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If asked, perhaps with a gun to his head, Bruce would have many excuses at the ready. At the time, it had seemed reasonable. Well thought out.
This was not the case.
A dry spell lasting many months, coupled with Deathstroke's increased activity on Bruce's side of the continent, meant crossing paths was an event. The dry spell wasn't unusual, but Deathstroke's skill with a sword was certainly notable. Strong hands gripping the hilt tightly, never too slow with the down stroke, a perfect twist at the end to ensure Bruce was left— often wrecked.
Sometimes it was blood. A few bruises. The press of his boot on Bruce's shoulder was particularly memorable, and carried through him a quiet weekend. Once, that hand had abandoned his sword to wrap around Bruce's throat. Crushed the oxygen from his lungs and that had kept him bedridden for days, entirely unrelated to the extensive bruising.
It was… a problem.
A gun to his head, and he'd say he'd thought it out. Planned. It was calculated, untraceable, and only for purely selfish ends.
As it was, patrol had finished and Bruce was left with an unsatisfying collection of pornography, a handful of bland phone numbers, and the same old fantasies. Nearly five in the morning, and the uncomfortable press of underwear was becoming a nightly occurrence. It was rote. It was infuriating. Bruce was entirely sick of it, with months of nothing but his own hand and the brief, exciting thrills of violence.
He needed something real. A heavy body on his, and the fantastic grip of panic in his throat, with consent nothing but an illusion and Bruce forced to take everything given. Strong hands on his hips and the sting of tears at his eyes, free to fight and struggle and scream until he's hoarse and it still wouldn't matter.
Deathstroke would do. Had proved, time and again, that he could bring Bruce to the edge in every way and had no problems in kicking him over. The man under the mask was still a mystery, but that only made it better in Bruce's more hurried times. Anonymity could be a powerful drug.
The contract was sloppy at best, and could have certainly been refined. He regretted it almost immediately. Somewhere along the line, he'd forgotten to mention murder was off the table.
Deathstroke was unlikely to kill without an order, but Bruce would much rather things were spelled out clearly. That was, in essence, all he needed right then. Just a little clear headedness. Hitting send and jerking off in quick, unrefined motions, kevlar gloves still on for a hint of bite— all it did was confuse things further.
Somewhere along the way, his dick had staged a revolt, and the feeling of being beholden to its whims and needs was uncomfortable. Tightly-held control of his own body was almost a mantra at this point, and it often saved him from his stupidest decisions. Fueled by arousal and a lack of human touch, and here he was.
At nearly six, with Bruce left tossing and turning in bed for nothing better to do, the contract slips from the web. Accepted. He stares at where the words should be, rape and hurt and make him cry.
On patrol earlier, he'd gone two rounds with Bane, and spent the rest of the night running laps across the city. Exhaustion was heavy set, dragging him down despite the sudden burst of anxiety in his chest. Accepted. Despite all that, he still finds the energy to rut against the sheets until his thighs shake.
Maybe it was cowardice. Or the world's most ridiculous game of cat-and-mouse, except the cat didn't know the mouse was running.
Bruce spent the next night as the Bat, and the night after that. The third, he cancelled social gatherings in favour of donning armor and avoiding any chance of Deathstroke grabbing Bruce Wayne. He hadn't specified where — stupid — or when — perhaps, even more stupid — and that left a lot of time for Bruce Wayne to have a very large target on his back.
Staying in the armor was smartest. Staying in armor was weak protection against what he'd brought down on himself. All of Deathstroke's skill and focus, with a heavy bounty on his head, and Bruce was hiding. Stupid.
Didn't stop everything else that came with it.
Hours at the office were slow, and filled with idle moments to watch the seconds pass and think of touching himself. Think of, perhaps, himself bound and tied to his very comfortable office chair, or maybe the desk— yes, the desk, and the oppressive weight of armor plating against his suit, the hot pant of breath against his ear, searing pain on his insides as he's made to tip over the edge. Bruce's voice hoarse as he begs him to stop.
