Archive of Our Own

"You're kidding." He murmurs. Looks down his nose at the other man, cold wind whipping through ink-black hair, ruffling the lines of his suit. 

Why Bruce Wayne needs balconies for his office, he has no clue. Sipping champagne and overlooking his kingdom, probably. Still, he'd come when called, because there had been the implication of danger. 

Instead, Wayne had handed him a slip of paper with a smirk. 

Slade grips it in his hands now, more than squinting under the mask. Two weeks touring the Caribbean, sunshine and good times, on a yacht big enough for a few hundred revellers and party-goers. And Slade was, apparently, a one-man bodyguard team for Wayne specifically. 

"You did say Falcone wouldn't forget last time." He replies. Looks infinitely smug at cooking that particular line up between his struggling brain cells. "I'd rather not risk it, in the middle of open waters." 

"I'm not playing bodyguard while you sunbathe." 

"You can sunbathe a little, too, if you'd like." 

Slade wants to argue. He wants to do a very stylish backflip off this building and never see Wayne ever again. The longer he looks at Wayne, the more his facade cracks, belying the hint of worry there. Under the gloss and the suit, Slade's words had struck a chord with him last time, it seemed. 

Slade is nothing if not a professional. Things like soft blue eyes and worry-lines don't work on him. He looks at Wayne, and then away, eye fixed on the skyline behind him. 

"Fine." He huffs. "You got a pen?" 

Wayne's smile could light up half of Gotham alone as he fishes out a pen from his inner pocket, handing it over with a slight flourish. His contracts aren't usually… actual contracts, with signatures, but Wayne seems committed to the bit and so Slade signs on the dotted line with a frown. 

"When is everyone arriving?" He asks, walking the halls of the yacht with Wayne at his heels. Mapping out the thing would take forever, so he doesn't bother, but he'd like to see certain things with his own eye. 

"Um, when I want them to?" Wayne asks, voice a little high. That makes Slade pause, the two of them nearly running into each other. 

"What does that mean." 

"You think I invite people to these things?" Wayne laughs. Clear amusement in his eyes. "Darling. Don't be ridiculous. They turn up when we pull into port, and leave when they've had enough." 

"So there's no guest list." He surmises. That had been his next task. "And it's all strangers." 

"Bingo." Wayne replies. Shoots Slade a look before he heads off down the hall. "Do keep up." 

He wants to curse, and leave the damn yacht immediately, but a contract is a contract. And two weeks mostly alone with Wayne is two weeks alone with the fucking devil. Temptation wears Ray-Bans and thousand-dollar sandals. 

He follows, and maps what he can, more taking stock than anything else. Wants to be able to see if something is off later, more so now than ever knowing that the ship is about to be filled with strangers. People simply looking for a good time for a weekend.  

Wayne shows him what he can, and they inevitably end up where Slade had hoped they wouldn't. 

"My room." Wayne says, voice full of intention. It's incredible how much can be packed into two words. All Slade can think about is Wayne's mouth on him last time. Spit and blood and soft under all that. 

"Great." Slade says, for lack of anything else to say. It's a room, impressively sized for a yacht but that was to be expected when it was Bruce Wayne's yacht. 

There's a bed big enough for half a dozen people, and a bucket of ice ready to go, and a television mounted on the wall that's almost as thin as a fucking piece of paper. To the left, a glass door, leading to a sizable shower room. Marble and polished glass and double doors that open directly onto the deck, plush pillows and enough seating for a dozen people around a jacuzzi. 

It's nice. It's entirely expected. Slade ignores Wayne's smirk, slick on his face, and shoulders past him to check the guest cabins. 

All in all, everything looks fine. There's no obvious alarm bells, and Wayne's more ordinary security aboard can take care of most of it. 

Really, he's here to watch Wayne's back. Which means spending a lengthy amount with the man himself, close contact, and whatever else stupidity Wayne can think up. Which is why Slade feels no guilt in reaching the security center of the ship, camera feeds and audio links, and then promptly closes the door in Wayne's face. 

"Need to familiarise myself with the system." He says before he shuts Wayne out. It's a plain lie, but he doesn't care. 

He sits at the desk, rows of monitors illuminating the room, and puts his head in his hands with a groan. 

He feels a little better when they're in the water. 

A lot better, actually. Something about being on the move. The contract has begun, and it's a countdown until he can leave. 

The chances of Falcone trying anything outside of Gotham's boundaries is slim to none. Less the threat of mafia bosses that Slade's worried about, and more Wayne's nature. 

The yacht itself is quiet. It's big enough he can go hours without seeing any of the staff, and the other security may as well be furniture for all they stick out. Wayne's familiar enough with the crew, and so Slade doesn't bother trying to vet them beyond a cursory glance at their paperwork. 

The first day is uneventful. More about getting as far away from the east coast as they can than anything particularly vacation-esque. 

There's room service at his door in the morning, with a personal note from Wayne requesting he wear the suit for the day. Why, he has no clue, but he's hardly one to piss off his employer on the first day. 

He eats what he can, showers, and then suits up. Specially requested to be armored, just in case, even if Slade could put Falcone's men out of their misery naked and weaponless. He gets the feeling it's purely for Bruce's benefit when he finds him on the top deck, brisk wind ruffling his hair. 

He rolls his eye under the mask as Wayne tips his sunglasses down, gaze heavy and appreciative over the lines of the suit, the firearm strapped to his thigh, the sword that pokes above his shoulders. 

Slade doesn't dignify it with anything more than a brief look, before taking position a few feet away, facing the open water. Wayne stays where he is, fingers beating out a quiet tune on the railing, surveying his frankly gigantic boat. 

Slade has a boat. It's not half as nice as this behemoth. For all it's size, it's nearly silent, a ghost on the water save for the break waves it leaves behind. Looking out on the horizon, he gets the feeling it'll be a long contract. The kind that feels twice as long. 

A whole lot of standing around just like this, baking his ass off in the Caribbean heat. Maybe stop a few guests from falling overboard. 

