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As expected, Bruce's fingers do recover. The blood in the shower is alarming, and more than enough reason to stop. Hit the brakes right there and never do it again.
He patches himself up in the early afternoon, after a bout of what must be unconsciousness rather than actual sleeping. The drug wears off, eventually.
Disposes of the sheets, and throws away the ruined underwear. He makes the bed and tidies the room, locks the balcony door, resets the alarm system. Everything is done carefully, with lances of pain up his spine that may last for weeks and he is lucky that it's only this bad.
Despite this, and the logical notion that Bruce will never do this again—
He puts out another contract. It is far more descriptive than the last. Has a timeframe, for one. He gives Deathstroke — Slade — a month. Rules out drugs, and permanent injury, and death. He sits there, fingers hovering over the keys of his laptop, and tries to put into words everything he enjoyed the last time.
Nevermind that it leaves him nauseous and tense, the sense that something wrong has been done. Just the thought leaves him wanting, shifting in his seat impatiently, throat oddly tight.
Slade occupies a space in his mind that is confusing, both terrifying and exactly what he wants. Bruce pokes it in idle moments, and colours with shame each time. The thrill, and the embarrassment. It gets him off quicker than he has in months, and coming without speaking his name is nearly impossible.
The contract, as expected, is accepted quickly. Bruce really should look into the corners of the internet a man like Slade hangs around. Something for another day. It's neater, and far more specific, and leaves Deathstroke with no other option than to do it soon.
A month. More than enough time for Bruce to drive himself insane, waiting on that moment. Each night is a new, particular flavour of paranoia, and sleep is difficult when it simply reminds him of a weight across his hips, Slade's hot breath against his ear.
Alfred notices, of course. He keeps his comments to himself. Bruce offers no explanation when he's found checking and rechecking the security system before bed. Some things are undoubtedly better left unsaid.
Things are busy. Suitably busy. There are robberies and arsons. Break-outs at Arkham and petty domestics, a whole slew of cold cases to review in idle moments. Lunches and meetings, a trip to Shanghai that takes up an entire three days and Bruce spends most of it looking over his shoulder.
On the sixteenth day, Bruce's birthday rolls around. A bland occasion more for the press at this point than Bruce. He'll share a drink with Alfred after the party's wound down, graciously accept whatever book he's been procured, and then sleep in past noon the next day.
That is how it goes. How it always goes.
Which is why he feels on autopilot as he dresses, as he reads over the guest list, as he prepares the conversation starters and the urge to drink solidly grows and grows.
As always, Bruce looks his best. Everything that should be is polished, starched, ironed, and artfully designed, and it does a fantastic job of hiding the ache in his ribs from a run-in with Croc.
If he walks a little stiffer, that's his own business, and laughed away with a glass of champagne. Hosting at Wayne Manor is tricky but the ballroom serves well enough, and leaves Bruce free to disappear if needed.
He turns up fashionably late, even in his own home, and mingles as aggressively as ever. So focused on the task, in fact, that he forgets nearly entirely about the target on his back.
He makes it all the way to the late hours, long past when Batman should have taken to the streets, and things have begun to die down. The circuit is familiar. Laugh on cue, never linger too long, drink in hand.
Halfway through moving groups, Bruce on a heel-turn with the ballroom lights particularly blinding at this hour, a firearm is pressed to his spinal column.
Stiff doesn't begin to cover it, a solid weight pressed to his spine. Gun, he thinks numbly. Struggles to breathe for a moment, made all the harder when a warm body glues to his back.
The buzz of the room turns muted. Bruce breathes through his nose in sharp, short little bursts. His spine rigid against the weight there, unforgiving and cold through the thin layer of his shirt, pressed intimately under his jacket.
"Fancy meeting you here," Slade murmurs, voice like honey. Warm, inviting, thick and sweet in the back of Bruce's throat. "Make a noise and I put a bullet in the little sweetheart over there. Through you." He urges the firearm forward, Bruce's hips going with it, deftly aimed at the woman—
Bruce blinks, and can't remember her name, cotton wool in his skull with his heartbeat pounding right out of his chest.
It's not fear. He wishes it was fear, as maybe that would return some normalcy to his life. It's excitement, Bruce's breath stuck in his lungs when Slade settles against his back. Tall and warm and solid behind him, the threat clear.
"What do you want." Bruce bites out. His voice feels far-away, thin. Not like him. He doesn't feel like himself at all, with Slade in the room.
"I'd love a tour," Slade says. His voice is easy, conversational. Simple to pass-by in the chatter of the room. "Why don't you show me some of those wine cellars I hear rich little things like you have?"
"I—" He swallows. Tastes acid and bubbly champagne. "If I don't?"
"Like I said," Slade hums. "How much do you value your spine? Or your friends here." He lets Bruce work it out silently, the rise and fall of Slade's chest heavy — excited, too. "Happy birthday, by the way."
"Fuck you." Bruce growls, before he can think about it, but Slade only laughs. His mouth is dangerously close to his ear, a hot puff of breath against the back of his neck. "I'll— The police—"
"Oh, like last time you mean?" Slade nudges him forward, and Bruce's feet stumble to obey. Feels like all his strings have been handed over to Slade's deft hands, his limbs tugged along for the ride. "Bet your little butler doesn't even know."