The long ride home is equally maddening. There is nothing quite like wishing Alfred wasn't present, so he could kneel in the back and jerk himself off with shame in his throat and the growl of Deathstroke's voice ringing in his head, thinking of some dark alley and unfortunate circumstances. The need is nearly unbearable, damn near impossible to justify, and Bruce can't escape it.
He eats. He reads. Works. He retires to the bedroom and hopes that this is the time there's a second presence in the room. Something will be off — a curtain moving in the cold night air, the ensuite light left on. Someone tall and dangerous waiting around the corner to drag him to the bed and force—
Every free moment is spent wishing and wanting, and doing everything he possibly can to avoid it all the same. By the end of the month, Bruce is in a foul mood. By Alfred's raised, perfectly cool eyebrow, that much is clear.
Keeping a lid on things is… difficult at the best of times.
A vacation is suggested. Nearly demanded. Bruce agrees, with the attention of a distracted toddler, and doesn't realise until the next morning that the planned vacation was for Alfred.
Nearly two months, now, since he gave the contract, and Alfred has left for his vacation. The contract fills every quiet moment, a little electronic string of words that has taken up every thought Bruce has to spare, like the promise of food to a starving dog and now he is— alone.
Alfred leaves a sticky note on the fridge, with a list of emergency contacts and social events he's honor-bound to attend. The manor is empty. Bruce is left to his own devices, and even he can admit that is a bad thing currently.
He works. Reads. He eats leftovers from the freezer and sits at the dining room table and thinks on Deathstroke and does not touch himself for an entire twenty four hours. Things feel normal for a short time. Good, even.
He can pretend there isn't a contract out for his ass, and Deathstroke isn't taking work closer and closer to Gotham as the days pass by. Like being circled by a shark, and Bruce is the blood, and all his stupid decisions are the bottomless ocean he's found himself stranded in.
Without Alfred home, he can climb into the errands car with the garage lights flicked out and masturbate furiously with his eyes squeezed shut, pretending there's a set of blank, masked eyes focused on him from the backseat. Bruce wished it helped.
As it is, the silence of the car does nothing to make him feel better. Sitting with his dick in his hand doesn't exactly help, either, and Bruce stares at the roof of the car for the longest minute before he mutters, "Fuck it."
Zips his pants back up and takes long, quick strides through the darkened garage until he's back in the manor proper. Up to the master bedroom and Bruce's blasted laptop — someone should take it away from him at times like these — and to the scant few contact details he has for the man himself.
Wayne's butler is taken care of. I want it done tomorrow. He taps send with finality, and then shuts everything down as a cold shock of anxiety kicks in, washing over him in waves.
Tomorrow is far too fucking soon, with how uptight he feels. Tomorrow should have been tonight, when the nerves might just kill him before Deathstroke has his way with Bruce.
Everything is perfect, without giving the game away.
The manor is locked up as usual, and he disables the Bat's security for a night. Just one night. No defenses, besides what money can buy. Nothing that should trip Deathstroke up much.
He flicks out every light and takes the stairs quietly, and has to force his feet to move slow. It's only seven, barely night, and the back of Bruce's neck prickles with anticipation already. He could be here. Slipped inside at any time, and now he's watching.
The urge to look behind himself is nearly unbearable, but Bruce carries on instead, and curses the amount of stairs in the manor. Too many for a night like tonight. He takes the strides to his bedroom in double time, and as a last second decision leaves the door open.
Just a bit. Just enough that he can imagine someone slinking in behind him, silent on heavy boots. The feeling of being hunted drips right down his spine, Bruce's cock already hard — hadn't stopped being hard all fucking day.
The last twenty four hours had been near torture. Every moment like molasses, and now that it was time, Bruce wasn't quite sure what to do. Acting out of the ordinary might tip Deathstroke off, and that's the last thing he wants.
