Apollo's fingers trace the side of Slade's face, but it's the way his thumb brushes over Slade's eyepatch softly that betrays how very angry he is. Slade hates anyone touching his eyepatch, and Apollo only ever does it when he's about to destroy Slade's sense of self until all Slade knows how to be is Apollo's gem.

"What did you say to him?" Apollo asks, and the words are like Apollo's fingers on his face, a gentle promise of punishment to come.

Slade swallows. Apollo's thumb brushes over the leather of the eyepatch over and over, patiently waiting. Another master would repeat the question, bark it, demand an immediate answer. Apollo waits, confident that Slade will obey him.

The worst part is that he's right. Slade will obey.

"I called him Robin," he whispers.

Apollo's thumb stops mid motion, that brief pause the only tell in his otherwise calm facade. "You called my gem by an expunged name?"

Phrased like that, the offense seems worse.

Slade did it because he knew it'd make Jason flinch and back off. When Jason forgets Apollo's rules—not that he ever does it on purpose—he sometimes backslides and starts calling himself Robin and useless and bad gem while trying to tear himself apart with teeth and nails or whatever sharp instrument or blunt surface he can find near.

It was easy to throw those words at Jason. It's what Slade, the shield, was trained to do—find a weak spot and aim for it with whatever weapon is at hand. Jason is covered in weak spots and all he ever does is hand other people weapons to better hurt him with. It's hard for Slade to stop himself sometimes.

But Robin was Napier's name for Jason. That in itself should have stopped Slade from ever using it. A name is the first thing a slave loses when ownership is transferred. Calling a slave by an expunged name is a punishable offense by the laws of the Empire.

It's a master prerogative to name their property. Apollo chose Jason as a name. For as long as Jason is Apollo's that's the only name anyone is allowed to use for him.

Five lashes, the standard punishment for misnaming a slave. Slade had often wielded the whip himself during war campaigns, back when he was Deathstroke, back when he was a shield. He'd been trusted then, with the discipline of the camp's slaves, with the Empire's protection, with his masters' lives.

He misses being a shield more than he misses his eye. All he has now is this: kneeling at Apollo's feet, cowering beneath him. Yielding.

"I wasn't thinking, Master."

"No, you weren't," Apollo agrees, and resumes the stroking motion over Slade's eyepatch. "The rest of it."

"The rest, Master?"

Apollo smiles down at him, and his thumb digs into the eyepatch with slightly more pressure, pushing the soft leather into the empty socket. "I've owned Midnighter for a long time now, darling. I might or might not believe that misnaming Jason was enough to turn him catatonic, but it wouldn't be enough to make Midnighter lose control like he did. The rest of it. Now. What else did you do?"

Without the layer of anger clouding his judgment, his words to Jason sound needlessly cruel. The kid didn't deserve those words. The boy is justifiably terrified of angering masters—his body is covered in scars, each telling a horrible tale of the price he paid for disobedience. He was just trying to protect Midnighter, maybe even Slade.

Apollo sighs when Slade finishes confessing. "I will have to punish you."

"Yes, Master." Slade overstepped. This isn’t the kind of misbehavior Apollo will ignore.

"Strip." A command.

Still kneeling, he unknots the shimmery, golden belt around his hips. No point in asking Apollo for permission to rise; he will not grant it. As soon as he unties the laces holding his gem tunic in place, the white, soft silk slides down his body like water, pooling on the floor next to his knees.

His treasonous cock swells with interest. Not even the prospect of punishment is enough to stop the need kneeling naked at Apollo's feet awakens in him these days. It wasn't like this before. It used to be difficult for Apollo to get a physical reaction out of Slade.

But Apollo is like a drug that has worked itself into Slade's system. No matter how much Slade despises craving it, when the moment of truth comes, the craving wins. Slade wants. He aches with it. It wasn't like this before.

"All of it," Apollo says.

Slade frowns, confused. Only the slave collar and his wrist and ankle cuffs remain. Slade can't take those off. They're magically protected against tempering. Only Apollo can remove them. He thinks of the golden rings piercing his nipples, but those, too, only Apollo can remove.

Apollo is watching him, patiently, pointedly. Slade is about to ask for clarification, when realization dawns. The eyepatch. Slade never takes it off, only for his morning ablutions when he's alone.

In the past, sometimes, Apollo has taken it off in the privacy of the bedroom. This is worse somehow. There's a difference between Apollo—Slade's master—stripping the eyepatch from him, aware that Slade can't and won't protest, and Slade doing it himself. Like the difference between taking a knife, shielding a master in the heat of battle, and the same master handing you a knife and ordering you to ram into your chest. The same wound with the same weapon for the same master, the same end result... and yet...

Slade takes off the eyepatch and places it on the floor. His erection softens and he takes comfort in that. Gem or not, there are still limits to what his body will twist into pleasure on Apollo's say so.

"Dealing with you will have to wait," Apollo says. "I need to take care of the mess you made first."

Slade bites his tongue to stop himself from apologizing. Apollo will rip the apology from him before the night is over, but Slade will not offer it freely. His pride won't allow it.

"Go to the training room," Apollo orders.

Slade freezes. It's been over two years since he's been there. These days, all of Apollo's punishments happen in the bedroom. Sometimes they'll happen in other rooms in the mansion, when Apollo doesn’t feel like waiting, but the training room... Apollo never made him go back there after Slade passed his first public display at the year's mark of Apollo's ownership.

"M-master?" Slade hates how weak he sounds. He hates that he spoke at all. It's not as if Apollo will change his mind. Slade isn't Jason. He knows better than to hand other people weapons that will be used against him.

Apollo arches an eyebrow. "Do you think this is the type of infraction I should allow to go unpunished?"

"No, Master." He doesn't say that there are hundreds of different ways in which Apollo could choose to punish him.

"I'm aware that there are memories tied to that room that you'd rather never have to revisit," Apollo says kindly, destroying Slade's delusion that Apollo didn't know. "However, there are countless more memories tied to the words you used that Jason should never have had to relive either. Actions have consequences, darling. After we're done tonight, you'll never address Jason by any other name that the one I gave him."

"Yes, Master," Slade agrees. "I understand."

Apollo's smile widens. He leans down and brushes his lips over Slade's, the ghost of a kiss, before stepping away. "No detours. Wait for me in the training room." He pauses, and something dark and hungry ripples over his face, there and gone. "Oh, and darling, use the fifth variation of the ninth yearning while you wait for me."

Dread fills Slade. Jason is wrong. There's nothing kind about Apollo; he just hides his cruelness better.

Chapter Text

Slade's skin crawls with humiliation as he walks naked through the house. Without the eyepatch he feels bereft and exposed. Vulnerable.

It's just a strip of leather. It shouldn't change anything. He's walked naked through the house before. The rags have seen him naked before, when preparing his bath, when bringing food and refreshments into Apollo's bedroom.

"Oh, he's in trouble again," one of the rags snickers. Slade tenses but doesn't turn. They don't know he can hear them.

"That one likes getting in trouble," another rag snorts. Slade recognizes her voice, the old woman in charge of cleaning Apollo's rooms and changing the bedding. "The master will put him to rights. Wait and see, tomorrow he'll be the sweetest thing, clingier than a newborn kitten."

The two rags chuckle and Slade's face burns.

He hadn't known shame until Apollo taught it to him one training session at a time. Slade had been a proud shield. As a child, growing up in the Forces, he trained hard to be the fastest, the strongest, the quickest among all of Lord Wintergreen's stock. The best. The bidding war when Lord Wintergreen finally auctioned him set new records, and Slade took pride in that, too.

For decades he cultivated the muscle memory that allowed him to kill enemies, to win battles, to shield. Slade's body did what Slade wanted. It had been a tool at his disposal. Slade had owned his body.

He can't take pride in his body now, hairless and smooth, skin glittering with oil and scented with sandalwood: Apollo's favorite fragrance. Everything he is now, is aimed and crafted to please Apollo: the collar, the cuffs, the piercings, even his slave brand. All marks that the only thing Slade is these days is Apollo's.

But Apollo's visible marks aren't what make Slade's face flush when he hears the rags laugh behind his back.

That one likes getting in trouble.

Apollo has stripped the ownership of his body away from him. It does things Slade doesn't want it to do. It reacts to Apollo's words and touches in ways Slade loathes, but can't stop no matter how hard he tries. He can't control his body any more, and that betrayal of all a shield is supposed to be—Slade is shamed by it.

Over and over, every evening, every day, with every softly worded darling, Apollo proves to him that Slade's body is Apollo's now. Apollo owns all of him, even parts Slade didn't know could be owned.

His breathing is ragged when he stops in front of the oak doors of the training room. The door handles are made of gold—Apollo's favorite metal—shaped in the circle and triangle of Apollo's family crest. The same crest branded onto Slade, Midnighter and Jason’s chests.

The slave collar is like a noose around his neck. He can't breathe. Unbidden, the memories of his gem training resurface and his stomach churns while his cock stirs and hardens. It, too, remembers what happened beyond the doors of the training room, but where Slade loathes the memories, his treasonous cock is desperately eager for more.

Another part of Slade that's irrevocably Apollo's now.

He can't do it. He can't open the doors and go into that room and... He swallows and steps back from the door, panting, trembling, pathetic. The best shield ever bred in the Forces reduced to this. Slade wonders what Lord Wintergreen would think if he knew how easy it was to break his masterpiece.