Bruce grinds his teeth against that, and goes when he's pushed. Slade makes it quick, at least. Nothing more than a handful of moments before they've left the ballroom, the drone of the room dying down even further.
It is so much more thrilling, once they're alone. The safety on the gun clicks back on, a sobering move. "Be good, and nothing will happen to your friends. Got it?"
Whether it's an intentional move, Slade stays behind him, no longer pressed against his back. Bruce itches to turn, to see his face — wants it burned into his mind for later use. "Yes."
"Bet you liked being good last time," Slade hums. Sounds incredibly pleased, Bruce's stomach clenching at that. He was glad he'd only drank a little tonight. The risk of throwing up would be low, unless Slade planned to land a few blows. "Did you think about me? After."
"No." He lies. Stands as tall as he can and bites his tongue until he tastes a little copper, the nerves singing. Grounding. Wayne Manor feels miles away, when he's standing in the heart of her walls, a gun to his spine.
"Well let's try and make it stick this time, shall we?" He prods. When Bruce doesn't move, Slade sets a hand on his shoulder, his grip bruising already. "Somewhere quiet." He adds. "Unless you're into that."
He doesn't dignify that with a response and begins the slow, numb walk down the hallway. To the ground floor by way of the main staircase, his mind fuzzy on the exact details of the wine cellar when Slade is close enough to touch. To feel. To turn and look, drink his fill of the face that goes with that voice, Bruce's knees weak the longer he thinks on it.
He finds it eventually, nothing more than a plain door. Fumbles the handle as Slade waits patiently, well-oiled hinges swinging open in silence. Bruce's chest tightens for a moment at the darkened stairs leading down.
Not half as dark as the cave. Not nearly so imposing as a true basement. Warm bulbs buzz to life when he flicks the lights on, flooding the room in a soft glow.
Reds and whites and vintages Bruce has never bothered to try line the walls, only pulled out for occasions such as these. In the center of the room, a tall table, a slab of marble reflecting the overhead lights. Round the sharp corner at the end of the room, more wine, a few shelves of whiskey.
"This is nice," Slade comments, and then unceremoniously shoves Bruce down the last few steps. It's no feint when he lands on his knees, the room feeling claustrophobic the moment Slade's dress shoes come to rest beside his palms. Bruce's hands shake. "Mind if I look?"
Without an answer, he steps away. Turns his back to Bruce, broad shoulders relaxed. Now would be the time to make it real, give Slade a fight. Take one of those bottles and see what the mercenary can stand up to.
Instead, he sits back on his heels and watches, his tongue about ten sizes too big in his mouth.
Out of the suit, Slade cuts an imposing figure. Broad shouldered, the fit of his shirt hugs his biceps tightly beneath a charcoal waistcoat. He's dressed for the occasion, twin polished shoes catching the light when he steps up to a wall, peering at antique bottles.
From this angle, Bruce can't even see his face, but the shock of white hair and a loosely held SIG Sauer has Bruce's thighs shifting, desperate to tense up, get a little friction.
Distantly, he's aware the door is still open, a half-dozen steps between him and the Manor proper. Bruce stays put, his eyes glued to the shine of Slade's slacks, the pull when he shoves a hand into the pocket and whistles.
"Nice." Slade murmurs. He reaches out to trail a hand over the bottles like a kid in a candy store, scars peeking out over his knuckles, and then plucks a red from the wall lightly. Frees the cork with a thumb, the pop nearly deafening in the quiet room, a headache already beginning to pound between Bruce's temples.
Red looks good on Slade's mouth. He drinks heavily for a minute and wipes at his mouth with the edge of his crisp, white sleeve.
"What do you want?" Bruce finally asks, when Slade does nothing more than take in the room, an unreadable expression on his face. That earns his attention, Slade pivoting on the spot to face him fully.
Bruce kind of hates that he's handsome, to boot. The eyepatch draws his attention before Bruce drags his gaze over to meet Slade's singular, cold eye. Lips stained red and strong jaw, his hair rests against the starched collar of his shirt, Slade's tie neatly centered.
"Your mouth, for one." He states, voice oddly flat. "Come here."
"I'm not—"
"I'm not asking." He cuts in. Takes another swig of the bottle, head tipped back, before he sets it on the table. There's a handful of polished glasses to one side which Slade eyes thoughtfully for a moment before he snaps his fingers. "Get over here, before I put one of those glasses through your butler's neck."
Bruce starts moving, not quite sure what he's doing until his aching knees are off the ground. The SIG Sauer clicks, the safety off, aimed for his head.
"Crawl."
"I—" Bruce chews his cheek. The front of his slacks will be ruined, is the only thing he can think as he gets back down, palms digging into unforgiving stone. "Okay. Just— don't hurt Alfred. Promise me."
"I'm not promising you anything, sweetheart." Slade murmurs, a curve to his mouth, holding all the cards. He jerks the gun in silent command, and Bruce finally finds it in himself to move.
It's not far, hardly more than a few meters, but feels like forever. Bruce's lungs itch in his chest, suddenly aware that he's been holding his breath. Everything feels— sharp and gritty, his limbs working on their own accord, on Slade's command, Bruce's knees scraping against the floor.
