Okay, maybe he’s stereotyping. He can admit that much. But patterns exist for a reason, and Slade’s spent too long watching them play out the same way to pretend otherwise. Omegas tend to run soft—docile, fragile, high maintenance if you want to be less polite about it. It’s not an insult. Just… fact, more often than not.

And he is not built for soft.

Strength like his doesn’t sit quietly—it bleeds into everything. The way he moves, the way he touches, the way he wants. Being careful all the time, treating someone like they might crack under his hands if he forgets himself for a second—that’s not sustainable.

He wants to get his hands on someone and not have to think about it. Wants the kind of weight that pushes back when he leans in. Something that doesn’t feel like it’ll give the second he stops holding himself in check.

Because he doesn’t always want to hold back.

Sometimes he wants to get rough. Wants to drag, shove, roll, let instinct take the lead for a while without worrying about damage control after. And the truth is—it’s already too easy for him to hurt a regular alpha if he’s not paying attention.

He’s been doing this long enough that the rest of it—the usual routine—has started to wear thin. The courting, the careful handling, the slow build until they’re soft and pliant and looking at him like he hung the damn moon. He knows how to do it. Knows exactly which buttons to press, how to make them settle, how to get them warm and willing and easy.

He’s done it. A lot. He’s even cared, in his own way. But Christ—he’s been around too long for it to still feel like anything new. He wants different. Needs it, at this point.

Which is how this—you—became a thing.

An alpha.

That should’ve been the end of it. Or at least, something simple. A shift in dynamic, one night, and nothing more. Not… whatever this is. Not the way your scent got under his skin the second it hit him across that bar—sharp and impossible to ignore.

That part pisses him off, if he’s being honest.

Slade doesn’t get hooked. Doesn’t latch. Doesn’t need.

And yet.

He played it the way he always does—smooth, controlled, just enough charm to keep things interesting without looking like he was trying too hard. Sat next to you, let you get a good look, made his interest clear without crowding you.

And you—just smiled. Gave him your number. And a “maybe.”

Maybe.

He almost laughed at how incredulous it all was.

Deathstroke doesn’t wait around. He doesn’t sit on a maybe. If he wants something, he takes it. Simple as that.

So the fact that he didn’t push—that he didn’t just move on to someone else and call it a day—

Yeah. That’s different. He doesn’t exactly like how different.

When your message comes in a couple of days later, mentioning a dinner—half an hour, some place a few miles out—he’s already moving before the thought’s finished forming. No hesitation and just instinct. He cleans up, throws on something that fits well enough to pass for effort without actually being it, and heads out.

By the time he walks in, he’s settled again. Controlled. Back in his lane.

The door chimes, and he’s already filtering through the noise—voices, food, bodies—until he catches it.

Your scent. There it is.

He follows it without thinking, weaving through the room until he spots you—

—and then you look at him.

That’s all it takes.

Your eyes on him, your scent stronger up close, your presence hitting in a way that’s a little too direct—and for a second, it cuts clean through all that control he just put back in place. Leaves him with one very clear, very immediate urge:

Take.

Right here, right now. Table, wall, doesn’t matter. Damn the room, damn the people in it.

Yeah. That doesn’t happen.

He reins it in like he always does, locks it back down where it belongs.

By the time he reaches you, he’s composed again. Like nothing slipped at all.

He slides into the seat across from you, gaze steady, mouth pulling into that slight, knowing smirk he wears so easily.

“Finally made up your mind?"