He tells himself to open the door and go in, but he takes a step back instead, and then another, and another. He turns right down the corridor until he can no longer see the door and rests his back against the wall. His breathing is loud and ragged, labored, like a saw working at the trunk of a tree. He needs a moment. Just a moment.

"I distinctly remember saying no detours." Apollo appears in the corridor in front of Slade. Fucking magic. "Where are you going, darling?"

"Master," Slade gasps, startled. He doesn't recognize his own voice. Too dry, too weak, too other. There's fear in it. Just like shame, fear is another emotion Apollo taught to him.

Even before his very first battle, when older shields told Slade it was alright to be afraid as long as he didn't let fear rule him, Slade hadn't felt fear. All he felt was anticipation thrumming through his veins, that instinct telling him, 'Finally, finally, time to prove yourself.' And Slade had, not yet fourteen, fresh from the auction block, and he did better than most seasoned shields.

Deathstroke. He'd earned his name then. His name. Not the one written on his Writ of Ownership, granted to him by a master like a scrap of mercy, but a name Slade won for himself. He fought for it. He bled for it. It was his.

Deathstroke had been fearless and shameless. Not this.

"I—" He swallows. The apple of his throat catches on the collar. "I wanted to ... use the baths before... You said it would be a while until you would… come." It's not the truth, but it's not a lie either. Slade had thought about going to the baths, hoping to collect himself enough to be able to bear stepping into the training room.

"If you wanted leave to use the baths, you should have asked first."

"I didn't think you'd mind, Master," Slade says feebly.

"Hm." Apollo's brow furrows. "Not thinking is starting to become a troublesome habit, darling. Quit it."

Slade lowers his head. "Yes, Master."

"Fine," Apollo says after a pause. "Beg."

"Master?"

"You want to use the baths? Beg".

From the corner of lowered gaze, Slade catches the anticipatory curl of Apollo's lips. He knows this game. Apollo will make him beg only to deny him. It's one of Apollo's favorite tricks when he wants Slade brought low.

The anger is suddenly back, and Slade cradles it like a favorite sword. Better anger than fear or shame. "No." He glares at Apollo defiantly. "I'm not that desperate."

He doesn't know what he was expecting to happen next, but it isn't the way Apollo's face transforms into a delighted smile, as if Slade has given him the best gift ever. "Oh, darling, wrong choice."

"You were going to say no anyway." Fuck Apollo and his stupid mind games.

"Absolutely." Apollo grins, unrepentant, amused. "But if you'd begged prettily enough, I'd have relented in the end. In the very end. You seem to have forgotten that making you desperate is so very very easy for me."

A shiver runs up Slade's back and his skin prickles in foreboding.

"Here's another choice for you, darling," Apollo speaks as though he's dangling a treat in front of a dog. "You can either walk into the training room now, willingly, or I'll make you walk in there."

"I'll walk," Slade snaps. They both know Apollo can make him. Slade refused to go into the room once, after his third training session. He never refused again.

Apollo leans closer, looming over him. "Good choice," he whispers into Slade's ear. He plays with Slade's nipple piercing as he speaks, sending waves of unwanted and yet impossible to ignore pleasure through Slade's body. He turns Slade around and shoves him gently, when Slade's feet still refuse to move.

Slade walks.

Suddenly, the door is there again, dark and imposing. Slade can't hear anything past the blood pounding in his ears, but he can feel Apollo right behind him. His breathing ghosts over the back of Slade's neck, making Slade hyper aware of the slave's collar. The smell of sandalwood is everywhere as Apollo's perfume mixes with Slade's.

"Open the door, darling." Hot, wet air tickles against Slade's nape as Apollo speaks.

The handles are cold against Slade's warm, sweaty palms. The door unlocks with a soft click and the heavy, wooden panes move easily aside on well oiled hinges. A waft of fresh air and the fading scent of roses washes over him. Like most things in the house, the room is bright and sunny. Large windows looking into the gardens let the natural daylight stream in. He'd forgotten how friendly and welcoming the room looked. So deceptive. Just like Apollo.

An array of pillows in light pastel hues embroidered with gold and silver have been lovingly arranged over the bed on the far end of the room, making it look like an overly large divan. The bed is nothing like the current monstrosity in Apollo's bedroom, which can comfortably fit eight grown men with ease, but it's big enough for the two of them. Slade remembers that.

Vases of different sizes, brimming with sunflowers and white roses adorn the windowsills and tables. The floor is covered in thick rugs handpicked for better kneeling comfort. Apollo likes his slaves comfortable while he rips them apart.

If it weren't for the wooden cross to the left with its attached manacles and the array of floggers, riding crops, whips and toys decorating the walls and filling the shelves of the cabinets, the room might seem like just another sitting room. But it's the rug at the center, underneath the skylight, what makes Slade's breath catch.

"Easy now, darling," Apollo whispers next to Slade's ear. His body is like a furnace at Slade's back. That stupid sun magic of his, making Apollo's skin hotter than most humans. "Breathe."

Slade chokes on his next breath, only then realizing that he'd stopped breathing. All he can see is that rug. The memory of the room had faded during the last years, but Slade remembers the rug, how it responded to Apollo's voice. Its magic would creep through Slade's hands and feet, through his knees and calves. Any part of his body the rug touched, a conduit for the magic woven in it, its runes lighting up and pulsing in sync with the magic of Slade's slave binding until Slade's body stopped being his and it became Apollo's.

It started in this room, on that rug. Deathstroke died on that rug, and Apollo's gem was born.

"Please."

It takes a moment for Slade to realize that the word came from him. He hadn't meant to say it.

"It's all right, darling. Hush." Apollo sounds so fucking kind, and Slade hates it. This slow unraveling of everything that makes him him isn't kind, no matter how gentle Apollo's hands are when they push against Slade's back, forcing his feet to move. One step, and another, and then another.

He stops in front of the training rug, unable to take that final step. His breath hitches as the memories roll over him. "Not this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Master, please."

Distantly, he thinks that he sounds as pathetic as Jason, as broken. It doesn't stop the pleas spilling from his lips. Slade can't bear the touch of that magic again, erasing him from the inside, hollowing him out and leaving only an empty vessel spun out of need and desire. A hungry void yearning to be filled.

"Slade." Apollo's voice has an edge of steel to it.

"Master, I'm begging. Please." Isn't that what Apollo wanted? To hear him beg? To see him break? Slade is already broken. "Please."

"It's just a gem training rug," Apollo sighs, exasperated.

"Please." He's coming apart at the seams.

"I'm not in a particularly forgiving mood right now, darling."

"Please, Master." Slade presses against Apollo's chest, uselessly trying to put distance between himself and the rug.

Apollo's arms cradle him. He runs his hands up Slade's ribs to Slade's chest, letting his fingers ghost over Slade's nipples. He tugs at the rings, but Slade doesn't arch up in pleasure, doesn't moan, doesn't respond. All Slade feels is terror. Apollo's palm presses against his rabbit fast heartbeat and stays there. "I've never known a slave to react to a training rug the way you do." Apollo nuzzles a clammy strand of hair clinging to Slade's face away. "You'd rather battle an army by yourself than kneel on it for one second."

"Yes." The word is faint, panicky. "Please, I'm sorry. Please."

Apollo kisses the top of Slade's head. "I suppose I shall give you an out, even though you don't deserve one."

Slade sags with relief against Apollo's chest. "Thank you, Master." That mercy will cost him, and Apollo will make sure he pays, but Slade will do anything to avoid the magic woven into that cursed rug.

Apollo breathes out a laugh. "We shall see how grateful you truly are." He pulls Slade's head back by his hair, forcing his neck to arch painfully, and bites underneath the collar. Hard. "Bring me three toys you want me to use on you instead," he whispers into Slade's ear, worrying at the earlobe with his teeth. "And darling, impress me. If you don't, I'll go back to my original plan." He slaps Slade's naked ass once before stepping back. "Go."

Slade backs away from the rug almost tripping over his feet, the tension seeping out of him with every step.

The toys on the wall flicker in and out of focus as Slade stares at them, trying uselessly to make his sluggish mind snap out of its fugue state. Impress me... or else. The possibility of having to go onto the rug looms over him. Pick something. Something horrible. Apollo will know if Slade tries to cheat. He ignores the arrays of whips, floggers and canes. Slade doesn't break under pain. Shields are bred to endure pain.

No one taught Slade to endure pleasure. Until he became Apollo's, Slade hadn't known that pleasure could be wielded like a weapon, too.

"I don't have all day, darling."

Slade flinches. He picks a mean-looking tamer almost as wide as his wrist with a ridged surface and a curved tip. Like all tamers, it can be spelled to hit that cursed spot inside Slade's ass unfailingly or to never touch it at all, depending on a master's whim. Apollo likes to use spells with impossible to predict patterns that will turn Slade into a writhing, pathetic mess willing to do anything to earn release. Pleasure.

He braces himself and ignores the thundering pounding of his heart as his hand closes over a ball-stretcher. The sunlight catches on the small spikes covering the inside of the wide metal ring. The golden toy looks deceptively small in Slade's hand, delicate and pretty. Slade loathes it. Pain.

"Ooooh, what a lovely combination," Apollo coos at him. The condescension should anger him—under different circumstances it would—but with the threat of the training rug so close, it just makes him grateful. Apollo is enjoying this.

Slade's unsure about the third choice, but he settles on alligator clamps with heavy weights attached to it. Pain and pleasure.