His cock aches furiously between his thighs, practically singing with the friction of every move, near to gasping when he finally comes to rest at Slade's feet.
"There you are." Slade murmurs. Sounds painfully close to praise, a smile at the edge of his red lips. "Guess you did learn something last time." Bruce flinches when he reaches out, a warm hand twining into his hair. The grip doesn't tighten— doesn't need to when Bruce goes easy, the edge of his mouth pressed to the front of Slade's slacks.
He breathes heavy, mouth damp, and tries not to feel eager. Tries to hold the line, and not simply give in. It's so hard, when Slade looms above him, voice thick like honey.
He doesn't need to tell Bruce what to do. Not when it feels easier than breathing. He maps out the prominent edge of Slade's cock, the metallic tang of Slade's zipper when he runs his tongue over it.
For his part, Slade holds him there, rocks his hips forward. Grinds against his mouth and sighs when Bruce uses teeth, presses his tongue in hard against the outline of his cock, felt between layers.
Between his own thighs, Bruce's cock aches, trapped in boxers and his own tight slacks, no release even when he spreads his thighs. His hands itch to fumble his zipper, jerk himself off quick and fast like it's another fevered thought in the early hours. It's not, it's Slade, real and handsome above him, that single blue eye fixed on Bruce's face when he tilts his head back.
There's a tense line between his pale eyebrows, Slade's mouth set thinly. Bruce suckles hard and watches as the sensation registers, Slade's jaw clenching.
Tentatively, he trails his hands up Slade's thigh. The muscle there tenses under his touch, hard when he squeezes, and Slade doesn't protest when his fingers come to rest over his zipper. Bruce barely removes his mouth for the few seconds he needs to unbutton and unzip the slacks, immediately moving to suck on the soft cotton of his boxers pulled taut.
Slade hisses, rocks into his mouth. His fingers tighten in Bruce's hair, twisting painfully. More than enough encouragement for him to reach in and free Slade's cock, caught off guard with the chance to freely look for once.
Hard for a while, if he had to guess, the crown of his cock tinted red and already wet with precome. Bruce runs a thumb over the silky skin, spreading the wetness a few inches down his cock. The heat is as surprising as it was the last time, blood running hot in Bruce's palm when he squeezes experimentally.
"Missed me?" Slade asks, voice low and amused.
Bruce jerks back at that, blinking up at the other man, his throat tight.
His smile grows into a sharp grin, Slade's chest rising on a laugh. "You have no clue how fuckable you look, when you're surprised." He rumbles, and tugs Bruce in close, the head of his cock rubbing over Bruce's cheek.
He fights only a little when Slade grips his skull, fingers splayed wide, and forces him onto his cock. The first thrust in is sharp, unexpected against his tongue. Bruce's stomach heaves. Slade pulls out just as quick, giving Bruce space to breathe.
"Stop." Bruce mumbles, the nausea nowhere close to faked right then. Champagne churns in his stomach. Slade pushes him back down.
Salt coats his tongue, the intrusion slower this time. Savoring in a way the first wasn't, splitting Bruce's mouth open in slow, halting inches. Slade's cock scrapes against the roof of his mouth, bumping against his throat for entry, and Bruce can't help the tensing of his muscles, fighting the intrusion.
His nails dig in, and Slade pushes him down. Slow just to make Bruce feel it, every moment that he slides home an eternity. He can't help the choke, or the tears that sting at his eyes, both holding onto and pushing at Slade's thighs.
The firearm in Slade's hand catches the light, Bruce's blurry gaze focusing on that as Slade sinks home in his throat. It presses against his temple, coupled with Slade's soft, pleased, "There you go. That wasn't so bad, was it?"
He nudges Bruce's skull with the gun, grunting when his throat quivers around Slade's length. Against his head, Slade's hand eases up, guiding Bruce off almost tenderly, a sickening difference to the cold metal against his skin.
The moment he can, Bruce sucks in wet lungfuls of air, not quite suppressing a strangled cough. Already, his throat feels battered, the soft walls of his mouth numbing with overuse. Slade sinks in again, and this time doesn't take it slow — rolls his hips just right to hit Bruce's gag reflex, grinding down into his throat.
Pain radiates from his scalp, Slade's hand suddenly tight, punishing. One wrong move, and it's all over. Slade's orgasm feels like a countdown to when he loses control over that trigger finger, and it wouldn't even matter. Another dead body means nothing to a man like Slade.
He groans around Slade's cock and digs his nails into his slacks, his cock throbbing. Lets Slade move him when he pleases, and takes it with nothing more than whimpers when Slade's hips pick up pace, when the wet inside his mouth begins to spill over.
Each slow, torturous pull out drags saliva with it, beginning to coat his chin. The collar of his shirt, and the nice tie Alfred had laid out for him. The spot on his slacks where his cock strains, growing damp.
Distantly, he's aware the door is still open. The hallway only a few, short minutes from the ballroom and the dozens of guests. Friends, in the loosest sense. People who know Bruce, and who Bruce knows.
However slim, there is a chance someone will come in. Staff looking for a replacement bottle, or any number of guests — somewhere quiet, frisky. Someone looking for him, and thinking in their infinite wisdom, to try the wine cellar.