Instead, Bruce walks on numb feet to the ensuite and gets ready for bed as normal. Brushes his teeth and scrubs at his face with cold water until he feels halfway to human again. Less like prey. Combs his hair and then changes into fresh underwear, dumping the rest in the laundry pile.
Just before climbing into bed, he cracks the balcony door open an inch. A convenient excuse in the humidity of July, cool air begins to circulate as Bruce crawls under the comforter, leaving it at his waist. He takes in the room — empty and still, door left open and everything as it should be. Comfortable and lived in, without rousing suspicion.
Bruce flicks out the lamp, eyes glued to the darkened doorway for a long, tense moment. Arousal curls in his gut, intense and pulsing, nearly impossible to ignore. Nothing happens, not that he expected it to, but the knowledge that he's close is thrilling and terrifying all at once.
Backing out now would be… suspicious. Incredibly so. And he's not even sure Deathstroke would listen, payment taken and the contract accepted. No take-backs. He truly is trapped in their agreement, no way out, no choice, and that thought keeps him awake until the late-late hours.
He must fall asleep, though. Exhaustion must drag him down after the long, torturous months he's waited. He must have— because there's a hand around his throat and a heavy weight that strangles the oxygen from his lungs when he wakes.
Carbon-fiber scrapes against his jaw, Bruce's senses waking up in a jumbled mess. Everything takes a moment too long to come together, and then it clicks.
Heat pools under Bruce's skin, his hair matted to his forehead when Deathstroke curls his other hand into it. Heartbeat irregular, vision unfocused— drugged.
"Listen here," Deathstroke murmurs. Oddly gentle, nearly smooth against Bruce's ear and he never knew Deathstroke could sound quite like that. It floats through Bruce's consciousness carefully, barely a disturbance. His hand flexes against Bruce's throat, his head knocked up to a painful angle. "You can scream all you like, and it won't change a thing."
Bruce swallows hard, the motion painful. Definitely drugged.
"Someone out there either likes you very much," Deathstroke purrs, a hint of amusement. "Or not at all. Any clue who that would be? Call it professional curiosity." He lingers for a second and then moves, the smooth material of his helmet sliding along to rest on the other side of Bruce's head. It's maddening, not being able to see him.
Finally, he lets go. Bruce inhales sharply, the noise hoarse, his throat dry. "Wh—" He coughs, Deathstroke's hand digging into the hollow of his throat again briefly. "Who are you?" He croaks out. "Drugged me." His tongue feels about ten sizes too big, the words slurred around it.
Deathstroke hums. "Your date for tonight."
"What—" Bruce gets cut off again, one large hand cupping the underside of his jaw. Deathstroke digs a thumb in and pain lances up his cheek. "Stop." Every feeling is distant at first, until it isn't— gloved hands feel like a brand right then, hot on his skin.
"I don't think I will."
"I—" he inhales, hates how thready his voice has become, "I have money. Lots of it, I'll—" With each word, Bruce struggles to keep both eyes open, his pillowcase fuzzy in the dark.
The body on top of his grinds down. "Not going to work."
"Double." Bruce tries. And maybe it's a test, too. Just how committed is the mercenary? Committed enough to drug him, and a simple flex of his trapped fingers on the sheets tells him there's a relaxant in there somewhere. Defenceless. "I'll— Whatever you want. Just— don't—" The mask nuzzles his cheek, a patronising motion.
"Wouldn't have taken the contract," Deathstroke murmurs. Rests his hips over Bruce's ass and the buckles there dig in sharply, taking over Bruce's hazy mind for a second. "If I didn't already want to." That hand around his throat flexes, almost massages, and Bruce feels sick, an unexpected urge when it's exactly what he's wanted.
He wants to. Wants to rape him, and for the first time Bruce wonders if he's the only contract like this Deathstroke's taken. Something to look into another day. His eyes water the longer he's choked, held right there, Deathstroke's body warm and heavy.