He kneels in front of Apollo, head lowered, thighs spread as far as they can go and chest arched forward. Everything in the posture screams gem and yours and use me. He raises his hands over his head, palms up, and presents his selection.

"Hmhm." Apollo picks the toys one by one, examining them.

Slade doesn't lower his arms, waiting for Apollo to release him from the position. The lessons he learned in this room are closer to the surface than usual.

Apollo tips Slade's head up with his forefinger, and adds, "Look at me," when Slade's gaze remains lowered. "Tell me, darling, what do you want me to do with these?"

Slade flushes. Having to see the amused look on Apollo's face makes everything worse. Apollo knows exactly how to use the toys. "You could—"

"I could do many things," Apollo interrupts. "This isn't about what I could do, but what you want me to do. I could use the training rug, too, but you begged me not to. So tell me, darling, what do you want?"

What Slade wants is to tell Apollo to go fuck himself. He swallows the anger. Apollo's lips curl up into a knowing smirk. He's taunting him, trying to make Slade screw up again so that he can....

"I want—" he swallows, trying uselessly to find the right words.

"Look at me," Apollo says. "I won't repeat myself again."

Slade's attention snaps up. Damn it! He hadn't meant to look away, but it's hard to say the words out loud while looking at Apollo. "I want you to trap my balls with the stretcher," he mumbles. He chose the toys; he knows how they'll be used. Why is it so hard to say it? It's just words.

"I want to…" His tongue feels heavy and clumsy. "...kneel down, forehead on the floor, ass up and legs spread wide while I open myself for you with the tamer. I want to…" He swallows. Apollo's eyes are blue and knowing, hungry. Slade can't say it. He can't, but he has to. "I want to fuck myself with it, unable to find release until you return and use me, until you grant me the mercy to come." The fifth variation of the ninth yearning position. The one Apollo already chose; the one Slade hates the most.

It hasn't started yet and Slade can already taste it, the all-consuming need of the ninth yearning. The knowledge that only the master's return will make the torture of it end. The helplessness of keeping oneself open and ready, leaking oil from a gaping, well-used hole, waiting to be used. Desperate for it.

Apollo presses his sandal over Slade's exposed cock. "You're hard just thinking about it," he mocks. "Not much of a punishment if you're so eager for it, is it?"

The urge to close his eye is overwhelming. Slade is hard, and Apollo's teasing foot makes his cock firm and rise even more.

"You know it is," Slade whispers, face burning with shame. "I hate it. You know I hate it."

Apollo brushes Slade's hot cheek with the back of his fingers. "What happened to you wanting it?" He captures Slade's raised wrists with his left hand and yanks him close. Slade falls forward into Apollo's body. Apollo kneels down, keeping Slade's wrists trapped above his head and kisses Slade, tongue, harsh and demanding. There's nothing soft or tentative about it. The kiss is another claim. "I'd forgotten how much I like the taste of fear on you," he whispers against Slade's lips.

"I'd forgotten how much I hate it," Slade whispers back, leaning his forehead against Apollo's, exhausted.

"Then next time think, darling," Apollo breathes against the edge of Slade's jaw, hot breath tickling him.

"Yes, Master."

Apollo brings Slade's trapped hands down and holds them between them. "Tell me why you want the clamps and touch yourself while you do."

Apollo's hold on Slade's wrists has no give when Slade tries to bring his hands to his aching cock. "Master?"

"I gave you an order, darling. Think." Apollo's voice is like the edge of a knife.

Another harder pull against proves as useless as the first. Slade's no match for Apollo's magical enforced strength.

Think.

He pushes his hips up awkwardly and tries to fit his bobbling cock into the cup of his trapped hands. By the gods, how pathetic must he look? Kneeling naked in front of Apollo, awkwardly thrusting his hips up with no leverage.

It takes him a couple of tries to get his cock angled right. The sensations are all wrong. He's used to moving his hands when he touches himself and being denied that freedom is destroying a decades-old, well-practiced routine. Another thing that was his—private, familiar, comfortable—that's now wrong, twisted, stolen, claimed.

He keeps pulling against Apollo's hold without meaning to, but the iron grip doesn't yield, and each awkward thrust into Slade's trapped hands becomes another reminder that his pleasure is no longer his.

"I'm waiting," Apollo reminds him.

Slade's breath hitches. It's too much, all of it. It's too much. "The clamps...I want... I want..." He hides his face in Apollo's collarbone—pathetic broken shield that he is—it's like a damn breaking. "...the clamps on my nipples... the weights pulling at them, tightening them. I want it to hurt. I want to hate it... but I won't... I won't." His voice breaks. "Because I'm a gem now. Your gem, Master. Yours. Yours. I'm sorry! I'm yours."

His thrusts become desperate, erratic—pleasure the only escape left. He pulls harder against Apollo's grip to no avail. The pleasure builds faster, feeding on Slade's shame. On his weakness. One, two, three thrusts—

Apollo yanks Slade's hands apart and away an instant before Slade can come.

"No!" Slade snarls, thrusting into empty air, uselessly chasing a release that won't come. His hips push forward, but there's no friction. His cock bobs in the air, its head gleaming with precome, dark red and swollen.

"Tt, none of that now," Apollo chides him. "This is supposed to be a punishment. You don't get to come all over my robes like a greedy gem, darling."

It's a battle to force his hips to still, to make himself settle back down onto his calves and nod in acceptance, "Yes, Master." He's trembling, hollowed out and empty.

Apollo lets go of his hands, and Slade doesn't know what to do with them. His arms hover mid-air in front of him, waiting for an order.

"On your thighs," Apollo says, ending Slade's confusion.

Slade lowers his hands. Absently, he notices the small tremor of his fingers, but he can't make it stop. His hands are so close to his aching cock, resting there, on his thighs, useless. The temptation to touch himself is like an army on the horizon. Dangerous, there, but at the same so very far away.

"Get on the bed. Face up. And don't forget to bring the toys you chose." The order is its own kind of relief. Clear and to the point. All Slade needs to do is obey.

Absently, he looks around, until he finds the toys lying on the floor, where Apollo let them fall. He leans forward, breaking the kneeling position and crawls towards them. The clamps and the ball-stretcher are small enough that he can carry them in his hands while he crawls. The tamer is too large and wide but if he—

"Use your mouth," Apollo orders.

Slade closes his eye in despair, but doesn't dare protest. The polished wood of the tamer is cold. It's heavy, crafted from orange Kirilian wood. Gingerly, Slade brings it to his lips. His tongue keeps squirming against the ridged surface, and the curved angle makes holding the tamer in place with just his lips almost impossible. When Slade lets it go, it slips from his mouth, gravity pulling the heavy wood down.

He catches it before it hits the floor and brings it back to his lips, pushing the tamer farther in, until the tip lodges against the back of his throat. More than half of it still dangles out. Slade's mouth is stretched wide around the girth and he can't clamp his lips with enough strength to hold the tamer in place.

It stays precariously still. Slade's jaw and teeth hurt from trying to keep it in place, but the Kirilian wood might as well be stone; it's too heavy. The moment Slade starts crawling it begins to slip until it falls to the floor. Half the tamer is black from his spit and the other half gleams orange in the sunlight.

Apollo snorts. "You've gotten out of practice. Push it deeper, darling, all the way in. Make it feel good."

His face is on fire as Slade pushes the tamer back in and swallows around it. Apollo's eyes darken while he watches, and Slade recognizes the telltale signs of his master's arousal. Obeying becomes easier. The knowledge that Apollo isn't as unmoved as he'd like to pretend ignites something in Slade.

He thrusts the tamer into his mouth and eases it slowly out with an obscenely slurping sound, keenly aware of Apollo's hungry gaze on him. He rotates the toy, seeking a better angle to manage its curved shape, and then pushes it back in, deeper than before, fucking his mouth with it.

Suddenly, it doesn't matter that the tamer hurts hitting the back of his throat, or that shame burns hot in his gut with the humiliation of kneeling at his master's feet and fucking his own mouth open with a toy he chose for his master's pleasure. He shoves the tamer in and out, a bit deeper every time, ignoring the strain in his jaw as he tries to accommodate the width. His tongue is trapped underneath it, squirming against the ridged surface, pressing against it, instinctually doing what it was trained to do in this room—worship any cock that enters his mouth, real or fake. This is who Slade is. This is his purpose.

A final, harsh push and the curved tip of the tamer goes down Slade's throat. The slave collar cuts into his skin as his neck bulges to accommodate the large toy. His eyelashes clump with involuntary tears, but when Slade eases his hands away and starts to crawl, the tamer stays secured down his throat.

"Clever gem," Apollo praises him, and the approval is like a benediction. Slade would do anything to earn more of it.

The way to the bed seems impossibly long as Slade crawls awkwardly with the clamps and the stretcher held in fisted hands and the tamer stuck down his throat. By the time he makes it to the bed, black spots are dancing in his eyes, and the need to breathe is shortcutting the rational thoughts in his mind.

He climbs on the mattress and grabs the tamer desperately, needing to pull it out, but Apollo's hands close over his, stopping him. "Not quite yet. Choke a little longer for me, darling. You look gorgeous like this."

Slade's fingers dig into Apollo's forearm as he spasms, vision darkening. His lungs burn and his chest contracts as though trying to squeeze the last dregs of oxygen from Slade's very heart. Before he can pass out, Apollo yanks the tamer out. Slade's body gasps for air, the relief of that one breath overwhelming. Then, it's gone again as Apollo rams the tamer back down Slade's throat, all the way in.