He does have a reputation for drink, after all. And late night, anonymous hook-ups in semi-public areas.
Any second and they'd find him on his knees, harder than he may have ever been in his life, drooling down the front of his suit with a whimper. Slade fucks into his throat in quick, sharp thrusts, nearing his release, taking the edge off for the main event.
He chokes on a well-aimed punch of Slade's cock, the muscles of his throat tender already. As if on cue, the hand atop his head slides down, strong fingers circling his neck as they had before.
Slade buries himself to the hilt with a grunt, holds on tight to feel himself, and Bruce swallows. His eyes water, spilling over when he screws his eyes shut and fights the urge to pull off, a guttural noise deep in his chest building.
Just as quickly, Slade pulls off. Bruce's head spins for a moment, suddenly jerked back by his hair, too busy sucking in lungfuls of oxygen to protest when the weight of Slade's cock is replaced by smooth, hard metal.
Bruce nearly vomits, his tongue pinned under the barrel. Can barely see beyond the wetness in his eyes, struggling to make out the expression on Slade's face. He hopes it's good. Would pray it's good, if he cared to, his heart in his throat.
Guns are not new. Not in the slightest. He faces them every day, clad in armor under the cover of night. Has come face to face with a few like this, nothing more than his skills and a nice suit to keep him safe, but Slade's wicked smile puts his heartbeat in overdrive, nausea roiling in his stomach.
Bruce grunts when he's pushed forward, his jaw aching fiercely. There's no give like flesh and blood, no familiarity in the object. He hates it, and hates even more the sudden rush of blood to his cock, Bruce's stomach twisted into knots.
Slade squeezes his throat one last time and then withdraws the gun completely. The SIG Sauer slides from his mouth, scraping against Bruce's teeth like nails on a chalkboard.
Of all things, Slade pats the top of his head, his smirk softening slightly. "I wouldn't stop crying yet, if I were you." He says, and then, "Get up."
His mouth tastes like salt and bile, throat aching when he swallows heavily. Bruce sits on his heels for a moment longer, every limb feeling like lead, and then drags himself to his feet. Unsteadily, he stands, meeting Slade's gaze warily.
"You look so good when you cry." Slade comments quietly, reaching out to wipe at his damp cheek. A laugh bubbles up when Bruce flinches, his legs unbalanced and knees still stiff. "I think it's my favorite part."
He nods numbly, and doesn't bother questioning how a man like Slade comes to be. At what point he decided he wanted to see Bruce cry and struggle, his mouth split open on Slade's cock. Doesn't really matter, when Bruce decided a long time ago he liked it too.
"What's next." He says, because of course there's a next. Bruce had specified.
Despite that, Slade hums, head cocked as he thinks. "How about a kiss?" He asks, tone light. Bruce tries, and fails, to hide his startle at that, a smile crawling over the mercenary's face. "Don't get shy, now."
Unlike anything else, this kiss is gentle. Nothing more than a press of lips at first, Slade's beard scratching against his chin. He licks inside carefully, head tilted for the right kind of angle to make Bruce's knees feel weightless. Hums into Bruce's mouth as he gets a taste of himself, strong and sure where Bruce's tongue is frozen in his mouth.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Slade murmurs. Bruce cracks an eye open, not quite sure when he closed them. His body appears to be taking the reins again, leaving him to stumble along.
This close, he can pick out his reflection in Slade's dark iris. Self-consciously, he wipes his mouth, the sleeve of his shirt coming away sticky and wet.
Slade takes him by the hips. Turns him with quick force, and marches Bruce forward, his feet uncoordinated. Bruce sees — rather than feels — the moment that Slade takes him by the hair, slams his head against the table.
His vision blurs, both hands aching where he scrabbles for grip on the polished surface. Dimly, he hears a groan, and knows that it's him. Pain beats under the left side of his face, spreading outward with every pulse of his heart.
Bruce's stomach threatens a revolt, close to giving up. He sucks in sharp breaths, watching as it dampens the granite, reflecting the overhead lights.
"Let's practice a little thing called quiet, shall we?" Slade says, sounding like he's speaking into a bucket, perhaps. Far away and tinny. Bruce's jaw aches, clenched tight.
For good measure, he's lifted. Not an easy feat, but it's enough to get his hips over the ridge of the table. His shoes scrape the floor, not quite touching.
"You make a noise, and you know what happens." The SIG Sauer is placed beside him, not an inch from his nose. Bruce's vision strains, not quite sure what to pull into focus. "Any noise. Got it?"
When Bruce doesn't answer— can't answer when his head throbs too loud to even hear himself, Slade eases up. Deft hands slide to Bruce's belt, unbuckling in silence, rough when he pulls his slacks down, underwear gone with it.
Bruce grits his teeth, and tries to remember why it's not a good idea to piss Slade off. Not too much, at least.
He doesn't hear Slade slick up, but the first press of his fingers is wet and warm. Saliva, if he had to guess, not nearly wet enough to mean anything. He pushes in to the first knuckle and holds, Bruce choking on a gasp. Barely past the tight ring of muscle, Slade tugs, methodical when he starts stretching.