Bruce jerks in his grip when the need to breathe becomes unbearable, a burning in his lungs that can't be ignored. Feels like only a taste, just a hint of what Deathstroke's capable of, and his cock presses against the mattress painfully.
"What's that?" He asks, voice low. "Something to say?" He releases with the calmness of a man in control to let Bruce pant in oxygen.
"I—" He bites his tongue. Stares at the darkened edge of his pillow and feels anxiety pool in his chest. "Please." He whimpers, makes it sound real and it is far too easy to do. "You can't do this— I can— I can—"
"Cute." He rumbles. Grinds against Bruce heavily. "You're not going to be doing anything once I'm done with you, sweetheart."
Oh god, oh god. Right then, all Bruce can think of is everything he left out of the contract. Every hurried, stupid, horny demand, and not once did he think to rule out all of Deathstroke's impressive skills.
Drugs hadn't been mentioned, and here he is. Whatever he's been given isn't enough to turn him boneless, but it's enough. Makes the room spin a little in the quiet, makes Bruce's head fucking swim with nothing to focus on. His cock aches.
As if he knows it, Deathstroke laughs quietly against his ear, a sturdy weight above him. The pressure is almost nice, grounding when everything else feels lightweight and unfocused. His head drops, the pillow cool against his overheating head.
"Now, now," Deathstroke murmurs. "I want you awake for this."
"Please," he whimpers again, and this time it's for entirely different reasons. So close. Grinds his hips into the mattress and hopes it comes off as struggling. "You don't have to do this."
Feels saliva pool in his mouth as he breathes heavy against the soft cotton, eyes screwed shut against the nausea. Unpleasant side-effect, he supposes.
Nothing responds as it should. Bruce exhales into the pillow and hopes it hides the slightly hysterical laugh there. The nervousness, when even his fingers won't curl without effort, and keeping his head up is nearly impossible.
"No," Deathstroke rumbles. Nuzzles Bruce's jaw again and then he's moving. Pulling up to settle his entire weight on Bruce's hips, nearly crushing with the armour on top. "But I really want to."
There's the sound of buckles. The slide of fabric against fabric, and the muted thunk of a weapon discarded to the floor. A heavy sigh, filled with relief, and the roll of Deathstroke's hips against him, so rough Bruce can almost feel his cock through the layers.
He shouldn't be so calm. Neither of them should be. Bruce stays where he's left, unsure if he even could move, and Deathstroke removes strips of ammo and the heavier parts of his armour with patience. It feels like forever before his hands are on him again, groping along his hips until Bruce can be bodily moved.
It knocks the breath right out of him, the room spinning on its axis sharply as he's placed on his back. His eyes struggle to focus, and then everything snaps back.
The man above him, and the vulnerability in Bruce's gut. And the helmet. For a tense moment, it's all he can focus on, the rest of the mercenary blurred and hard to grasp.
Black and orange split down the middle. Just the one eye, and a brow that curves sharply downward. It's an angry mask. The last thing a lot of people have seen. The very last thing — that angry, dark mask, one slit staring them down, and now it's Bruce pinned under that gaze.
Arousal curls in his gut like a snake, and it must show, because the other man laughs quietly. Bruce makes to shift, move back, and all he does is make his position that much worse. Throat bared and it's such an effort to correct it, his hands heavy like lead when he grips the sheets.
"See something you like?" One large hand trails down, taking Bruce's attention with it. To the buckle above his hips, and the faint tent in his pants. Tension pools behind his eyes, struggling to watch at such a painful angle.
He hears — rather than sees — the buckle as it's unclasped. Flinches on the bed when one hand comes for his face, sinking into his hair and dragging Bruce up.
"Please," he murmurs, the words thick in his throat. He wants, and he's going to get, and there's nothing he can do.
Deathstroke tilts his head, just a fraction. "Since you asked so nicely." He almost purrs, and the sound goes straight to Bruce's cock. All heat and want, a breathless quality to the other man's voice.