"I'm glad you're here." Wayne says, like they've been talking the whole time. He's not looking at Slade anymore though, eyes fixed on the same horizon, leaning over the railing. 

Not quite sure what to say to that —  no one is ever glad to have Deathstroke aboard their ship — he nods slightly, shifting on his feet. 

"Lunch is whenever you want it." He adds quietly. "I'll be in the lower decks." 

Slade doesn't watch him leave, but there's no masking the quiet sigh Wayne makes as he takes the stairs two at a time. 

He stays as long as he can reasonably spend staring at the endless ocean, their port turning into a small speck in the distance, before he begins… wandering. There's no one to see, and no guests to keep an eye on. Just him and Wayne and over a hundred feet of boat between them. 

He doesn't stop for lunch, but spots Wayne a few hours later ensconced between cushioned seats at the side of the deck pool, and watches him from above for a few minutes, picking at fancy, small portions of food. 

It's lonely, is what he thinks.

Dead silent, the ship cutting through the waves like a knife, and empty. Just Wayne, shorts and sunglasses on, spending hours at a time by the pool, on the deck, occasionally watching television in his room, door conveniently left open in invitation. 

If he were a kinder type, a gentler sort, he'd stay with Wayne. Make stilted, uncomfortable conversation. Think about the sloppy, copper-tinged kiss Wayne had planted on him while concussed and running on adrenaline. But he's not, and so he keeps his distance. Runs a patrol around the decks to keep himself busy. Carefully thinks of security, and the contract, and not of Wayne in stupid floral button-up shirts. 

It doesn't feel right, is the thing. 

Everything he knows about the man says this is wrong. Feels like someone's drained all the color out of him, no audience and no party, no excitement. Blood-tinged smile and purring words gone, replaced with a washed out version of the man. 

They've only crossed paths a few times, kidnappings and the sort, almost a habit. He doesn't know Wayne, but he knows it's all wrong when he's alone on a ship, waiting for his spark to come back. Slade's no audience or roaring party. He's not what Wayne needs. 

It makes no sense for Wayne to want him. 

He barely sees Wayne that first day, but the second is a shift. 

There's sunlight, actual heat coming through the glass windows of his top deck room, and Wayne leaning in his doorway with a sleazy sort of smile, arms folded across his chest. 

"Rise and shine." He says brightly like he's competing with the damn sun, and makes no attempts to hide the way his eyes slide over Slade still in bed, sheets pooled around his waist. 

"The fuck are you doing here." 

"Fetching my security?" He tilts his head, a confused puppy, and pushes off the doorway. "Going for a swim in a few. Get dressed," he says, waving at the suit piled on an armchair, "if you want." 

Slade squints. "Worried you'll drown in the pool?" Resists the urge to tug the sheets up. He's hardly a blushing fucking maiden, but there's something very physical about Wayne's gaze, touching Slade all over. "Ain't that what pool boys are for?" 

"Not in the pool." He snorts. "There's an entire ocean out there, in case you hadn't noticed." 

"Why are you—" He cuts himself off, rolling his eye. Realises dimly he isn't wearing his patch, though Wayne doesn't seem particularly focused on it. "Nevermind." He leans over, grabbing the patch from the nightstand to slot it into place, shooting a particularly sharp glare Wayne's way. "Don't need an audience." 

Wayne hums. "If you insist." He gives one last, long look before promptly turning on his heels, striding out with his hands shoved in his pockets. Slade squints at the empty doorway, and then curses as he drags himself from the bed to get dressed. 

Wayne's already in the water when Slade makes it onto the lowest deck, twin boat docks trailing in the water. He comes over as soon as he spots Slade, running a hand through his hair with a grin. 

"Fancy meeting you here." Wayne sets his arms on the dock, blue eyes peering up under dark lashes, a flush of color on his cheeks. Slade's shadow kills any sunlight he might get, heat across his back, but he doesn't seem to mind. 

Too busy staring up the length of Slade's body, batting his eyes, wet and inviting in the water with surprising muscle when he crosses his arms. 

"Water's nice." Wayne murmurs. "You should come in." He purrs, and sets his chin on his hand, head tipped back. Water pools in the dip above his lip, the crease in his wrinkled nose. "I might drown, or get eaten by sharks—" 

"I can shoot better from here." Slade rebuffs tightly. Wayne rolls his eyes, and dips briefly under the water, hair fanning out. When he rises again, his expression is fondly unimpressed. "I'll keep watch, if you're that worried." 

"Absolutely stricken, darling." He agrees lightly. 

He doesn't seem like it, not in the slightest. Swims his laps in the sun, occasionally disappearing only to reappear at the docks by Slade's boots to make more vaguely salacious small talk. For all the world unbothered, all grins and more showing off than is strictly necessary for a morning swim. 

Under his suit, Slade overheats. Which is particularly difficult, considering the material and his enhancements, but he starts to feel like a cut of meat forgotten in an oven the longer he stands and watches Wayne, sun beating down on his shoulders. Under the helmet, the oxygen's turned humid, curling the edges of his hair uncomfortably against his head. 

It has nothing to do with the way Wayne looks on his back, tight abs and a sharp vee cutting his hips, unblemished skin besides the few scars he's gained over the years in failed kidnappings. It has everything to do with the sun, nothing but miles of ocean and clear skies, beating down on Slade until he finally reaches up and tugs the mask free with a grunt. 

Wayne falters at that, halfway through a backstroke, sunlight and water glistening over his for-show muscles, and then continues. Cool air hits Slade's skin like a soothing balm, washing through the sweat damp strands of his hair, and he fights the urge to peel off the rest of the suit. 

He watches Wayne and the horizon, nothing but the sound of soft waves against the docks and Slade's own heartbeat. Too drawn in by the endless sight of empty skies, the sun a piercing light, to notice Wayne until he's dragging himself up onto the deck with grace. 

Water drips onto Slade's boots, the other man close enough to fucking taste, and there's a shade of tan that wasn't there this morning on every inch of his skin. Wayne's eyes are a striking, startling sort of blue, cut through with sunlight and early morning margaritas. 