Far too soon he adds another finger, again to the first knuckle. He moves in shallow thrusts, not nearly enough to give him something to clench down on. It doesn't hurt besides a warm, familiar ache, ever so slightly out of reach of the white-hot burn that he wants. With those two in, Slade settles for just the fingertips, barely enough to mean anything.
Bruce's knuckles ache the longer he holds on, nails nearly dug into the polished granite. Slade pries him open with patience, the entire room sunk into silence. Enough for Bruce's head to begin recovering, a persistent headache buzzing behind his temples. Slade works a third finger in, a little drier than the other two, and tugs hard.
Bruce tastes copper, teeth dug into his tongue. A fourth finger joins, two from each hand, and Slade is not careful in the least at working them deeper. Bruce makes a strangled noise, presses his mouth into the cool tabletop, and fights to stay still when he's spread.
Slade holds him there for what feels like eternity, spreading him wide, taking his fill in heavy silence. Split open and bent over, Bruce's toes curl in his shoes, dizzy with the knowledge of how he must look, used up and displayed.
Just as abruptly Slade withdraws, taking that slight fullness with him.
He might not know Slade very well. But he does know some. Knows he won't be gentle or kind. The blunt head of his cock rests against his hole, barely damp, and every instinct in Bruce's chest tells him to tense, something base and terrified inside of him that has his thighs locking, undoing all that hard work of opening him up.
The safest way to fall is limply. Relaxing every muscle takes work, dedication. Training. Bruce has perfected the art of falling safely.
Slade eases himself in with selfish slowness, taking every last ounce of Bruce's reserves with him. It takes forever. It feels like no time at all, when Bruce wants it over and over — the first spread of his body accepting Slade in, forced to accommodate. Played to Slade's wants, out of Bruce's hands.
Above him, Slade sighs. Sounds pleased when the tip of his cock is enveloped entirely, Bruce's walls quivering around him.
His mouth moves without him, spilling out a soft sound that Bruce is sure he's never made before, never been capable of making. Somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, ghosting over the polished granite. After that, he can't make any noise— breathless when Slade begins pushing home, inch by inch, pain lancing through his already abused muscles.
He grips the countertop until his knuckles ache and when that doesn't help, it's with a blind reach back that he grips Slade's shirt. Soft material that he holds onto for lack of anything else, counting down the seconds until it's over, tears beginning to sting at his eyes.
Abruptly, Slade leans down, bringing Bruce's arm to an acute angle. Heat pools in his shoulder, turning quickly to pain, pushed to its limits. Slade spits on him sharply, Bruce flinching, and drives his cock home with punishing force.
It feels all kinds of personal, the way that Slade grinds into him, cruel and agonizing for a blinding moment. Bruce pants, everything narrowing down to the blunt point of Slade's cock, the press of his hips, the heat of him even through layers of shirt and silk.
"There you go," Slade murmurs again, a pleased rumble in his throat. He hates it, how quickly his body responds to that, his cock pressed against the edge of the table with bruising force and still finds it within himself to feel a burst of pleasure. "How's that feel?"
When no answer is forthcoming, and Slade has ground against his prostate with vicious accuracy, too early to be pleasurable and so it only melts into the background of pain, he grips Bruce's hair again. Lifts him, like a ragdoll, or an unfavoured toy, and slams him down again.
Bruce's vision swims. Concussion. No doubt. Not lethal, sticking to the contract. Pinpricks of light hurt when he swivels his eyes around, glinting off the neat rows of wine and whiskey. Nausea roils in his stomach the same moment Slade bucks forward, sending his own cock into an unforgiving crush.
Staying hard is a loosing battle, not enough attention left in him to care when everything comes back to Slade's touch. And what a touch it is, greedy and rough, leaving bruises and ownership into his skin. Hips and Bruce's thigh when he won't move quite quick enough, when he can't think beyond his own involuntary reactions— clenching around the intrusion, and gasping in breathless, wet ways alongside Slade's expert thrusts.
Feeling warmth pool at his temple, over the bridge of his nose. Crying. Bruce's mouth tastes of salt and saliva, his cheek wet with— Slade's spit, most likely, and the dampness he'd taken off Slade's cock.
"Tell me," Slade says, a gravel quality in his throat. Bruce's mind works overtime to puzzle it out, fuzzy and put on reset every time Slade's cock punches into him. "How does it feel?"
Bruce inhales, cool air striking his lungs. "Hurts." He whispers. Can't think of a better word for it, when it all boils down to that. Pain, and pleasure mixed with pain, and Slade's hands. All the same, all hurt.
His skin buzzes with it, tender and raw, and between his legs is— Bruce moans, caught off guard at a sickening roll of Slade's hips, that heavy heat dragging across every abused nerve and tender muscle. Between his legs is agony, but it's all the same. Just a different kind of hurt.
"Fuck," Bruce slurs, the heated skin of his cheek sticking to the table when he tries to lift his head. Gives up when Slade presses him back down. Pleasure sparks in his spine, aching, at another roll of Slade's skilled hips.
"I'd be very, very quiet if I were you." Slade says. Words that don't click no matter how hard he tries, every thought jumbled for a brief moment.
And then he hears it, under Bruce's own thundering heart and Slade's heavy, labored breaths. Voices. Against Slade's advice, Bruce feels another noise punched out of him, this time a whimper breaking in his chest. He clenches down, and wills Slade to stop.