He doesn't have time to appreciate the cock that Deathstroke drags from his pants before he's being climbed up on. Too close to make out anything other than big and the noise that comes out of Bruce's chest is entirely without thought, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.
And it is— big. Thick on his tongue when Deathstroke applies pressure and pops his jaw in one skilled, painful movement. Hot and salty against the roof of his mouth as he thrusts in. Slides home without question, and Bruce can't get his limbs to respond, can't move, not even his lungs work right when the cock in his mouth urges its way into his throat.
He chokes, eyes watering, and struggles as best he can. Above him, Deathstroke hums, a pleased noise.
"There you go," he murmurs, voice low. Rolls his hips, dominating every spare inch of space until all Bruce can feel is the heavy weight across his collarbones and the panic that wells up to meet another well-timed thrust. "That's it."
When he pulls out, it's sharp and painful. Leaves his throat raw and throbbing, Bruce's stomach contracting painfully.
"Stop," he garbles. The hand on his jaw squeezes until Bruce whines, fighting against the pressure. His teeth ache, and Deathstroke presses the head of his cock right there.
"Open your fucking mouth." He growls. Bruce's toes curl. Opens his mouth and still isn't ready for the next intrusion, no possible way to be ready and he thinks he might just be sick as the head of his cock spreads his throat. Grinds into the soft walls there and Deathstroke's hand reaches down to feel. "Good."
He stays there, thick and heavy in Bruce's mouth and squeezes hard. Tears sting the corners of his eyes, and this time the fighting is as real as he can manage — jerks his head back and blinks away the dark spots in his vision. Kicks against the bed and does nothing except slide down the sheets that little bit more.
All the better angle for Deathstroke to grip his head and fuck his mouth. Nothing kind about it. Nothing courteous. Raw need and the strength to match, numbing every nerve in his mouth until Bruce can't quite remember what it was like before this.
His head swims, and the only thing left to hold onto is the grounding force in his throat. The man that drives into his mouth like he owns it. The repetitive, wet noise as he's choked and fucked and choked and fucked.
Somewhere along the way, the tears spill over, and that's the only reprieve he's given. Tense, quiet seconds where Deathstroke pulls out, his cock wet against Bruce's throat, studying the wetness on his cheeks.
"No crying yet, sweetheart." He murmurs. Is rough when the pad of his thumb scrapes across Bruce's cheek, only to dip into his mouth, spreading the taste there. "We're just getting started."
That helmet stares down at him, so very angry, displeased, and Bruce's breath comes in shaking waves. Holds his gaze as the thumb in his mouth tugs against his cheek until he whimpers. Just as quickly, he withdraws, gripping his cock tightly.
"Go on," Deathstroke nudges his hips forward. "Do it yourself."
"N—" He swallows against a new influx of saliva, his mouth still singing with the loss of sensation. "No." Every breath stings, difficult to draw in with the other man settled so fully on him.
"You really don't want to say no to me." He states.
Jerks his cock once to scrape the saliva from it, then slides his fingers into Bruce's hair, fire taking over his scalp for a long moment. Everything hurts. He's not even started and it's already too much, Bruce's focus shot and his fucking hands paw uselessly at the mercenary's thighs.
With one sharp pull forward, his throat is filled. Bruce gags, can't stop it and he thinks for a blind moment he might just never stop. His throat quivers, useless and unresponsive, and the groan from Deathstroke above him is nearly fucking bliss.
Rather than grind into him, Deathstroke grips his head tightly and jerks his head forward. Takes Bruce along for the dizzying ride, and doesn't stop until he goes truly limp, a headache beginning to pound behind his eyes.
Every free moment he has is spent sucking in wet lungfuls of air, tracing the edge of unconscious. Even with his throat full, Bruce finds his chest working overtime to claw out noises fit for an animal. Raw, hurt noises, and the soft whimpers that get easily drowned out by the obscene noise of his throat.