"Hungry?" Wayne asks. Water collects in the dip of his collarbones, weaving a path between his chest and abdominals. Slade snaps his eyes back up, narrowed. 

"Sure." Slade replies, voice rougher than he intends. It doesn't seem to affect Wayne who simply smiles a little wider, still dangerously close to Slade. 

Loathe to lose a fight, Slade waits for Wayne to break first, the other man stepping around him with a grin. The line of his spine curves wonderfully when he bends to retrieve his sunglasses and a towel, shorts clinging to toned thighs for dear life. Slade watches him hop up the stairs two at a time, then turns to watch the horizon again for a few blissful, quiet moments.

This was going to be a long cruise. 

The first party isn't even that bad. It takes longer than he'd thought to even get to it, nearly a week into their cruise. 

It's loud, and makes the damn boat shake in all its thousand-tonne glory. It lasts until late, all the lights switched on so no one falls overboard. Wayne disappears into the crowd and becomes impossible to protect. 

But, people leave eventually, stumbling or crawling their way onto dry land and into each other's beds. He spends an hour clearing out the last few dozen, makes sure no one's choked on their own vomit, and then heads to bed himself. 

Wayne's door is firmly shut, television turned loud, and the sound of drunken laughter is unmistakable. Slade shoves a pillow over his head, mind firmly off what Wayne might be doing, and sleeps until noon, the entire boat silent again for the precious hours he has alone. 

Wayne makes an appearance at five, the sun starting to dip a little, more orange than blinding-white. Lowers himself down onto a pool lounger with a grunt, self-satisfied smirk pasted on his face beneath large and dark shades. 

Slade studiously ignores him, turning back to watch the water. Feels like that's all he's done since they left. Watch the water and not think about Wayne. Not even as he's accepting a fruity, alcoholic drink, soaking up the slanted sunlight before it's gone. 

"Have fun?" Wayne asks. "Disappeared last night." He says, the implications loud and clear. 

Slade nearly barks a laugh. "You disappeared." He states. 

A couple dozen people on board, all strangers. All very beautiful, some of them rich, a lot of them students and some just looking for a good time. Add in alcohol and whatever else they brought on board. A couple pools, a dozen beds, a nice view. 

Wayne with the largest grin. Wayne with beautiful strangers on his lap. Wayne in the pool, wet and drunk and getting hickeys under his jaw. 

Slade tilts his head, slightly. "Is this a joke to you?" 

"Excuse me?" Wayne audibly sips his drink. "Hit your head last night?" 

"Did you forget I'm here to protect your life." Slade finally grits out. Thinks idly about that flicker of concern in Wayne's eyes as he'd signed that contract. 

That, and everything else about the man when he's got eyes on him. How much of it is a manipulation, getting what he wants with looks and a little acting— and how Slade fell for it, in some way. 

"Oh, that." Wayne mumbles into his drink. Looks as innocent as someone from Gotham can behind his shades and margarita, nibbling on the corner of a lemon wedge. "I think we both know that's not why you're here." He finally replies. 

Slade fights the urge to storm off deck. That'd hardly help his reputation. "Falcone—" 

"Is very terrifying, yes. I'm sure." Wayne cuts in, tilting his head. "You're not here because you think Falcone is going to crawl out of his rats nest to the Caribbean."  

He makes to argue but finds his mind entirely blank, mouth stuck in a thin line behind his helmet. Wayne smiles like he can see it anyway, motioning to the pool lounger beside his. 

"You're here for the exact same thing as everyone else, Slade." He says, his smile that little bit sharper, catching all the sun when he leans forward. "You want my money. And you want my body. Only difference is you don't realise that yet." 

"Thought you wanted me to want you." Slade bites back. Feels a little off-balance with Wayne's usual charm washed off to something a little rougher, the glossy exterior gone. "Or was all that— flirting for nothing, too?" 

"Hardly." Wayne snorts. Sinks back into his seat with a soft sigh. "But you seem to think the worst of me, regardless of if I flirt with you or strangers. You're not here because I'm afraid of being kidnapped, you're here because I wanted to take you on a cruise." 

"I—" He squints. Whips around to look at the sun, wondering if he's maybe gone fucking mad, or accidentally drugged during the party last night. Looks back at Wayne, relaxed as can be, and feels something hot and heavy like fury bubbling under his skin. 

He knew he was stupid, and far too rich for his own good, but not this stupid. Not this hopeless and entitled. 

He very nearly cuts right through Wayne's sunglasses, sword pulled back an inch at the last second. He punctuates his words with the sharp end of his blade, and Wayne doesn't move. 

"Nobody ever tell you not to yank around mercenaries?" Slade snaps. 

It's stupid, and unprofessional, but something about Wayne always digs right into Slade's core. Whether it's that note of panic, hearing he's tied to a chair in a dusty warehouse, or it's pissed off as he explains exactly what he thinks of a man like Deathstroke. 

Cruise entertainment, and a good fuck. 

"Haven't you got a volleyball team to waste your time on?" He adds, more than a little harsh, flinching when Wayne's face immediately shutters. 

"Half a team, if you must know." He replies. Twists his mouth slightly. "I suppose you'd prefer that over me wasting my time on you?" 

"Infinitely." He grits out. 

Slade's got half a mind to abandon this boat and forget all about this contract. Leave Wayne to his parties and his confusing, unstoppable advances, and self-satisfied, smug fucking smirk that Slade sees every time he closes his eye. 

"I think I'll keep wasting my time however I like." Wayne murmurs instead, the intention clear, and sips his margarita. "If it upsets you that much, you're freed from your contract." He adds. "Full payment, of course. Welcome to stay, or I can drop you off anywhere you like." 

He says it so simply. Like it doesn't matter an ounce, and this hadn't been his damn idea in the first place. Not quite sure how to reply, or what to think, Slade stares at him a moment longer and then stalks off, taking the stairs two at a time. 

  He doesn't see Wayne for another two days which is frankly a feat when they're in an enclosed, finite space in the middle of the ocean. Wayne's awfully sneaky when he wants to be, and mostly keeps to himself, apparently eating at strange times and sleeping odd hours whenever Slade thinks he might be able to catch him out. 