This is not— There is no part of Bruce's plan that involves others. No part of him that wants them to see, and he really can't bear the thought of that. That they might see, and not intervene regardless, and pass it off as another unfortunate Wayne tryst and Bruce's cock throbs all of a sudden, pressed between his thighs without a lick of attention.
"Be quiet." Slade growls, his teeth at the shell of Bruce's ear.
He does as he's told, numb and hollowed out when Slade pulls free, no time to appreciate the wave of pain that washes through him. Strong hands grip his hips, move him as Slade pleases, dizzying when he's face-to-face with the man again.
The voices are louder, now, a creak of stairs as someone makes their way down.
Slade gives him one wicked grin and hikes Bruce up, one fluid motion that he only feels after the fact. The fabric of his shirt is butter smooth on his cheek, Bruce slumped over him, cool air on the backs of his thighs.
He feels, rather than sees, the path Slade takes, silent despite the extra bulk of Bruce on top. Past the table and the lined up racks of wine and into the furthest reach of the room, hidden by a sharp L-turn. Flat-top corks and metal shelf ridges dig into his spine, forcing him back and straight and—
He looks down on Slade, for once. Light reflecting in his eye, masking the wicked intent there for a moment, Slade's eyebrow twitching in silent dare.
He could yell. Could struggle, and reach for one of those bottles and make a fucking scene . Bruce's stomach aches with how tense he is, frozen in place. Slade's thumb runs over the curve of his ass in silent, gentle praise, and they both listen to the quiet conversation happening a few feet away.
Two bar staff, looking for a particular white, and Bruce's mind claws at the knowledge that all the white is far fucking away from him. Doesn't help any when Slade shifts his grip, nails digging into Bruce's skin as he spreads him open again. With little more than a jostle, Slade's other hand disappears, keeping him aloft with nothing more than inhuman strength and pure will.
Bruce is light by no means. Probably weighs more than Slade, if he had to guess. His head drops to Slade's shoulder again, glad for the muffler when he feels Slade's cock rub against his hole, not half as lubed up as it should be.
His teeth ache, dug into the junction of Slade's neck over his shirt and the silky, spit-wet fabric of his waistcoat, split open again. It hurts worse, somehow. Like his body's been tricked into thinking it's over, only to be pummeled again, Slade's cock a battering ram against his soft insides.
Bruce's chest tightens, unable to breathe for the longest moment. Distantly, be hears the shift of feet. Two men not more than a few feet away, discussing wine and none-the-wiser. He presses his tongue to the fabric of Slade's shirt and holds as hard as he can to the keen that wants to escape, slowly sinking down on Slade's length, the other man's breath hot against his neck.
Slade nuzzles his jaw, filled with teeth and bites and hot kisses that hit the right spot, urging Bruce down on every inch. Color dances behind his vision, eyes screwed shut tight, and feels like it takes forever.
The cock inside of him hits deeper than before, deeper than Bruce thought he could take, and then he holds. Stays there, the hot length of him pressed to every live nerve, and grinds his hips in small, incremental, maddening circles.
Nothing more, nothing less. Between them, Bruce's cock stirs to life, no doubt bruised, aching when Slade shifts them. A few bottles clink in their shelves, digging into the bruised spots of Bruce's shoulders, his spine, the back of his head when Slade crushes him in further.
Grinds into Bruce like he never wants to leave, never has to leave, sharp teeth at his neck and his cock filling him up with such lovely waves of pain, Bruce's cock dripping precome against Slade's nice, silky waistcoat. He bites down and goes still— limp and dazed, one eye cracked open half an inch to keep his sight on the corner of the room, and lets Slade rut into him with animal need.
Somehow, he's quiet, silent except for the hot puff of breath over Bruce's skin, the mellowed grunts in his throat that are barely audible. His hands do the talking, dug into Bruce's skin like a brand, bruising as he holds on. Pulls Bruce that little bit further onto him, fitting so perfectly. Made to fit.
The only sign that Slade finishes is the teeth that dig into his jaw, the rattle of the shelf behind him. The pulse of his cock as it twitches strongly inside of him, buried to the hilt, Bruce's insides tender and oversensitive.
Slade holds on until Bruce can't help a breathless whine, the muscle of his thigh trembling in protest, and then he's lifted. Because he can — can do anything, right then — Slade holds him there, the head of his cock splitting Bruce's rim wide, puffy and used for the longest time before he eventually pulls off entirely.
A quiet, huffed laugh fills his ears.
And then he's let go, quicker than his legs can keep up, stone floor hitting his knees as a last insult to injury. Bruce exhales with a mouth full of saliva, eyes stinging sharply, desperate for oxygen.
Suddenly exhausted, Bruce tips forward, distantly aware he's about to make his concussion that much worse. And then the soft, warm fabric of Slade's pants presses against his forehead instead, muscle tense underneath. Bruce exhales against his knee, sounding dangerously close to a sob, and feels something like relief bubble up.
Hollowed out and split open, it's difficult not to cry right then, something overwhelming buzzing under his skin. His mind says he should be moving, crawling, getting away when everything hurts and he doesn't want eyes on him right then.