Apollo's palm closes over Slade's collar and he squeezes, forcing Slade to feel the wide, unforgiving hardness ruining his throat from the inside. "Let it happen. You can't stop it," Apollo whispers softly. "Stop fighting it. You're mine, gem. Submit, darling. Give in."

He can't. His lungs are on fire. He trashes against Apollo's hold uselessly as the magic of his enhancements unleashes, intensifying the sensations and stopping Slade from passing out.

Apollo yanks one of Slade's nipple rings and twists it cruelly. Pleasure rolls over Slade like a tidal wave, swallowing everything. The burning in his lungs, Apollo's hand on his collar, Apollo's hot breath on his cheeks, the healing magic singing in his veins, the fear, the despair, the helplessness, the ache in his jaw and throat, it all surges and changes, dragged by a tsunami of pleasure. It adds to it, making it even stronger, until it pulls Slade under, swallowing him whole. The world disappears in a wave of pleasure so intense it's like dying.

He comes back to himself in bits and pieces, isolated sensations registering one at a time, like candles being lit in the darkness. Warmth to the right side of his body. He shifts closer to it and the warmth moves, embracing Slade, welcoming him. A body? Fingers trailing over his wet cheeks up and down, up and down. Slade tries to speak but his throat hurts too much. His jaw is stiff, and his mouth feels empty.

Slowly, memories start trickling in. The training room. The tamer. Apollo.

Slade gasps and opens his eye. Apollo is lying on his side next to Slade's sprawled body, head braced on an elbow, while he caresses Slade's face with the fingers of his free hand.

"Ah, there you are." Apollo's hand trails lower, down Slade's chin, over the slave's collar, between Slade's pecs and further down still. "You made yet another mess," he says conversationally and brings his hand back up, where Slade can see it. His fingertips are covered with come.

Slade freezes, and fear slams into him. "Master..." It hurts to speak. The damage to his throat hasn't healed yet, even if he can sense the tickling of his magical enhancements working to fix it. "I..." He stops. What's the point?

Apollo showed him mercy once. He won't do so a second time. Slade came without permission during punishment.

He came without permission.

"Hush, darling, calm down," Apollo says, and presses his hand over the brand on Slade's chest.

Slade bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood to stop himself from begging. He keeps expecting a push of magic but nothing comes. Apollo's hand just stays there, the slight pressure making Slade's thrumming, terrified heartbeat impossible to ignore.

"Hey, look at me," Apollo says. "Darling, breathe. Slade!" The name, sharp and demanding, cuts through Slade's panic. Apollo's blue eyes are filled with worry. Slade wants to beg but the words won't come out. "Breathe with me, darling. In." He takes a deep breath and Slade does his best to follow. "Out." He releases the air in a slow, loud whiff. "Again. In. Out. That's it. Just like that. Keep breathing." He pulls Slade closer to his body, until Slade's head is pressing against Apollo's chest and cards his fingers through Slade's hair softly. "Better now?"

Words refuse to come. Slade shakes his head against Apollo's chest. His nose is filled with the smell of his master, clean and perfect. When did Slade start liking Apollo's smell? He can't stop trembling. His body refuses to obey him. Maybe if Apollo gives his body an order it'll obey him. The idea strikes Slade as hilarious and he starts laughing. He can't stop the laughter either.

Apollo rolls over him until he's lying on top of Slade. His weight presses Slade down into the mattress, grounding him. He cups Slade's face with his hands and kisses him. It stops Slade's laughter. He tries to surge forward but Apollo's body keeps him caged in. All he can do is open his mouth and yield.

Slade loses himself in the kiss, the taste of Apollo as addicting as everything else Apollo does to him. They kiss until Slade's lips feel bruised, until he forgets the fear and the worries and even the reasons why he's on the bed, beneath Apollo, being kissed. All that matters is the kiss itself.

By the time they break apart, Slade's not shaking anymore. He feels more himself. "I don't know what's wrong with me," he murmurs, hiding his face in the curve of Apollo's neck.

"I've been busy with the Council and with Jason." Apollo relaxes on top of Slade and his weight pushes Slade's back into the soft mattress. It's strangely grounding. "I didn't realize I was neglecting you. Gems need attention."

"I don't want your attention," Slade hisses. Apollo is so full of himself.

Apollo snorts. "Need and want are different words." His expression sobers. "I like my gems willful, and I'll acknowledge that I'm not completely blameless in the way you've been behaving. You're all over the place, darling, and I should have noticed it sooner. For that alone, I'm inclined to be a bit more merciful than you deserve right now, but I won't tolerate you hurting Jason or Midnighter in any way or form again."

"I know, Master," Slade says, subdued.

"Good." Apollo peels himself away from Slade's body and kneels up on top of him, sitting on Slade's thighs, with his knees framing Slade's hips. "Then let's make sure the knowledge sinks deeper."

Slade's soft, spent cock lies uselessly between them, a reminder of Slade's failure. "I didn't mean to come without permission, Master."

"Oh, I know that." Apollo smirks. "One good thing came out of this debacle. I'd given up hope that you could ever come untouched without the aid of magic, and yet here we are." A chill runs up Slade's spine when Apollo leans forward and places his hand on the collar, adding a bit of pressure to it. "I just hadn't found the right motivation."

Slade shakes his head. No, this isn't something he wants to like. But the memory of that orgasm has branded itself into Slade's soul—the intensity of it impossible to forget. Apollo squeezes a bit tighter, and the apple of Slade's throat bumps against the palm of Apollo's hand when Slade swallows. Apollo's face is greedy and his gaze burns all the way down to Slade's cock. It twitches despite being soft and spent.

Apollo's grin widens. "Oh, yes, we'll be playing more with that," he promises, "but not as punishment. We'll turn it into a reward."

"For yourself?" Slade snarks, unable to help himself.

Apollo laughs out loud and lets go of Slade's throat. "Oh, darling, it's a joy to see how quickly you bounce back. For myself. For you. What's the difference?" He brushes his lips over Slade's ear and whispers, "You exist to answer my desire. Mine is the right to kindle your fire."

There's no magic behind it, but the familiar words of the gem's binding in Apollo's deep voice makes him shiver. Slade's cock twitches again in a valiant if fruitless attempt to rise for its master.

"But first things first." Apollo places the toys Slade chose for punishment on Slade's belly. "Hold on to the headboard with your hands and don't let go."

Reluctantly, Slade raises his arms, reaches back and grabs the headboard. He tests the bars, pulling against them, but the magic anchoring the bed is as strong as it ever was. The bars hold easily against Slade's strength. He forces the muscles of his arms to relax and breathes in a ragged breath, bracing himself for what's to come.

Nothing happens at first. Apollo's hand travels up and down Slade's side, fingers brushing Slade's inner thighs in the down stroke. The stubborn part of Slade wants to snarl at him to just get on with it, but he knows better. The larger part of Slade is thankful for the respite. Despite knowing what's coming, after a while, the soothing strokes lull him into a false sense of security and he starts melting into the bed, letting go of the tension coiled in his belly.

He startles the first time Apollo's hands ghosts over his balls. He can't help the ingrained reaction to try and scoot backwards, away from the touch, but Apollo's weight on his thighs keeps him trapped in place.

"Hush," Apollo soothes him as he picks the delicate tissue between strong fingers. "You chose this, remember? Or have you changed your mind?"

Slade shakes his head frantically. "No, Master," he wheezes, fingers clutching the headboard so hard his wrists hurt under the strain.

He breathes out slowly. Apollo's fingers don't hurt, but Slade's balls are extremely sensitive and the smallest of touch can already be on the other side of too much. For all of his faults, Apollo has always been accommodating of Slade's limits in this, except when he wants to remind Slade of his place.

A wave of too-much something rolls over him when Apollo's fingers fondle him. Pain, pleasure, a mix of both. The sensation is too intense to identify.

"Clean up your mess," Apollo orders.

Slade opens his eye, dazed. When did he close it? The ball-stretcher dangles from Apollo's fingers over Slade's face.

"Clean. Up. Your. Mess," Apollo repeats slowly, waving the toy.

Globs of come cling to the metal. A quick glance down his chest confirms his suspicion. When Apollo placed the toys on Slade's abs, he chose the parts covered with come. The clamps, too, are smeared with it.

He cranes his head up to reach the stretcher. With his arms still holding to the headboard and Apollo's weight on his legs, all he can do is strain his neck and upper chest up trying to reach. It's not enough. He can't close the final gap.

The smell of his own wafts down. He's so close. One more inch, and he... Oh. His cheeks flush as he extends his tongue out. He half expects Apollo to pull the toy out of reach in the last second, but it stays in place, and when Slade starts licking awkwardly around the metal, Apollo says, "Good gem."

He licks faster, curling his tongue around the metal rings, ignoring the burning in the muscles of his neck and upper back. His muscles start to tremble as they fight against gravity to maintain the lift.

"That's enough," Apollo says, and takes the stretcher away

Sweating from the strain, Slade lets his head fall back onto the bed. "Thank you, Master," he says, chest heaving up and down, the taste of his own come filling his mouth.

Without warning, Apollo snaps the stretcher around the base of Slade's scrotum and closes the metal ring tight, forcing Slade's balls away from his body. The metal spikes on the inside dig into the skin, and Slade bites his lips as he rides the waves of pain, refusing to give Apollo the satisfaction of a scream.