Why he's even trying to catch him out is— complicated. Slade prefers not to think on it. 

He doesn't leave either. Not even when they pull into port, the opportunity right there to pick up a few contracts in the Caribbean and soak up some sun, away from Wayne and his thousand-dollar smiles and too-tight shorts. 

He doesn't leave. And that's a problem. 

Slade doesn't like it, and so he spends an afternoon haunting the bar, taking advantage of Wayne's most expensive scotch. The bartender doesn't say much, but that might just be because of the sword still strapped to his back like he's still employed. 

He's not even that. Contract gone, and Wayne seemingly cold-shouldering him. He's just an idiot on a boat, spending more time in his crystal tumblers than in the provided pools. 

He gets sick of feeling sorry for himself eventually, contractless and apparently being avoided, and makes his way to the security room, shutting the door firmly behind himself. It's not a lot, but it's got eyes all over the yacht, and he flicks through cameras until he finds what he needs. 

Wayne. Sheets kicked to the floor, a pair of tight underwear on, and not much else. He's hugging his pillow tightly, sunlight pouring in from the glass wall opposite his bed, a bottle of wine on the nightstand. And Slade feels— 

Slade feels like he's tired of being avoided like unwanted paparazzi, or the tax man come to collect. Even more so being avoided by a child with a taste for wine, designer drugs, and beautiful women. 

An idiot who thinks he can yank Slade's chain and not get bitten. 

He makes it all the way to Wayne's room without a thought, and only stops when he's two strides into the room. Wayne is exactly as he saw him, but the cameras don't quite capture the vulnerable nature of the man. 

Curled up, fingers dug into his pillow

 Soft, quiet breaths slipping out from his parted lips, wine stained. The particular way his hair is ruffled, inky black and soft to the touch, sunlight turning the edges a little golden. 

There's a crease between his plucked eyebrows, scrunched up in dreams, and he curls up tighter, black fabric clinging to his thighs. All of Wayne's muscles are for show, for lounging around pools and putting on magazines, and the only punches he's thrown have been in nightclubs after too many drinks. 

The worst thing in Wayne's life happened decades ago, and since then it's been megayachts and more money than Slade could dream of. The worst thing that's happened to him in months is getting stuck in traffic. 

There's a small crease between his eyebrows, mouth now thinned to a line, chest tight. Slade watches him, filled with something uncomfortable, and hesitates. 

Slade kicks a boot against the nightstand, startling the other man awake. 

"What the—" Wayne yelps, the same moment Slade shifts to the other foot, arms crossed. "Oh." 

"You done moping?" 

"Depends." Wayne mumbles. Looks across the room briefly, blinking himself awake. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing himself to his knees in the center of the bed. "You joining me?" 

"You're going to rehire me." Slade states. "I don't get fired." 

"Oh. Done. Sure, yeah." Wayne mumbles. Runs a hand down his chest, settling it on his thigh, and somehow everything he does manages to be suggestive. Innocuous, sleepy movements that send Slade's mind into the gutter without fail. 

God fucking damn it. 

"Then we're good." He grunts. With that settled, he turns on his heel, preparing to leave and sit at the bar some more, dignity regained. 

"Slade." 

"What." 

Wayne shifts on the bed, making a small noise that clearly translates to look at me. He does so with a glare, back to crossing his arms. Ignores the urge to drink the other man in, not when he looks so deeply concerned, mouth twisted. "I meant what I said. Before. I might make advances with a lot of people," he shrugs. "But I mean it infinitely more with you." 

"Why." He snaps, more than confused. Why in all the world Wayne would want him, when he obviously has the pick of any number of beautiful, uncomplicated, far less lethal men and women. 

A quick fuck, sure. But the look in Wayne's eyes when he shrugs is a lot more dead-set. More than getting a ride on a mercenary or a tick on his to-do list for the week. 

"I get the feeling you're not used to this." Wayne says, a little wry. The curve of his mouth is… sympathetic, almost. 

"You're not the first, if that's what you're thinking." Slade rebuffs sharply. 

"No," he shakes his head. Makes a fluid move from the center of the bed to the edge, setting his feet on the plush carpet. "But the first who won't give up? Yeah, I think I'm the first." 

He narrows his eyes. "Stubbornness isn't exactly an endearing quality." 

"You didn't seem to mind before." Wayne smirks slightly, shifting on the bed. "Or is it only okay when I'm tied up and at your mercy?" 

Tense, Slade watches the other man rise from the bed, tall and so much skin on display, hair ruffled softly. Watches as he gets close and doesn't do a damn thing about it when Wayne sets his hands carefully — so carefully, like he's expecting a shove back — on Slade's shoulders, on his jaw. 

Up close, a pinch of amusement in his eyes, Wayne's smile grows. "Oh, is that it? Well," he murmurs, voice gone very quiet and very pleased, close enough Slade could lean in and touch him back, chest to chest. "We can do that again, if you'd like." 

Slade can think faster, react sharper, than most anyone on the planet. He can certainly do it quicker than Wayne. And there's not a thought in his head or a movement in his body that even considers stopping Wayne from leaning up, kissing him like he had in that warehouse. 

No blood and no bruises, just the taste of wine and Wayne, pliant and soft against his mouth. The self-satisfied smile behind every slide of his lips, Wayne's palms warm against his jaw, tugging Slade down until he responds, meeting him halfway with a thoughtless, stupid kiss. 

Wayne doesn't make any more moves, after that. Not physically, anyway. 

They kissed, once. Twice, if he counts the warehouse. But that time in Wayne's room is short and sweet, the other man leaving Slade feeling a little untethered, underwear a little too tight while he listens to Wayne flick on the shower and start humming to himself. 

They don't talk about it. And Wayne doesn't try to kiss him again, and it's all very strange. It doesn't feel like before, shut out and avoided. Doesn't have that same edge to it. 

Wayne's just… backed off. 

For the most part, anyway. He doesn't touch Slade anymore, but he smirks like a particularly smug cat any time Slade looks his way, and spends even more time lounging. There's a distinct lack of clothing around the yacht, even indoors, and Wayne seems hell bent on finding the smallest, tightest shorts he can. 