He screws his eyes shut tight and would scream if he had enough air when Deathstroke finally stills, his cock pulsing against the bruised palate of his mouth. Doesn't even get to taste when he's buried so deep, and the feeling of being used is overpowering.
Bruce bucks, a lazy and feeble movement, when white noise static fills his ears and the taste of skin becomes dull. Far away. Like those first moments of waking, dragging his way up to consciousness with a hand at his throat.
Even then, Deathstroke lingers. Takes his fill and doesn't move until Bruce is on the edge, his heart thudding beneath the mercenary's weight. Grinds in just once more before he withdraws, nausea following quickly.
Saliva connects them, and Bruce is too wrecked to lift his eyes. Just watches the thick head of Deathstroke's cock, coated in spit and the faintest traces of blood. Dimly, he notes he's never felt quite like this. Intimidated quite like this.
"Now that we're acquainted," Deathstroke murmurs. Doesn't even sound out of breath, and it's just one more reminder that he's more. The physical peak, where Bruce is brought down to this with a few chemicals in his system. "Slade."
He strokes Bruce's cheek lightly, his thumb pressing to the red rim of his eye until Bruce flicks his gaze up. Above him, the man is blurry behind the lingering tears, nothing more than a dark figure, shoulders rolled back and his cock a formidable presence mere inches from Bruce's bruised mouth.
"I want to hear you scream it." He adds, the curve of his smirk bleeding through the words. "Loud and clear. Think you can do that, pretty boy?"
When all Bruce does is inhale sharply, every breath precious, he receives a stinging slap.
"Answer me." He says, impossibly calm despite the fury in that one strike. Bruce's world settles down slowly, still caught up in the force.
He's been struck all kinds of ways. Usually there's armor, or the chance to defend himself. A way to brace against the impact. He sets his jaw and whimpers at the next strike, Slade's fingers splayed wide.
"I'll take that as a yes." He says with a pleased edge. "You've got fight, I'll give you that." With a gentle touch, he tips Bruce's head back, and laughs quietly when he stays there, throat bared and bruised.
His ribs ache when Slade moves, sliding from his chest to straddle his thighs instead. The comforter goes with him, pulled back to let them both see the proud arch of his cock, still trapped in black boxers. Bruce screws his eyes shut, fingers curled in the sheets.
"Liked that, did you?" Slade rumbles. A heavy hand settles over his cock, shockingly warm even through the layers, and maybe it's just his imagination because the gloves are still on, but it's too much with the grind of his palm against Bruce's oversensitive skin.
"Stop." He whimpers. Twists his hips and feels more tears well behind his eyes. "St— Stop—" Cries out when cold registers, sliding between delicate skin and soft cotton. With perfect efficiency, his underwear is cut away, the blade smooth enough that he doesn't feel the slice against his thigh until after it's happened.
"Guess all those rumours are true." Slade hums, amused, nearly drowned out by Bruce's next raw noise. The flat side of his knife presses against his cock, pinning it down, and the urge to rut for any kind of friction is nearly unbearable.
"What—" he inhales sharply, eyes on the knife in the dark and the sliver of light it reflects. "What are you—"
"I think you know." Slade cuts in. Pockets the knife just as quickly as he'd produced it, and when his hand returns it's with a small, plastic packet. He sets it on the bed methodically, and then he's on Bruce.
Moves him with ease, no roughness necessary when he can do whatever he damn well pleases. Fighting is pointless, but Bruce still does anyway, the insistence only growing when strong hands grip his thigh and haul him up.
"That's better." Slade murmurs. Holds Bruce right there, the angle agonizing when he can't do anything to support himself, and his neck still aches, caught at a slant. Drags Bruce that little bit closer until they're fit together, the weight of his cock heavy over Bruce's, still wet with spit.