"Almost over," Apollo gentles him as he loops a thin golden chain through the middle of the stretcher and pulls it tight, separating the balls and trapping them in place, making orgasm an impossibility.

"So pretty," Apollo hums, tracing his fingers over the stretched, smooth skin of the sack. "Next time you give me a reason to do this to you, I'll paint my mark on each of these beauties with a golden brush and put you in a sling in the parlor so that my guests can admire them, too. Would you like that?"

Slade clasps the headboard and pants through the pain. Nausea fills him thinking about being on display like that, open and helpless for others lords and ladies to watch. "If it pleases you, Master," Slade forces himself to say.

"It's up to you, darling," Apollo says, and thumbs Slade's balls gently, soothing away some of the pain. "Behave, and please me with your obedience. Misbehave, and please me enduring your punishment. I'd rather you chose the former, but I'm more than willing to accommodate the latter if you prefer."

"Th-thank you, Master," Slade murmurs.

"See, you can learn. Let's continue. I left Midnighter looking after Jason, but I do need to go back to them."

This time, when Apollo dangles the alligator clamps over his head, Slade knows what to do. He lifts his head and stretches his tongue out until he can reach them and licks clean the come clinging to the metal.

"Look at you." Apollo's voice is rough and admiring. "Such a greedy, perfect gem." He takes the clamps away and guides Slade's head back to the mattress with a kiss.

Slade whimpers when the teeth of the first clamp bite into his nipple. His toes curl and he jerks beneath Apollo. The second clamp follows while he's still riding the waves of pleasure from the first.

"Lovely." Apollo tugs on the clamps, pulling Slade's tits away from his chest, lets them go and tugs again.

"Master," Slade moans. His mouth falls open and he throws his head back, eye closed, arching into the sensations, drowning in them.

Apollo pinches one Slade's balls and Slade cries out, convulsing. A tug from the clamps, and the cry turns into a moan. He clasps the bars of the headboard desperately, needing something solid to hold on to as the boundaries between pain and pleasure start to blur and there's nothing he can't do but take it.

"We'll have to do something about this," Apollo says, with a tutting, disapproving sound. "This is a lesson to teach you not to make messes, and yet, look at this." He thumbs the head of Slade's cock and new waves of pleasure crest and ebb through Slade with every stroke. "Even with your balls caged you're already leaking all over." Apollo drags his thumb over Slade's hip, cleaning it from pre-come.

Slade shakes his head from side to side trying to control himself, but the sensations overwhelm him. Slade doesn't know how to fight pleasure, and Apollo wields it too well. "I'm sorry, Master," he babbles, "I'm trying to be good. I'm trying."

"It's all right, darling, I'll help you be good." Apollo opens his hand and light pours from it. When the light fades away, there's a thin metal rod resting on top of Apollo's palm.

For a blissful, wonderful moment, Slade doesn't know what it is. Apollo has never used something like it on him. Then, Apollo brings the thin metal towards Slade's cock—the size matches the length of his penis—and Slade knows.

"N-no, don't," he stammers, trying uselessly to scurry away as the cloying taste of fear erases his will to obey. "It'll break." Slade saw what Jason's former master had done to him with a similar toy when the boy was first brought into the household.

"I take better care of my gems than that," Apollo huffs. "It's not going to break." Apollo sighs. "Touch it," he offers. "How about this? If you manage to bend it, I won't use it on you. Go ahead, try."

Hesitantly, Slade lets go of the headboard and takes the thin, metal rod from Apollo. It's cold and hard. The base is round and dull, well polished, and the tip ends in a bigger ball about an inch in diameter. Runes of some kind have been carved onto the metal, but they don't snag or catch. When Slade rubs his fingers over them, the surface is perfectly smooth.

He holds the two ends of the rod in his hands and presses down, trying to snap it. Nothing happens. He applies more pressure, increasing the strength, tapping into the magical enhancements Lady Hive put on him. The muscles of his arms tremble under the strain but the rod doesn't bend.

"Satisfied?" Apollo arches an eyebrow in obvious amusement and holds up his hands expectantly.

"Yes, Master," Slade mumbles, reluctantly handing back the rod. He can't stop this. Submit. Yield. Obey.

"Excellent. Hands back on the headboard."

Apollo summons a vial from the side table. The smell of sandalwood oil wafts out of it when Apollo tugs the stopper free. He pushes the metal rod inside the vial, in and out, in and out, coating it generously with the oil.

Slade can't help the little helpless whimpered "Please" that escapes his too dry mouth as he watches the metal move, foreshadowing what's to come.

The white of Apollo's eyes shine a bit too brightly as his attention shifts towards Slade—not quite active magic, but the potential of it. Strong hands grab Slade's cock. Gently, Apollo pulls the foreskin down, coaxing the crown out. He lets the rod hover over the opening, and drops of the oil dribble down slowly right over Slade's piss hole.

The metal had looked small and thin in Slade's hands, but now, next to the opening of his cock, it seems impossibly wide. It shouldn't fit, but Slade has learned over the years how his body will open and bend on Apollo's whim, ready to accommodate each of its master's desires.

"This, or the training rug," Apollo offers, bringing the tip down so that it's not quite pushing into Slade's cock yet, but hinting at it.

It's not a choice. Slade shakes his head, fingers spasming on the headboard as he clutches the bars helplessly. "Please," he repeats.

"Choose," Apollo commands.

"The rod," Slade breathes out desperately. He braces himself, waiting for that moment when the metal will start breaching him, but nothing happens.

"Say it," Apollo demands. "Say what you want out loud."

A wave of helpless hatred washes over him, but then it fizzles away and disappears. "I want you to—" He doesn't even know what words to use, "—fuck my cock open with the rod."

"My perfect gem," Apollo whispers, voice rough. "You're so beautiful like this. No one has seen this side of you. No one has owned this side. No one else ever will."

Slade swallows. "Only you, Master." Slade can't begin to imagine anyone owning him as thoroughly, as deeply as Apollo does.

"That's right," Apollo agrees. Slowly, he starts pressing the tip of the rod in. "Take it for me, darling. Please me."

"Master!" Slade goes utterly still at the unfamiliar sensation. The metal is cold and hard as it goes into Slade's body, forcing his cock to open.

The unfamiliar stretch hurts. The muscles of his arms, torso and legs cord with tension as he watches the metal disappear inside. He can't look away, attention riveted on the impossible length of metal still left outside.

Apollo's hands are sure and confident as they continue to push the rod in, their firm hold grounding in the raw sea of new, visceral sensations threatening to capsize him.

"Master," Slade cries out. His chest heaves with the strain of holding still and cold sweat breaks out from his body.

"You're doing so well, darling." Apollo caresses his thumb up and down the vein underneath Slade's cock. He pauses and pulls the rod out slowly, before pushing it back in, fucking it deeper into Slade, forcing Slade's cock to stretch open and take it.

Slade has never felt anything like it before. He tries to stay still, to breathe through it, steady and calm, but he can't. He bites his lips to stop the little, broken gasps escaping him, but the sensations continue, intensifying more and more the deeper the rod goes.

The metal meets with resistance and Apollo pauses, rotates it, and pulls it slightly back. He strokes Slade's shaft up and down until the pleasure yanks an unwilling moan out of Slade.

"Gorgeous," Apollo breathes, watching Slade's reactions, drinking them in. "Just a bit more now. Bear it for me, darling." He pushes the metal back in, past the resistance. Slade keens, shaking, Apollo's weight on top of him stopping his hips from moving.

"Hush, that's it. Watch." Apollo lets go of the rod and holds Slade's cock steady. To Slade's horror, the rod starts sinking further in on its own. Slade's cock is swallowing it, dragging it inside of itself like a hungry mouth. He pants and trembles, terrified that the metal will disappear into its body, never to come out again. Then, the tip hits something inside of him and Slade cries out and thrashes against the bed, not with pain but with pleasure.

Apollo's hands keep his hips pressed onto the mattress, as Slade's toes curl, the desire to come overwhelming. His body arches as his orgasm comes closer and closer, but it never arrives. The stretcher keeps his balls caged and the rod has settled all the way inside of him, the round ball at the top like a stopper on the crown of his cock, making coming impossible.

A part of him is horrified that his body is enjoying this. Tears stream down his face at this new betrayal. No shield would enjoy having his cock fucked open and its hole turned into a wet, needy cunt.

Apollo strokes the sides of his ribs, soothingly. "You're loving it, aren't you?"

Slade shakes his head wildly, unable to form words, refusing to admit the truth.

Apollo leans forward and licks the tears on Slade's face, savoring them, before kissing Slade with salty lips. He tugs with his teeth at Slade's lower lip, pulling at it once, before letting it go. "My precious, darling gem, you can't hide it from me." He cradles his fingers through Slade's sweaty hair, pushing away the bangs falling on his face. "Come on, darling, you were the fiercest, bravest shield of the Empire. Don't cower now from such a small truth."

Still watching Slade's face, Apollo holds Slade's cock with one hand and pulls the rod out ever so slowly, stopping just when the tip is about to slip free. Then he pushes it back in, as slowly as before, forcing Slade to feel it. Apollo's still pinning his hips to the bed and all Slade can do is take it.

The pleasure-pain as the metal carves its way back into Slade's body drags small, needy moans out of him. He can't think beyond the reality of it, the sensations stealing away his self control, leaving him a wrecked mess of reactions. The tip of the rod presses against that same spot again, deep inside Slade's body, and he keens as waves of pleasure crash over him.