He does laps in the pool with a grin, licks salt from his fingers after every meal with a talented tongue. Sleeps wherever he likes, whenever he likes, soaking up the sun or curled around a cushion with the firepit going late at night. 

He talks. To Slade, and sometimes just at Slade. About a whole lot of nothing, mostly, but there's moments where he runs fingers through his hair, propped up on an elbow in a loveseat, and Slade can't help watching him move, the words drowned out. Where he looks at Slade over a glass of champagne, cold wind whipping through his hair, something smug and knowing in his eyes. 

Wayne hasn't touched him in days, hasn't made a move, purred a remark. He's done nothing, and it's driving Slade a little mad. 

It's a game, and Slade's going to lose. Maybe wants to lose. 

He's got one foot on a landmine every time he watches Wayne slink into a jacuzzi, and he's going to get blown to pieces if things don't go back to the way they were. Where Wayne flirted incessantly, and Slade could keep a semblance of indifference, and he wasn't thinking of Wayne's soft, pliant mouth every five minutes. 

Instead, he says nothing as Wayne slinks back out of that jacuzzi, shorts riding low, dripping wet as he pads past Slade with that same smile like he knows something Slade doesn't. 

He has, in effect, cut Slade off. Look, don't touch, is the message, and it makes Slade suddenly wish for a little more, where before he'd have done anything to be left alone by the man on his own terms. 

Suddenly, he can understand how Wayne keeps a business afloat. He's no threat in the boardroom, and hands off paperwork to people more diligent and educated than him. But outside of that, at the parties and the get-togethers and the lunch dates, that's where he works. King of fucking ripping the rug out from under feet, turning tables, and making people think it was their choice all along with a blinding grin. 

Under it all, his words stick with Slade. About Wayne, tied up. At his mercy. The tinge of red-pink on his teeth and the delicate skin of his wrists, his ankles, rubbed raw. The plush, inviting curve of his mouth, split around a gag. 

We can do that again, he'd purred, hooked himself right into the dark, heady pit of power Slade holds dear, an offering. 

The worst thing that's happened to Wayne in months has been getting stuck in traffic. But maybe Slade could change that. 

  The next party is bigger and better than before. The final stretch of their cruise before they turn around, and Wayne makes sure it counts for something. 

Slade's got a headache before the first hour is up, and someone spills their drink down his shirt all too soon. 

After that, he suits up, reputation be damned. No one here will remember the night anyway, let alone Deathstroke hanging around the edges of the crowd on the top deck, keeping watch more than anything else. 

Somewhere in all that, the partying and the shrieks from the onboard pool and the blinding lights, is Wayne. 

It's not hard to find his general vicinity. The people packed a little tighter, the laughter a little louder. A whole lot less clothes than any other part of the boat, except maybe the pool, and sometimes there's a lull between tracks and he can pick out Wayne's words. 

Slade keeps his distance because he can. Because he has no desire to be sweated on by twenty-something budding socialites and their boyfriends for the night. Because he can hear, and see, Wayne just damn fine, slouched into a collection of cushions, someone's hand on his chest, and the only reason he's not furiously making out with the woman beside him is because he's too busy being the center of attention with an inane story. 

He watches as that woman's fingertips play with the strings on his shorts, as Wayne's head turns a little more toward her. The alcohol wet on his lips and the lights in his eyes, blinking a little slower. Drunk, for sure. Soon to be wasted. 

Wayne's foot is also skirting up the calf of the person on his other side, and Slade is dimly reminded of the volleyball team of last time. If things go his way, there won't be any volleyball teams, and Wayne looks well on his way to not caring so long as he gets some. 

Typical. 

Slade leaves when Wayne's story is done and he does start furiously making out with the woman beside him. Every few breaks, he pulls away to murmur something, a private little word and a laugh, the kind of charm that could make anyone feel like the center of the universe for just a moment. Only, they don't seem to realise the real center is Wayne, drawing everyone in, every light and every ounce of attention, all gravitated toward him. 

Slade watches, and then he leaves, making the rounds on every deck. He snags a drink on his way, tugging the mask up to swallow it in two quick mouthfuls. 

Three people offer him designer drugs, and at least one assumes his armor is simply a costume. Slade stares back at him, drunk and swaying on the spot until he becomes too embarrassed to keep grinning like an idiot, before moving on. 

By the time he makes it back to the top deck, Wayne is gone. Slinked off to get his rocks off, most likely, and so Slade waits, leaning against the rails. From here, he can see most of this side of the boat, all the people and the lights glinting off drinks, the energy of the crowd as it moves and mingles, and eventually— eventually he finds Wayne again. 

Pressed up against a railing, drink sloshing in one hand, the other buried in a stranger's hair. Grinding against him in time with the music, but a little more drunkenly, water dripping down to pool at his feet. Wayne's grin is lazy and unfocused as he tips his head to the side, let's the other man leave marks across his neck, both hands squeezing his waist. 

Slade grips the railing a little harder. Something about it that sets his teeth on edge the way the woman hadn't. About Wayne, pressed up against another man, his gaze heavy-lidded and wasted, exactly where Slade plans to be. 

He's moving before he's particularly thought about it. Doesn't need to shove anyone out of his way when they simply move, letting Slade get where he needs to be unrestricted. Takes the stairs at a calm, measured pace, but the loss of line of sight on Wayne grinds his gears just a little. 

He's hardly a fucking hero. Wayne's a big boy, who can do what he likes while wasted and most likely high. It's not that that's got its claws in him, the thought of Wayne too drunk and boneless to know who he's with. 

It's everything else about it. It's the fact that this was always the plan, in some way, ever since Wayne had purred about helplessness and Slade in the same sentence. How Wayne was always, always available, and Slade had spent too damn long on this boat to not get his turn. 

After days with the man keeping his distance, a pretty toy Slade wasn't allowed to play with, he'd had enough of watching others slide their hands over Wayne's skin, leaving their marks over his readily available throat. 