And then there's the part of him that's soft and bruised and Slade's that wants to lean in, fingers numb when he scrabbles to hold onto his ankle. His mouth tastes like salt and Slade's earlier kiss, excruciatingly tender.
Above him, the other man buckles his belt in silence, the room gone quiet. Evidently, the waiters have left, whether because of their noise or perhaps they found what they were looking for. He doesn't care. Isn't going to see them tonight, anyway, have to look into their eyes and pretend he's spent the last half hour entertaining guests with red-rimmed eyes and a stiff walk.
Bruce inhales, the fabric against his mouth damp, and shivers when a hand settles into his hair. Slade's fingers are warm and perfectly spaced out to cradle his skull, the pad of his thumb pressed against the newly formed sore spot on his left side. It'll hurt like a bitch tomorrow, no doubt. Everything will.
At least he has the excuse of partying too hard, in the morning.
"Look at you." Slade rumbles. Bruce moves when he's nudged, head tipped back to a painful degree, too tired to fight back. "That was good, sweetheart."
Bruce whimpers, barely a noise, and swallows heavily. With a gentle hand, Slade reaches out, spreading the spit over his bruised cheekbone.
"Gorgeous." Slade murmurs, mouth tipped up into a handsome smile, attractive even now. Even when there's spit and blood on the edge of his teeth, the shoulder of his shirt damp with Bruce's tears.
For good measure, he pats Bruce's cheek, irritating the bruise there. With that, he steps back, the sudden loss almost overwhelming.
Bruce's stomach clenches, ready to slur a protest, but it's already too late, Slade out of his reach and righting his clothes with ease. By the time he's rounded the corner, he looks as good as when he entered, leaving on silent feet.
Bruce exhales shakily, the room turned deafeningly loud. His throat works silently, still smarting from its earlier battering and Bruce's head is— filled with cotton, far-away and confused, left unchained. He swallows again, close to sick, not quite sure where to go from here.
Even his fingers ache, pressed to his knees just to make sure he's still here. Still where Slade left him. If there was ever a time he was vulnerable, it would be now, and it's that thought that makes him move. Door's still open, he knows, Slade isn't that kind.
Isn't kind at all, even.
Corks and stiff bottlenecks stab sharply into his spine, pressed harshly into bruised tendons. Bruce pushes into it, trying to cling to that on a steady exhale. Curls his knees up, and then adjusts when it only makes the burn between his legs that much more apparent. Tugs his slacks up with difficulty, not bothering with the belt, and then hugs his knees.
Tears sting at his eyes for an entirely different reason, then, left with nothing but the heavy beat of his heart being felt all over. In bruises and marks, and the aching inside of his mouth, hot under Bruce's skin. He screws his eyes shut and breathes in heavily, willing his body to feel a little more normal, a little more real.
Just a little. Enough that he can stand, and put himself back together after Slade's so skillfully ripped him apart. He feels splayed open, nothing but body parts in independent motion, abandoned by their maker.
Bruce exhales. Clenches his slacks in aching fingers. Wills himself to move. Nothing happens, and nothing moves, and Bruce is huddled in a corner, cut loose and still dripping with Slade's come.
A large, warm hand settles in his hair. Bruce stiffens, and then decides he doesn't care, leaning into that gentle touch, letting it warm his skin and tug him in closer. Quietly, Bruce uncurls, letting go of his knees to hold onto the soft slacks in front of him, charcoal grey with one already damp knee.
"Aren't you a sight." Slade mutters. "Can you stand?" His fingers card through Bruce's hair gently, pushing it back from his sweat-slick skin, all the way around to cup the back of his neck. Slade squeezes. "On three, sweetheart."
Bruce makes a noise. Might be disagreement. His eyebrows knit together, looking down to his knees at odd angles, not listening to a fucking thought in his mind.
He doesn't hear Slade's first count, ears buzzing with the knowledge that Slade is back— for some reason, for Bruce, to touch him again and hurt him again and fuck him again, a vibrant spark shivering down Bruce's spine at that knowledge.
"Two," Slade says. Hands under his arms, fingers digging into Bruce's tender ribs. "Three." He says, and just like before, lifts him easily, Bruce's thighs locking around his waist.
He whines, clings on as best he can when Slade's shoulders are strong slopes clad in soft silk, as difficult to grip onto as the Deathstroke suit had been. Power hides in Slade's muscles, capable of hefting him up with nothing more than a soothing, rumbling noise against Bruce's ear, and a gravelly order to, "Stay quiet."
Bruce does as he's told. Has no energy to do otherwise, and watches as the stone floor turns into steps, into the polished floors of Wayne Manor. It feels odd being back here. Real in a way the wine cellar hadn't felt, all of Bruce's fantasies left in it's corners and walls.
"Which way's your room?" Slade asks. He taps Bruce's thigh with his hand, jostling him slightly. "C'mon, sweetheart, focus."
Bruce hums. "Up."
"Upstairs? And then?" Slade asks, already moving. He's not hurried, a steady pace instead that would be relaxed if he wasn't also holding two hundred pounds of man in his arms, bruised and drooling down his shoulder.
Bruce licks his lips, mouth still a little numb. "Left. Last door."