"Do you like it?" Apollo demands, turning the metal, pressing it deeper into that spot, driving Slade mad with it.

"Yes!" he sobs, needing more, needing less, yielding, breaking. Obeying. "Yes, damn you!"

"My brave gem," Apollo coos, and flicks his forefinger over the tip resting on the crown of Slade's cock.

Slade's vision whitens out as the vibrations send waves of pleasure through him. His balls drag up in a useless attempt to empty themselves and the spikes of the stretcher digs into the sensitive skin.

Pain becomes pleasure and pleasure becomes pain, and when Apollo says wistfully, "Oh, darling, the things you make me want to do to you," Slade answers, "I exist to please you, Master," and he means it.

He's his master's gem.

"There you are," Apollo says softly, brushing his thumb over the scars of Slade's missing eye. "My good, perfect gem."

Slade leans into the touch, pushing his head into Apollo's hand. Needy. His tongue darts out to taste his master's skin and Apollo obliges him by pressing his fingers into Slade's mouth.

He moans wantonly, curling his tongue around the flesh, flipping it over those perfectly manicured fingernails in a silent invitation for Apollo to use his mouth with more than just a hand.

Apollo pulls his fingers away and quiets Slade's moans with a kiss, claiming him. Owning him. His body sings under Apollo. Pain and pleasure notes on the melody that only Master knows to play out of him.

It's so easy to go where Apollo's hands guide him, turning on his front, bringing his knees under his hips and raising his ass up, hoping to be used. His hard cock bobbs uselessly between his legs, ignored, the metal rod weighing it down. Slade hopes it will come out, but it stays in place, keeping Slade's cock plugged while the stretcher keeps his balls caged.

"Lovely," Apollo whispers, kissing the small of Slade's back. Apollo pushes three fingers into Slade's asshole without warning.

Slade fists his hands into the bedsheets and bites into his bicep to stop his cry. The sudden stretch burns, but Slade doesn't protest. He tries to stay still, to relax into the abrasive pain as Apollo's fingers spear him open.

"You don't deserve oil today," Apollo drags his fingers out and slams them back in, "do you, darling?" He punctuates the words with harsh thrusts.

"No, Master," Slade agrees, pressing his forehead against the mattress in a useless attempt to distract himself.

Apollo spreads his fingers, forcing the rim to expand. He withdraws them at last, but the respite is short. The wide tip of the tamer brushes down Slade's spine, past his lower back and settles over Slade's smarting ass rim. Apollo pushes in, and in, and in. He doesn't ease out, doesn't pause, doesn't let Slade catch his breath.

Slade hisses as the too dry passage stretches and opens under that unstoppable pressure. The ridged surface of the tamer makes the painful slide a hundred times worse.

"Does it hurt?" Apollo asks softly, when the curved part of the toy starts forcing its way in. The angle is all wrong, the tamer stretching him so wide it feels as though he's being ripped apart.

"Yes," Slade cries out, the will to withstand it all silently gone.

"Good," Apollo says. "And whose fault is that?"

"Mine, Master," Slade sobs, shoulders shaking. It's too much. It's his fault. He disappointed Master. He disobeyed. He deserves everything.

A last push and the curve slides in and the rest of it follows. The tamer slams into Slade's prostate and he jerks and shouts, the intensity too strong to parse, like lightning on his nerves. Slade hates it. Slade loves it.

Apollo pulls the tamer put and thrusts it back in mercilessly. It hits that cursed spot again. Slade cries out. His whole body is wound tight. He doesn't know if he wants it to end or never to stop.

It's not his choice. Another thrust. Apollo whispers, "Take it. Be good for me, darling."

The words ignite Slade. Suddenly, when Apollo thrusts the tamer it, Slade moves to meet the thrust, pushing back, spreading his legs, wanting it deeper, harder, faster. It hurts as much as before. It burns going in and it burns going out, but it doesn't matter. He wants it all.

His Master's wills it so.

This. This is what he craves. This is what he needs, being Apollo's down the core of his soul. There's no room for doubt or fear. No room for shame. He's his Master's gem.

"There you are again," Apollo whispers, and pinches the head of his cock right underneath the metal rod at the same time as he slams the tamer back in.

Slade screams and thrashes, holding to the headboard like a lifeline. The scream turns into a moan and he's shaking all over, coming apart, crying. His orgasm grows and moves closer like a tidal wave, but it never arrives. Tears run down his face, clogging his nose, and drops of sweat run down his chest and back, as though his body is trying to compensate for its inability to come by shedding fluids everywhere else.

"You'll be so gorgeous taking your punishment. No more bargaining, no more protests. You'll do exactly as you're told, won't you, darling?"

"Always, Master," Slade sobs. "I exist to please you."

Apollo bites the nape of his neck underneath the collar, hard. "Yes, you do."

He ties the D-rings on Slade's cuffs to the headboard and shortens the chains until Slade's wrists are flush with the frame and all Slade can do is clasp and unclasp his fingers around the bars of the headboard. Apollo trails his hands down Slade's sides and nudges his thighs wider apart. Then, he sets a spreader bar between Slade's feet and attaches it to the leather cuffs on his ankles.

Slade hides his face into the mattress and breathes in the smell of sweat and sandalwood and come. He can't fight. He can't free himself. He's open, exposed. A gem on display for Master's pleasure.

"In this house, punishments are lessons," Apollo says, and slides an arm underneath Slade's chest to grab the left alligator clamp. "This is one I hope you learn well." A click and a tug. Pleasure-pain skitters through Slade and when he peeks at his chest, he sees a golden chain dangling from the clamp on his left nipple.

"What's the lesson, darling?" Apollo asks while he unwinds the coils of the thin chain.

It takes forever to remember why he's here. "Never to misname your slaves," Slade answers.

Apollo loops the chain around the spreader bar and connects the loose end to the other alligator clamp, tightening the chain until it's taught.

"Come on, darling, what's the true lesson? Misnaming Jason is just a symptom." He yanks on the chain sharply.

Slade pants, clasping the bars on the headboard as he rides the sensations. "Not to hurt your property," he gasps, when he can form the words.

"Everyone says gems can't think properly unless their being fucked," Apollo whispers. "Is that it, darling? Do you need me to play with your pretty hole?" He pulls the tamer out, letting just the tip in and pauses. "If you can't answer properly then sing for me instead, darling." Apollo thrusts the tamer in harshly and yanks the chain connecting Slade's nipple clamps to the spreader bar at the same time.

Slade cries out. Another thrust and yank, harder than before. Another scream. A pause, barely enough for Slade to catch his breath, and then Apollo is fucking him with the tamer again, setting a harsh, fast pace. Slade arches into the thrusts or away from them. He can't tell the difference anymore. The teeth of the clamps bite into the flesh of his nipples when he moves, ripping another scream out of him.

Gods, it hurts. It hurts so much. Slade knows it. His body knows it, and yet Slade craves it. He wants more of it, all of it.

At some point it stops, but Slade doesn't notice when. It takes an eternity for the pleasure-pain to ebb into something that lets him think. Apollo is petting the small of his back. The small, broken gasps filling the room are Slade's. He swallows, makes himself stop. He has to find the right answer. He needs to think.

"Think!" Slade half-sobs, nerve-ends on fire. "The lesson, Master, it's to think!" It has to be that. Apollo himself said it earlier. "I need to think first, Master," he repeats desperately, hoping to be right.

Apollo kisses the back of his shoulder. "There, that wasn't so difficult, was it? You just needed a little incentive. Maybe I should stuff your ass with a tamer whenever I leave to help clear your thoughts."

"Please, Master," Slade moans, imagining it. "If it pleases you." He can't stop shaking, and it makes the chain pull at the clamps, playing havoc with his already sore nipples.

"I suppose I'll wait to see if you learn your lesson this time," Apollo offers.

"Thank you, Master." His voice sounds so very far away, as if it's coming from some other person in the room, even though he can feel his mouth move.

The air in the room changes, becoming heavier and hotter as a bright light illuminates the bed. Magic, his sluggish mind suggests after a moment. Master's magic. Slade frowns, confused. He can sense and see the magic around him but he doesn't feel it inside.

"It's not working," he tells Master, after another minute passes.

Master doesn't answer immediately. The heat in the room increases, but it's comfortable, the kind of heat that seeps into skin softly and melts knots of tension, a heat that invites you to bask in it and relax, like an embrace.

"What's not working," Master asks. As he speaks, the heat retreats, leaving Slade cold and clammy.

"The magic, Master," Slade tells him. He knows the difference between magic being worked around him versus magic being worked into him. Lady Hive taught him that.

"What makes you say that?" Master asks, brushing his fingers up and down Slade's sweat soaked back.

Slade frowns. The respite has helped, and he feels more like himself, even if his thoughts are as slow as molasses. "It didn't take. I can't feel it, Master," Slade points out and there's a spark of something stirring in him. Why is he telling Master that? Apollo doesn't need his help to make Slade's life more difficult.

Apollo huffs out a laugh, "Oh, you really are out of it." The fingers ruffle Slade's hair again, fondly. "The magic wasn't meant for you. You begged so prettily earlier to be spared my magic, and I accepted your offer, did I not?"

"Yes." Slade pauses. The spark intensifies. Mistrust? "Never stopped you before."