The stranger stumbles at the heavy hand Slade sets on his shoulder, and then stumbles a little more when he sees who's attached to it. "Oh, shit—" he mumbles, looks to Wayne, and then the fingers curled around his arm. "Uh." 

Wayne blinks his eyes open with all the confusion of a kitten, taking in the party first and then Slade himself, mouth set in a wet, bitten line. He makes a grunt-hum sort of noise, eyes sliding over Slade's mask before focusing. "M' babysitter's here." He says, slurred, and then laughs at his own words. 

"Party's over." Slade states. Gives the stranger a little shove, sending him on his way. 

Wayne doesn't exactly lounge, but rather gracefully slumps against the railing, the last of his drink spilling to the floor. "My hero." His shorts are low again, a toned line down to the waistband, and then further— hard, either too drunk to care or unaware, and Slade bites his tongue. 

"You need to sleep this off." He mutters. 

Wayne makes to protest, and then stops short, mouth closed tightly. He holds up a finger. 

"Do not throw up on me." 

Wayne shakes his head. Scrunches his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose for a long moment. Then, he blinks open again, brightly stating, "'m good." 

He both does and doesn't look good. In the sense that he's unreasonably handsome at all hours of the day, but especially when he's aroused and half-naked, and that his eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, drunker than he has any right to be. His words are nearly incomprehensible when he speaks next, but Slade manages to make out sleepy, and that's enough for him. 

Wayne goes from slumping against the railing to settling all his weight against Slade's chest, grinning half a mile wide, Slade's arm wrapped tight around his waist to keep him afloat. He tries, and fails, not to think about the erection pressing against his armor. 

Wayne sighs, grin lazy and open. He blinks slowly, eyes bright and blue and glassy, and Slade gets a hint of that feeling. That importance Wayne can give anyone with a look, a smile, a warm, soft kiss. It makes his stomach clench, makes him want to leave. 

Instead, he takes Wayne with him, one arm firmly around his waist. Wayne does his best to keep up, but the longer they walk the dizzier his steps become, and his words turn into grunts and displeased groans. 

"Still your hero?" He asks, voice low, once they're inside, the party outside becoming a little more muffled.

Wayne grumbles, leaning heavily against Slade. His fingers struggle to find a grip on the armor, and so he settles for squeezing Slade's waist tightly, eyes unfocused. 

"I was—" Wayne hiccups. "I was havin' fun, an' you—" 

"I stopped you from throwing up on your date, yes." Slade rolls his eye. "We both know you're not that into him, anyway." 

"Mm." Wayne's eyes slip shut, but he keeps walking, dragged along down the hall. His heartbeat is slow, trusting, allowing Slade to guide him back to his room with only brief periods of open eyes. "Room's spinnin'. Should make that stop." He mutters, grin only faint now.

"Nobody said getting drunk on a boat was a good idea." Slade snorts. 

Even with that, Wayne's a graceful drunk. Well used to the state of inebriation, it seems. And even with waves of occasional nausea, he remains relatively bright, mumbling nonsense mostly to himself with a wet, dumb smile. 

Wayne only detaches from Slade's side when they're in his room, spotting his bed with a soft ah. He crawls onto it with that same grace, still a little damp from the pool, and groans pornographically when he sinks into the pillows. 

"Comfortable?" Slade asks, dry. The lights are a little dimmed, a softer glow to the room, bringing color to Wayne's skin, turning his eyes a warmer shade when he blinks them open. 

He toes the door shut with his boot, not that Wayne seems to notice, his eyes turned to slits against the light. Wayne hums, pleased. His gaze slides over Slade, and then the rest of the room, back to Slade. 

"You stayin'?" He mumbles, a smirk tugging at his mouth. 

"Wanted to make sure you don't vomit in your sleep, sure." 

Wayne snorts a laugh. "Can jus' say you wan'ed to stay." He shifts onto his side and curls around a pillow. Hikes his thigh up, shorts stretched tight, and sighs. 

Slade tugs the mask off, and makes his way across the room quietly, flicking off the lamp by the coffee table. The room gets that little bit darker, and then he heads for the dimmer switch, turning it low. 

Wayne mutters something that might be thanks, but it's too muffled and slurred to make out, and by the time Slade's back beside the bed he's out. Soft breaths puffing over his pillow, fingers curled in the fabric, hair falling over his forehead. 

Outside, the party continues, but in here it's almost quiet. Everything still, relaxed. Wayne, trusting, deep in sleep. 

He lingers a few feet away for a moment, drinking in the silence, the softness of Wayne's features until he's drawn in, as he always is with Wayne, until he's reaching out to feel that softness for himself. Because he can, and there's no one there to witness it, not even Wayne himself. 

No more smug grins, or slick words. Just the curve of his brows, Slade's gloved fingers tracing down the bridge of his nose, a long-healed bump in the ridge of his otherwise perfect features. Down to the cupid's bow of his mouth, parted slightly, Slade pausing before he strips off his gloves. 

Wayne doesn't react when he traces his lips again, even though Slade's fingertips feel like they're burning. Soft and hot and wet, he presses down gently, and then slides in. 

No need for force, when Wayne's always ready, always available. Always wanting and teasing and wrapping that hot, wet tongue around the tips of his fingers, lips pulled taut in a makeshift gag, never more inviting than when he's bruised and tenderized. 

Slade nearly groans at the welcoming heat there, enveloping two fingers in the soft, wet cavern of his mouth. Wayne doesn't so much as hitch a breath, and if anything relaxes further, mouth falling open an inch more. He doesn't push it, not with Wayne's stomach most likely sensitive, but he presses down, testing the resistance. 

Takes his time exploring the soft edges of his mouth, neat little rows of teeth, perfectly whitened. Wonders dimly how many people have done the same to him, with their fingers and their cocks and their hot, claiming mouths. Feels a spark of irritation, that this time— that Slade's time won't be remembered. 

He tugs his fingers out, only to dip them back in, sliding along his tongue all the way to the back of his teeth. Wayne doesn't so much as stir, let alone gag, and Slade finds himself unsurprised— a man like Wayne, pliant and pretty, would've had the reflex trained out years ago. 