Abruptly, he drops Bruce again, the bed creaking. There's no time to recover when he hears the packet crinkle, and then there's rough hands on his ass, still gloved—
The noise Bruce makes lasts until his throat gives out, abused and no match for the burn that starts up between his legs. No amount of drugs could stop him from jerking away right then, desperate to escape the insistent violation, and it hurts—
No other word for it, besides that. Every unbearable second, condensed into such a small word, the only word Bruce can think as he writhes, as he's slammed into the bed and that mask gets a whole lot closer.
"That's it," Slade growls. Crooks his finger and drives an animal noise from Bruce's chest. "Hurt for me, sweetheart." Presses the cold material of his mask to Bruce's heated skin, one eye staring down into his as he crams a second finger in.
"Stop," he breathes. Can't inhale when Slade's hand is planted firmly on his chest, every rib aching with old fractures and breaks. "Please—"
Slade spreads his fingers, and Bruce's resistance is near to none against his strength. The stretch reaches a high point, and Bruce sobs. Pants against Deathstroke's helmet and sobs wordlessly, barely feels it when he adds a third finger and thrusts deep, can't take any more and he knows there's more, Slade's cock heavy between his thighs and dripping precome.
Slade pins him down and stays silent as he works. Splits Bruce open on nothing but his fingers and manages to make it feel like Bruce is split in half, the rough texture of his gloves dragging across every singing nerve.
It's fucking perfect.
With every twist of those talented, intruding fingers, Bruce gives up the fight. Gives up everything, stripped down to nothing but nerve endings and the wet, wounded noises in his throat.
Slade crushes him into the bed and doesn't stop for anything. Not Bruce's pleas. Not the knowledge that this is wrong. No amount of begging, fighting, nothing—
Somewhere through opening him up by force, Slade hits his prostate. One tiny spark that cuts Bruce open, a gasp in his throat that they both hear. Slade pauses, and then hits the spot again. Grinds into it until it hurts, destroys that last ounce of pleasure Bruce might get, and it's enough to send him over.
Bruce screws his eyes shut and holds onto Slade with shaking hands as his cock spills over his stomach. Whines in his throat and bucks his hips up, the only thing available for friction being Slade's own abdomen, the material of his armor close to sandpaper on oversensitive skin.
There are no gentle words, and Slade's fingers give him no reprieve. He clenches down anyway, can barely manage even that, his cock pulsing with nothing left to give. He shakes through the last of it, and only stops when Slade withdraws his fingers sharply.
"Now you've had your fun, it's time for mine." he says, voice muted. Controlled with barely-there arousal under the surface. "Let's hope you're tighter than those rumors make you out to be."
Bruce sucks in painful breaths, and watches with detached interest as faint traces of blood smear over his hip when Slade yanks him up. He'll feel it for weeks. Those hands gripping his thighs and the ache in his lungs, the grit in his eyes. The unbeatable feeling of control ripped from his hands. Taken.
Slade lines up, and lingers there, right on the edge. From behind the helmet, he studies Bruce, silent, the crown of his cock nudging its way in. "Look at me." His tone leaves no room to do anything but, Bruce's eyes dragged to meet the helmet, gazing into that cold expression.
He'd looked less intimidating on a rooftop. Less formidable with all his armor, an anonymous enemy. When Bruce had all his defenses, and his skills, and this stupid game could stop at any time. When he could back out, and never think on it again.
With searing clarity, the crown of Slade's cock is forced in. "I'm going to ruin you." Slade growls, and defiles him with another inch. "Every time you touch yourself," he grunts, "or fuck your little girlfriends. You're going to think about this." Bruce moans, pained, and is pushed to accommodate another few inches. "Me." With that last branding word, he hits home with a growl.
Despite himself, Bruce nods. Jerks his head in some close approximation of it, at least, and doesn't tear his eyes from the mask. Can't drag in air for a tense, terrifying moment, filled to the hilt and there is no space left in him.
Everything is taken, repurposed, made to fit Slade's cock and the knowledge is nearly enough to send him over again.