"Becoming willful again, darling." Slade can hear the smile in Apollo's voice. "It wasn't meant to work on you, although it's for you. You'll figure it out soon enough. Why do you need to think before you act, darling?"

Slade swallows, takes a moment to feel the collar pressing against his throat, a reminder to answer carefully, to think first. "I'm your gem, Master. I exist to answer your desires." The words are safe. For a moment, Slade's thankful for the gem's mantra. He can hide behind it.

Apollo yanks Slade's head up by the hair, forcing his neck into a painful twist. "Pretty words, gem, but we both know how much you fight against them. No, darling, the reason you should think before you act, it's because actions have consequences. You should always remember that."

Hot breath tickles Slade's ear as Apollo speaks. "You hurt Jason. You chose your punishment. When the minutes stretch into eternity and you believe you can't take one second more of it, I want you to remember that this is all on you, darling, on your choices, on your actions. I'm not returning until Jason is back to himself, however long it takes. It isn't going to end until then. Everything that happens here and how long it happens for is a consequence of your choices and your actions."

He lets go of Slade's head abruptly. "Pray to the gods that Jason recovers fast." There's a blinding flash of light and when it fades, Apollo is gone.

Slade rests his forehead on the mattress and takes a shaky breath. Nothing happens, but he doesn't trust the stillness. He waits, unsure what to expect. After a while he starts to relax, tension melting slowly. He shifts on his knees, careful not to yank the chain keeping his nipples tied to the spreader bar.

It starts then. It's so slow at first, that Slade believes it the result of his own movements. However, the tamer continues to slide out, even after Slade freezes in place, tension returning. It shouldn't move, gravity alone should keep it lodged inside of him, and yet, it does. The unforgiving curve of the tamer starts to push against the rim of Slade's ass from the inside, forcing Slade to feel the excruciating stretch as the tamer fights its way out.

Magic.

Oh.

The pain creeps in and grows as the tamer slides out another quarter of an inch. Then, he hears the soft chirring sound of metal on metal, enhanced senses catching a barely there shift of chains as the tamer continues to slide out. The new sensation is barely noticeable at first, but Slade tenses with dread at the slight fluttering pressure at the base of his cock.

The ball stretcher shifts.

It starts slowly, too, a tickle of a promise of pain to come. The slow buildup should be a mercy, but the anticipation makes it ten thousand times worse. Whatever Apollo did connected the tamer to the stretcher. It's dragging the ball stretcher up, too, pulling at the metal ring until, ever so slowly, the spikes on the inside start to dig into the sensitive skin of his scrotum.

Slade gasps silently, breathless against the slowly rising wave of too much. He clenches his ass, trying to keep the tamer in, to stop it from sliding out further in a desperate attempt to ease the tension pulling at the stretcher. It just makes him feel the slow slide even more.

It's too slow. All of it. Too slow. Slade can't escape it, can't make the dance of pain and pleasure overwhelm him and drag him down into that state that will make bearing this easier.

He shifts his chest forward, purposely pulling at the chain connecting his nipples to the spreader bar. A wave of pain-pleasure crashes through him and he moans. He does it again, harder. The teeth of the clamps tighten. The bright pain is as sharp as a knife, but Slade does it again, dragging his torso forward, away from the spreader bar, feeling the chain tug at the alligator clamps, pulling Slade's nipples away from his chest.

It's a different kind of pain, a pain that's Slade's choice. A pain his body knows how to turn into something good. He keeps the tension on the chain until the pain overshadows the pleasure, and then stops, shifting back to ease the pull.

The tamer stops moving, pausing at the peak of the stretch, before it starts pushing in, easing the pressure on the stretcher. Slade sobs with relief, but as the tamer carves its way back into Slade's body, the thin metal rod inside Slade's cock starts to rotate and slide out.

Slade writhes against his bindings as the rod moves out and the broad tip of the tamer pushes against his prostate, squeezing it tight, blunt and merciless. He pants and trembles, toes curling. The rod is almost completely out, and his cock feels bruised from the inside but also empty. The moment stretches forever, the tamer pressing into his prostate until Slade thinks he will piss himself or come or pass out, or maybe all three things at once.

Then, the pressure eases ever so slowly, forcing Slade to feel every second of it as the sensations shift and change, as the metal rod starts to push into him at the same time as the tamer pulls out, dragging the chain attached to the stretcher with it.

"No! No!" Slade cries and flails when he realizes what Apollo's magic will do. He fights against the chains holding him to the headboard, trying to free his hands and legs, needing it to stop, knowing that it won't. He can't bargain with Apollo's magic. He can't make it listen to him. The excruciating, unending torment of it all will go on and on and on until Apollo returns, until Jason heals.

Actions have consequences.

Chapter Text

Time stops having meaning. All Slade knows is pain disguised as pleasure, and pleasure disguised as pain. There's no relief, no stopping.

It takes him forever to figure out that it stops only if he stops. If he doesn't move, if he doesn't fight it. If he stays perfectly, utterly still in the ninth yearning position, only then the magic stops too. The metal rod in his cock stills, the tamer stops thrusting into Slade's ass and the chains freeze, only if Slade himself holds still himself.

'Actions have consequences, darling,' the ghost of Apollo's voice whispers in his mind. It seems easy. Just stay still. Don't move. Don't fight. Obey. Submit.

Slade tries. He tries. But staying still is an impossibility. The chains pulling at his nipples and the clamps biting into their sensitive flesh are like shards of glass cutting him open. The curved tamer stretches his ass so wide it feels like Apollo's fist is lodged in there, the hard tip presses right into Slade's prostate with an intensity that he can't withstand.

An eternity. A second. An hour. Time is meaningless. He can't bear it, even knowing that shifting will restart the nightmare again isn't enough to stop Slade from moving. The intensity of the posture builds and builds. His muscles scream and after a while his mind joins in. Move. Move. Move! The part of him that knows moving won't end his torment grows fainter with every second in which the chain pulls at his nipples and the tamer digs into him in perfect, agonizing glory.

The intensity of holding the ninth yearning position becomes too much, the desire to move overwhelms him. Slade shifts.

An action.

The tamer slams into him faster than before and the metal rod inside his cock pulls out, stretching it wide only to bury itself deep again, into the very core of Slade's being, fucking his cock like it's just another hole to be used.

A consequence.

Slade moans until his moans turn into panting half-screams. He calls for Apollo, tears running down his face. He screams. He pleads. He sobs. He begs. He breaks.

It changes nothing.

There's no end to it.

It's too much. No human body can endure it. Slade can't endure it. He's feverish with despair and need. It's too much. Too much. Too much.

He forces himself to stop moving, to somehow find his way into the ninth yearning position again and hold it, even as every muscle in his body quivers with overstimulation. His chest heaves with shallow breaths, each one made more difficult by the too tight fit of his gem collar. His nipples, cock, balls and ass are a writhing mess of pain and pleasure firing confusing impulses at overtaxed nerves. His muscles quiver with the strain of staying still, frozen on the edge of too much and yet unable to tip over that beckoning abyss.

The stillness makes him acutely aware of his body. The air in the room is chilly against his overheated skin. Cold beads of sweat trickle down the skin of his back, sliding down his bent spine. The sheets beneath his face are soaked through with a mix of sweat, drool and tears.

The magical enhancements in his body war against the agony of pain, healing the abused skin on his chest and balls only for the nipple clamps and ball-breaker to continue their insidious work again and again in an eternal cycle of healing and pain that makes it impossible for Slade to grow numb to it. The magic of the enhancements is like static underneath his skin, maddening and unpredictable.

The pleasure banks and slowly eases away like a tide. As the pleasure ebbs the agony of staying still grows. The clamps are like sharp knives cutting into his oversensitive areolas. The widest part of the tamer is lodged on the rim of his ass turning his every breath into its own torture, making it feel as though his ass will rip open from the inside. His balls press against the confines of the breaker in agony, and his cock is stuffed full with the rod, violated and fucked open. Owned.

Slade claws into the mattress as he forces himself not to move, panting against the bedsheets. The trembling in his muscles worsens with the strain of holding the position.

Slade moves.

Actions.

Consequences.

The cycle starts anew. At some point Slade loses himself to it, shattering under the strain. He can hold still or he can move, but no matter what he does, he can't escape the torture. He doesn't know if he's moving or staying still when the last part of him still fighting finally surrenders.

Slade, the shield, dies like he's died before, hundreds of times in this very room. Slade, the shield, yields—not to Apollo, Slade has long ago accepted that everything he is will yield to Apollo if his master demands it.

Slade yields to the magic. He doesn't do it because Apollo ordered him to, but because in the end he isn't strong enough to withstand the punishment without the magic's aid. The shield Slade used to be a lifetime ago isn't strong enough to endure it.

A gem can endure what a shield will not, and for all Slade tries to deny it, in this room, the reality of who he is, who he has become, is impossible to escape. Slade is a gem.

"I'm my Master's gem," he mumbles unintelligently, but the clarity of the words is unimportant. Only the intent behind them. The belief. The acceptance. The magic is woven into his soul. "I exist to answer His desire." Slade only has to mean the words for the magic to come alive. "His is the right to kindle my fire." In moments like this, when he not only thinks the words but believes them with every part of his being, the power of the magic is unstoppable. "To my Master's feet only I shall kneel; my pain and my pleasure His to wield."

There's such sweetness in surrender. So much pleasure. So much peace.

Later, when Slade has managed to pierce together the broken pieces of himself enough to remember why submitting to the gem binding voluntarily is a betrayal of everything he used to be, Slade will hate himself for it. Pathetic. Weak. A coward.