He sinks his other hand into the softness of Wayne's hair. He hadn't touched him like that last time. Had remained still, only responding at the last moment. Had missed out on his chance to feel that silky softness, buried his fingers in the other man's hair and tugged. He brushes the locks away from his forehead. 

Like this, close and quiet, it's acutely intimate. He can watch in real time the tug of Wayne's eyebrows, the small crease there as he dips his fingers in deeper, a gentle facsimile of the real thing. So much gentler than he longs to be, even if the wet, almost obscene noise Wayne's mouth makes as he withdraws is perfect, a sound that goes straight to his cock.  

He keeps going until three fingers are soaked, and then pulls free, a smear of spit over those red lips. Briefly, he releases Wayne's hair, the gelled edges falling back into place. Unbuckles his suit bit by bit, taking his time, every click and slip of fabric nearly deafening in the mostly quiet room. 

Slade removes as much as he needs, enough to tug his pants out of the way, gripping his cock to stroke himself to full hardness. It doesn't take much, staring down at the peaceful edges of Wayne's face, passed out and at his mercy. 

There's no ropes, no bruises or gags. But he doesn't need those to get Wayne under his thumb. Wayne thinks he's harmless, all bark and no bite, but Slade knows he's got teeth, got a darker edge that rears up when Wayne looks so damn pretty, all for Slade. 

Like this, it's easy to think of him in simpler terms. A hot, wet mouth, no safeguards. Soft, unblemished skin, ready and waiting for Slade's marks. A tight, warm hole and not much more. 

Unconscious, there's not a thought in his head, no more teasing remarks and pulling the rug out from him now. This is what he wanted, Slade's heavy hand in his hair, tilting his head back. Slade settling onto the bed. The crown of his cock tracing Wayne's mouth, open and wet, fucking golden when he sinks in an inch. He tugs the man's jaw a little wider, sinks himself in without a hurry because he can, inch by inch, every moment of it long-awaited. 

Wayne's mouth fits him like a glove, saliva pooling under his tongue, and Slade will never look at his mouth again and not imagine this— his cock between those lips, wet with saliva, just the right velvet sensation when he rocks in, grinding the length of his cock into Wayne's waiting mouth. 

He doesn't go too far, doesn't want to ruin him just yet, but what he does get is enough to rake sensation over his nerves, setting the fire going for real. He winds his fingers a little tighter in his hair, tugs him up off the pillow and then slides his palm around to cradle his head. Like this, the vulnerability is real if it wasn't already apparent before, and his cock fucking aches, Slade unable to fight the urge to grind in a little tighter. 

He feels it when he hits the back of Wayne's throat. Sighs to the ceiling, head tipped back, and itches to bruise him there. Leave his marks inside and out with his hands, his cock, the blade of the knife strapped to his thigh. 

What he'd give to claim someone like Wayne. Leave his marks for everyone to see, no mistaking it. No more strangers on boats and young, athletic women when he's marked up and down as Deathstroke's favourite toy. And he is, God he fucking is, Slade's hips moving a little sharper, teeth dug into his lip. 

Wayne takes it quietly, pliantly, takes it like he's made for it and Slade can't help burying himself in his heat. In the soft walls of his mouth right to his throat again, every grind of his hips only short, small inches, never quite pulling out fully. 

Split open on his cock, a strip of saliva dripping out from between his lips, Wayne's never been more perfect. Quiet for once, held still in Slade's grip, filled to the hilt. 

He'll remember this, even if Wayne won't. 

He comes quicker than he'd like, buried in Wayne's mouth, a hand wrapped tight around his handsome jaw. Squeezes the joint there hard enough Wayne's mouth goes even more lax, letting him rut through his orgasm with a groan. 

When he pulls out, all he can think about is sliding his cock back in, going again. Fucking Wayne's mouth until he's raw and tender and the only thing he can taste is Slade's come, not some stranger's mouth, not the apparent river of alcohol he's drank. Just Slade. 

He thumbs the soft curve of his mouth, tugs at the edge of his cheek, and strokes the length of his cock until the last of his come has dripped onto his gums, the soft pad of his tongue. 

He strokes his thumb over Wayne's bottom lip and then slides from the bed, shucking off the remainder of his armor. He tries the first drawer on the nightstand and finds a pack of condoms, a vibrator, and two bottles of lube. At least Wayne could think of some things. 

He discards the first two, and snags the bottle of lube, unsure if he even needs it. His cock's soaked enough as it is, and Wayne's probably well used to this particular song and dance. Unconscious, he's limp, and doesn't react to Slade settling on the bed again, this time behind him. 

The curve of his spine is fluid, leading down to the dip of his hips, and Slade traces it all the way to the waistband of his shorts. A garish blue and orange pattern, little palm trees printed all over it, and he feels no guilt in tugging them down none too kindly. 

Wayne's limp, but he's no dead weight when Slade has enhancements, and it doesn't take long to tug them off entirely, discarded to the floor. Finally bared, he takes a moment just to drink him in, not a tan line in sight, only miles of smooth, soft skin, taut muscles and the perfect curve of his ass. Slade sets a hand on it, squeezes tightly, more than a little pleased at the firmness there. 

Laying a hand on him would probably wake Wayne, and so he settles for simply getting a handful, groping up to his hips and back down. Wayne makes a noise, a sleepy sort of grumble, but slides his thigh higher, curls a little more in on himself. Gives Slade a perfect view of exactly where to bury his cock next, predictably waxed and a picture-perfect shade of pink, soft skin that Slade traces a finger over, all the way down to the sensitive skin of his thigh. 

Wayne doesn't so much as move, his heartbeat a steady sort of metronome, and Slade forgoes the lube briefly to suck on his fingers and run the pads of his fingers over his hole instead, each press becoming firmer. Wayne's breath hitches, and then returns to normal, and rather than test his luck, Slade moves on, tracing a line down the vulnerable, soft skin of his perineum, equally smooth. 