Slade gets them there in record time, somehow avoiding every staff member and wandering guest, elbowing the door open with ease. He kicks it shut with finality, Bruce too tired to move when he's taken to the bed, dumped on his back none-too-kindly.
"What hurts." Slade says.
"Everything." Bruce replies. Stares at the ceiling and tries to separate the hurt from the rest, his limbs singing with it, insides still trembling and clenching. "You left."
"Don't get weepy." Slade mutters, moving around the room on much louder feet this time. Not worried about being found, evidently.
Bruce bites his tongue. "You came back." He says, hates how his voice does a wobble on the last word, wrung out and exhausted and all kinds of broken right then.
"Making sure you're not dead." Slade replies, voice distracted. "You've got a concussion."
Rather than answer, Bruce hums. Tries to remind himself he should be very, very afraid. Should be doing anything other than sinking into his bed, eyelids heavy and gritty, limbs like lead. There's not much more Slade can do to him, anyway.
As if on cue, Slade appears, leaning over him with his eyebrows tugged down low and his gaze sharp like flint. "You say a word about this, and I'll—"
"Got it." Bruce mumbles. Chews the inside of his cheek, because yes, the concussion is taking effect. "You done with me?"
"For now." Slade replies lowly.
Again, he sticks his arms under Bruce's, yanks him in one fluid motion until he's propped up. Bruce's skull aches, a hiss between his teeth at the movement.
"Drink this." Slade orders. Places a cool glass in his hands, holding Bruce's hand tight around it until he's sure it won't be dropped.
The first sip is shocking against his teeth, ice cold and straight from the bathroom faucet most likely. After that, he can't quite stop, swallowing in healthy gulps, icing the inside of his throat until the pain recedes, blinded into nothing more than a minor ache briefly.
Into his other hand, Slade presses a set of Advil, lifting it to his mouth. Bruce holds his gaze as he swallows both, washing it down with the last of the water.
"Set an alarm, will you?" Slade says, confiscating the glass again. He sets it on the nightstand, regarding Bruce for a long moment, his gaze intense. "Would hate for something to happen to my favorite toy." His mouth flicks into a smirk, amused and pleased all rolled into one quick flash of teeth. With that, he leans down briefly, a hungry kiss pressing into Bruce's chilled mouth with a low hum.
It's deeper and filthier than the last kiss, Slade's tongue mapping him out quickly, leaving no room to fight back. And then he's gone, stepping away from the bed, straightening the collar of his shirt.
"Before I forget," Slade says, his hand on the door handle. "Did you fuck anyone else?" He waits, eyebrow raised sharply.
Bruce swallows, tastes red wine on his tongue. Slade. "No." He finally replies, voice thin.
Slade nods once, both eyebrows hiking up briefly. "Good boy. See you around, Bruce." He slips out of the room in silence, headed to God knows where, and all Bruce can think is that he never got to come.
In the morning, Bruce sleeps until the late hours. Well into afternoon, at which point he can work up the energy to roll over and rut into his sheets, the bruised edge of his cheek pressed into soft pillows. He comes quicker than he'd like, sore with every movement, and his head pounds when he manages to stand and stumble his way to the shower.
Alfred is nowhere to be seen when he heads downstairs, for which he's grateful. He can't quite look him in the eyes right then, a bruise smarting on his cheek and red lining his eyes, dark circles underneath.
Bruce licks his wounds in silence, picks at the leftover cake from the night before that's been locked up in the pantry, and avoids the wine cellar all together.
By the next week, he's still not back at his best. There are moments of aches, lances of pain in his insides that only serve to remind him of Slade. And after a long day like today, staring at a computer screen until nearly seven, with an even longer night ahead of him, his concussion makes itself known in it's last dregs.
He's mostly healed, but he's been going easy on the patrols. Catching up on office work rather than case files, and making an appearance for the papers is wiped clean from the table for the foreseeable future.
Which is why he thinks nothing of the emptied parking lot beneath Wayne Enterprises, later than almost anyone in leaving. The building was mostly a ghost by now, only a few cars left in the parking lot, Bruce's included.
He sighs, eyes tired and strained when he roots around for his keys, the overhead lights only irritating his sight more. Patrol tonight is absolutely going to be a pain, nevermind tomorrow, another full day at the office with papers and briefings and Bruce unable to thunk his head against his desk and have a nap.
"Looking for these?" Asks— Slade. Muffled, so— Deathstroke, his mind helpfully corrects. Numb and slow, he registers that little fact slowly.
Bruce's car keys are tossed at him, Bruce fumbling for them with his heart suddenly thudding in his chest.
"You've got nerve." Deathstroke steps closer, head tilted in his helmet. "Not a lot of smarts, though." He adds.
Bruce frowns. "What— what do you mean."
"I think you know." He murmurs. Thumbs the firearm at his thigh lightly, Bruce's mind trying valiantly to calculate the distance it would take to get behind his car, still stiff, not at his best— "Seeing as you were the one to write those contracts."
Bruce's fingers dig into his keys sharply, frozen. He should go. He should do something besides his deer-in-headlights impression.
Slade draws quicker than Bruce can move apparently, something sharp and pointed settling in his neck with precision.
"Oh, fuck." Bruce slurs as the world goes sideways, and the concrete starts rushing up to meet him.