Now, though, the magic consumes everything. He loses himself in it, thriving on its power. His pain and his pleasure, his despair and his fear, they all feed the power of the binding, consuming him.

Slade hurts and Slade craves, but that's his Master's will. He soars under the power of his submission, overwhelmed with gratitude for having been given the opportunity to serve his Master. He babbles the words of the binding again and again.

The magic is a lifeline in the storm wrecking him, saving him from drowning, and Slade clings to it with everything he has. Submit. All he has to do is submit. He exists to please Master. To serve Him. That's all he is. That's all he needs.

Enduring becomes easier. The magic gives him strength when he wants to falter and he rides the waves of it, letting it carry him through it all.

"Master," Slade sighs or sobs, when Master's magic touches him, the binding spells reacting to Master's proximity long before He enters the room.

"Ah, darling, look at you," Master's beautiful voice says while His soft hand pats up and down Slade's sweat-drenched spine lovingly. "So gorgeous like this."

"Master," Slade breathes out, and means thank you and I love you. He means anything you want. He means I'm yours. He means use me and hurt me. He means love me and cherish me. He means break me and discard me. Anything and everything as long as it is Your will.

Master pulls the tamer out, and Slade feels so empty, so desperate. He doesn't protest, doesn't beg, doesn't even remember how to make his mouth work to say any other word that's not Master. He's beyond wanting. But Master is merciful and kind. Master's body covers Slade's. His perfect weight presses Slade into the mattress, causing the chains tying Slade's nipples to the ball breaker to stretch taught, as Slade's thighs are moved apart to make room for Master.

Then, Master is filling Slade, thrusting into him with one long easy push that has Him bottoming out easily. Slade is open and ready. He has waited for so long, and now Master is finally there, filling him. Every thrust brings a wave of exquisite, perfect pain as the chains pull on Slade's nipples and balls.

Slade opens his mouth and no noise comes out. The pain is too intense, sharper, hotter. It's everything Slade ever wanted, and when Master licks Slade's neck, mouthing over the collar, biting down hard at the edges of it, Slade greedily accepts it all like the gift it is.

"Master!" Clumsily he tries to meet Master's thrusts, to tighten too tired muscles around Master's cock to make his body worthy of Master's attention. The magic sings in him, guiding him, Master's magic. It's too good. Too perfect. Nothing has ever been this perfect before. Nothing will ever be.

Shields don't feel like this. Even in the rush of battle, in the heights of bloodlust, when the world narrows down to that thin razor edge between life and death, Slade never felt anything this intense and exquisite before. This is what dying must feel like. Humans aren't meant to survive something like this.

Master's fingers trail over Slade's bound cock and magic gathers in him. He doesn't beg. Master's will is the only thing that matters. Tears continue to fall from his eye and his vision blurs and darkens. He's going to die. It's too much.

"Hush," Master whispers against Slade's ear. "You took your punishment so well for me, darling. It's almost over."

"Master," Slade whimpers, or tries to. The word is unrecognizable to his own ears.

Master sucks and bites at the sensitive skin at the back Slade's collar while He thrusts into Slade's body with enough strength to rock the bed. When He finally comes, His hands rake Slade's sides, carving scratch marks into the skin of his ribs while He empties himself into Slade's body.

"Come for me, darling," Master orders, His hand closing over the slave collar and squeezing tight, cutting off Slade's breath.

It shouldn't be possible for Slade to come, not with the ball breaker and the plug on his cock, but Slade's body obeys. Slade convulses on the bed, his body reacting to Master's magic, to His presence, to the order, to the hand choking him. He comes on Master's command, undone by it, convulsing and thrashing against the chains holding him.

It hurts. It burns. The intensity of it erases him, leaving nothing behind, not even thoughts.

Awareness returns slowly. A hand on his back, trailing lazily up and down. Proprietary. Master's hand. The bedsheets under his face soaking wet with sweat, tears and snot. The magic of his enhancements throbbing through his veins, healing away the soreness of overtaxed muscles.

Master's smell. Master's naked chest next to Slade's prone body. Master holding him. Master kissing the side of his face almost lovingly.

Master.

Apollo.

Always Apollo.

Slade realizes he's crying. Maybe he never stopped. Shields don't cry, but Slade isn't a shield. He can't even muster shame at the telltale wetness on his cheeks, too wrung out to feel anything at all. He lies on the bed and closes his eye, wishing he could fade away to nothing, wishing to never have existed at all. What a pathetic failure of a shield he is.

The despair will pass. It always has before. The training room doesn't help. Too many memories attached to it.

They aren't even bad. That's the worst part. The memories aren't bad. He enjoyed it, didn't he? It'd be easier if he hadn't. If he could tell himself that he loathed all of it.

He tells himself that. But only when he is away from this room. Here, Slade can't lie to himself, every visit making it harder to convince himself that he ever hated it. Every time it becomes harder to remember all the reasons why he tries so hard to be anything other than Apollo's gem.

"Back with me again, darling?" Apollo asks.

He should answer, but he can't make himself do it. He squeezes his eye shut and buries his head into Apollo's chest, shaking it.

"No? Well, that's quite all right," Apollo whispers indulgently, pulling him closer. "We have time."

Slade breathes Apollo in, clinging to him. He wishes that he was strong enough to push Apollo away. A proper shield surely would be, but he can't. He needs his Master. The magic in him sings at the nearness, and Slade hates how much he craves its deceitful song.

"I like you like this," Apollo says softly, threading his fingers through the sweaty bangs of Slade's hair. "Quiet. Needy. Mine. Do you want to know a secret, darling? I don't like it when you misbehave, but you get so sweet after a punishment that it makes it almost worth it. Keyword being almost," he adds pulling at the tag dangling from Slade's collar.

Slade trembles in Apollo's embrace, burying his head deeper into Apollo's chest, pressing his lips to Apollo's collarbone to stop himself from saying out loud that he likes it, too. This part. He likes this part. Apollo, just for him. Not having to share him with Midnighter or Jason. All of Apollo's sharp, bright, burning focus on Slade.

Apollo's kindness in this moment, his willingness to indulge Slade's neediness.

He hiccups and presses himself into Apollo while he falls apart. Apollo coos at him and caresses his hair, his back. He kisses Slade's forehead whispering that all is forgiven, that Slade did so well, pleased him so much.

Apollo glues back together the pieces of Slade that he shattered before, and Slade loves him for it. And yet another part of him, growing smaller every day, hates him for it, too. Slade can feel the jagged edges of the places that don't fit any more. Little shards of himself forever destroyed in Apollo's training room, pieces Apollo never bothered to put back in because they refused to serve Him. And where those missing pieces used to be, there are new pieces now, pieces that are only Apollo's… not even Slade's. Everytime Slade leaves this room he feels a little less himself and a little more Apollo's.

He hates it. He wants to hate it, but maybe Apollo forgot to put the piece that was Slade's hate back in, because for all that Slade hates himself, he can't fathom ever hating Apollo.

He clings to Apollo instead, burying himself in the warmth of Apollo's praise, his magic, his touch, his kisses like the starved man he's become.

By the time he's fully back, the chains are gone as are the toys. Apollo took them away with a touch of his magic as though they never were there. Slade's healing took care of the rest. There's not a single mark to remind Slade of what happened.

Only Apollo's collar, cuffs and piercings remain, an eternal reminder of whose property he is.

The lack of marks, of proof, leaves Slade bereft. It makes everything worse somehow. He wishes there was something left. Something for him to touch, to feel. A reminder that he didn't imagine it all. To his absolute shame, he starts crying again even though there's nothing left to blame it on. No pain. Not even pleasure. There's nothing.

Slade hadn't even cried after his first whipping as a shield-in-training, the only kid on his training unit who didn't. Master Wintergreen told him he was proud of him while he put cooling cream on the lashes. And look at him now. Look at him! More than 40 years later, not even marks to show, and crying like a weak trainee who lacks the strength it takes to become a worthy shield.

"Let's get you out of this room, darling," Apollo says, wedging his hand underneath Slade's chin to force him to look up. "You aren't calming down at all." He thumbs Slade's tears away and kisses his forehead. "Hush, all is forgiven now. I won't let anyone see you like this. It'll continue to be our little secret. You like that, darling, don't you?"

Slade nods frantically, overwhelmed with gratitude that Apollo won't allow anyone else to witness what a weak, pathetic wreck Slade has become. Not even Midnighter will ever know. It makes it more bearable. He closes his eye and lets Apollo's magic engulf him. The light gathers around them and then they aren't in the training room anymore, but in a faraway corner of the garden, surrounded by tall trees and chirping birds.

Slade slides to his knees and rests his forehead on Apollo's lap. He breathes in the scent of Apollo and lets those careful fingers patting the back of his head calm him down. He concentrates on the contact, the closeness of Apollo, the feel of the magic thrumming inside Slade's chest and little by little, he forces himself to pull away from the siren's song that is the binding magic.

He lives in fear of the day when he won't be strong enough to pull away, when he'll let the magic consume him and erase all that he is. But today isn't that day. The last shards of him that still remember what it was like to be called Deathstroke, to be feared by his enemies, cling to that small victory of self.

He's a gem, yes, but once he was a shield. And even though it hurts, even though he'll pay for clinging to the past, while he kneels at Apollo's feet, broken and remade by his Master, Slade forces himself to remember it.