Slade rolls his hips. Squeezes Bruce's thigh. "Good boy." He murmurs, the words low and from his chest. "That's it." Rocks into Bruce with controlled grace, the head of his cock pressing against oversensitive walls.
When he hefts Bruce up further, he feels it in every overworked joint and every lingering bruise, and somehow Slade presses in deeper. A whimper crawls from his throat as Slade finds his pace, the perfect angle to drag against his insides and violate him deepest.
"Good," he rumbles, and for the first time looks like he's enjoying himself, head beginning to tip back. Even his throat is covered, nothing for Bruce to go off besides his name and the gravel quality of his voice.
Bruce swallows hard, the mercenary's earlier words filling his head. Keens when Slade bucks into him sharply, starting to chase his own pleasure and leaving none for Bruce. "Slade," he whispers, the name quivering on his tongue.
The other man's head snaps up at that, one eye piercing right through him. It feels like praise when he thrusts harder, fills Bruce up to the hilt and makes him feel it.
"Louder." Slade orders. Punctuates it with a strong, open-palm strike to Bruce's ass. "Tighten up."
The words, mixed with the overwhelming edge of the drugs only bring tears back to his eyes. Heat pools under his skin, nearly burns right out of him as Bruce's chest quivers. "Can't— " Every muscle is unresponsive right then, battered on all sides, and it's too fucking much. "I'm— I can't— 'm sorry—"
"Fine." Slade snaps. His fingers dig in, a torturous motion when he bends Bruce's hips to his will and ploughs into him. "Do it myself." And he does — kicks the pace up until Bruce can't even hold on, can't take any more, and things become muted. Quiet.
Out of his control.
Slade takes, and takes, and takes. Claims every last inch of him, inside and out. Fucks into Bruce like he wants to own him, wants to devour him and it nearly feels like that when he collapses over him. Nearly bends Bruce in half, the helmet heavy on Bruce's damp shoulder.
Ruts into him like an animal, no rhythm left. Every jackhammer of his hips is unrefined and rough, beyond agony, and Bruce thinks he might just never recover.
Ruin sounds real good, right then. Sounds like the heavy weight of Slade on top of him, and the freedom to make his own animal noises. Sob until he feels hollowed out and empty and all that's left to do is scream—
Slade's name tastes like blood and bile. Feels like claws coming out of his throat, muffled into the other man's shoulder, Bruce's teeth aching when he bites down.
It must push him over the edge because Slade stills. Pressed against him at every possible point. Anchored inside of him, Bruce's body left to work around him. Fit all of Slade, and only Slade. He feels it when Slade's cock pulses, and hears the long, drawn out groan from his chest when it happens.
The relief only lasts for so long, and Bruce can't help a whimper when Slade shifts above him. Reaches between them to grip his cock and start the slow pull out, far too easy now that his hole has been abused so thoroughly.
Slade grunts when he's free, and takes a moment to wipe the smearing of blood against the jut of Bruce's hip. If he were any less wrecked, he'd be worried about that, and the damage done.
As it is, he thinks of nothing besides the gentle, careful touch to his cheek. Slade's hand cupping his jaw. Tilting his head until Bruce's eyes slide to his, still damp with tears.
"Good boy," he rumbles. Strokes a thumb over Bruce's cheek and then moves on to tuck his cock away. The words shouldn't fill him with such warmth, a scrap of kindness in an otherwise heartless act.
He fucking loves it, and can't make his mouth work well enough to respond. Slade moves him only enough to retrieve his discarded armor, redressing in silence. Pain radiates under Bruce's skin, but there's also a calmness that he can never find anywhere else.
Nothing can get him quite like this. He wants it all the time — blank, and left with the aftershocks of the act. Good boy ringing in his ears.
Slade lingers in the room for only a moment, head tipped down, before he leaves without a word, climbing out onto the balcony and dropping the two floors down. Bruce watches him go, and knows with certainty he'll be asking for more just as soon as his fingers work again.