His pretty mouth ticked off Slade's list already, it's more than satisfying to slick up his fingers and sink one into Wayne's tight heat, a little rough when he pushes all the way to his knuckles. Wayne takes it with only a little resistance, allowing him to tug at his rim carefully, working him open with slick, thick fingers, adding another before Wayne's quite ready for it. 

A part of him wishes Wayne were awake for it. Drinking in the feeling of Slade opening him up, spreading him open on just his fingers. Finding that spot inside him that makes Wayne's thigh muscle jump, sensitive, and the resistance as he adds another finger, tight and made for it. Slade finds himself rushing through the last of it, enough prep that Wayne won't tear or bleed, but his cock's already feeling neglected. Hard again and the fire in his gut isn't stamped out just yet. 

This, slicking up his cock with a frankly generous amount of lube, lining the head of his cock against Wayne's hole, is what it's all about. Even stretched, Slade's cock looks a little obscene against his hole, one hand buried in the firm muscle of his ass to watch himself sink in. 

For a moment, the only sound is the creak of the bed, the slightly heavier breath that comes from Wayne's mouth. And then Slade groans, head tipped back, doesn't need to see when he can damn well feel the perfect fit of Wayne around him. The tight, clenching heat, opening up for him because Slade makes him, pushing in deep until he's buried in, Wayne's walls quivering around the intrusion. 

He holds him right there, fingers dug in to a painful degree on Wayne's sharp hips, the inviting curve of his ass, and exhales heavily through his nose. 

He wanted Wayne to remember this. Not the burn of his entry, or being pushed to accommodate all of him. But the feeling, that perfect click as Slade became the center of his universe. A moment Wayne wouldn't ever shake off, the rug pulled out from under him for a change. That gravity shifting in the other direction. 

Wanted to see it happen in his eyes, glassy and blue and beautiful, as just for a moment Slade becomes the only thing that matters. His hands and his marks and his cock, laying claim to every inch of Wayne when he gives it so freely all the damn time. 

He feels it, that heady rush of pleasure and power as he pulls back, a vicious heat around his cock, only to grind back in. Digs his teeth into his lip and sets a pace that rocks Wayne on the bed slightly, just shy of rough, his nails leaving crescent marks on all that tanned skin. 

In the morning, he might think he went to bed with that stranger. But Slade will know every single time he looks at him. 

There won't be any forgetting for him the feel of Wayne around his cock, the easy way he moves when Slade lifts his hips, uncurling Wayne's leg until he can drive in at a deeper angle. Grinds his cock in and lays claim there, no doubt tender inside already. 

He hits that spot that makes Wayne's thigh tense again, and this time there's a moan— soft and high and fit for a wet dream, Slade's hips stuttering to a halt. He doesn't pull out, not for fucking anything when Wayne feels so good, so right, so perfect on his cock. But he leans in, sets his palm on the man's back, puts his weight there. 

Wayne makes another noise, a disgruntled sort of sound in his throat, but Slade doesn't ease off. Muffled, still a little slurred, he mumbles, "don't stop." 

Slade digs his nails into the expanse of Wayne's back. Fifty-fifty on if he even knows where he is, let alone who he's with . He grinds his cock against Wayne's ass, all tight heat, and this time there's a definite clench down. 

"Couldn't keep your pretty little mouth shut?" He replies, earning himself a whine. Wayne's eyebrows scrunch together, but he finally opens his eyes, two slits that are a little bloodshot. Blue shines through, and he struggles to turn his head, suddenly pinned by Slade's palm on the back of his neck. "Don't move." He adds, voice low. 

Wayne does as he's told, some self preservation in him, and works his tongue around his mouth. 

Slade smirks. "How's it taste?" 

Wayne doesn't respond right away, bruised mouth working silently, and then he turns his head just a little. Presses his forehead to the soft pillow under him, unwinding the sudden tenseness of his muscles. 

Slade nearly breaks and orgasms right then and there, the message more than clear. Have your turn. No fighting, no resistance. Just Wayne, offering himself up as he always does, and this time it's all for Slade. His turn with everyone's favourite toy, and there's no question that he's going to take, and take, and take, as much as he possibly can. 

Carve out his space in Wayne's insides, by force or not, leave his marks right where he wants. He grips the back of Wayne's neck tightly, pins him still, and pulls back just to punch his hips forward again. Wayne makes a noise, muffled, but it's exactly what he needs to drive him on. 

With the spell of silence broken, Slade doesn't make any attempts to be quiet. Every thrust of his hips is punctuated by a grunt or a growl, right from his chest, and he lays his hand on Wayne's ass sharply, leaving red imprints of his fingers roughly. Does it again, just to hear Wayne cry out, jerking under him. Somehow, he gets tighter, wound up, and Slade wonders if this does it for him. 

If he gets off on it half as much as Slade is, pushed around and fucked until he can't do anything besides make noises and clench his fingers into the pillow. Wayne takes it beautifully, and Slade finds he has no hesitance about telling him so, the words falling from his mouth filthy and unrefined, Wayne's skin starting to turn a flushed red. 

Once he's allowed to, all but given permission to, he finds he can't find it in himself to stop. Wayne's body is warm and willing and Slade takes everything that he can, and then some. Pleasure licks up his spine, pools in his gut, and Wayne seems to feel the same when Slade slides his hand under his hip, gripping his cock. Squeezes it tightly, Wayne bucking against him, Slade dragging him along for the ride in rough strokes of his hand. 

When that isn't enough, he sets all his weight on the other man, brackets him in. Pinned to the bed, Wayne whines again, a beautifully soft sound, breathless and ragged. Slade mouths at his shoulder, starts with lips and quickly adds teeth, leaves marks across the expanse of his shoulders and is none too kind when he sinks his teeth into the tendon of his throat. 

Wayne bucks, and spills into the sheets with a hoarse sob, both pulling away and scrabbling at Slade's forearm on the bed. 

"You're going to remember this." He states, voice rough like a growl. Sinks his teeth into the edge of Wayne's jaw, listens to him suck in sharp, shredded breaths. "Every time you even think about fucking someone else." 

He fucks into him roughly, makes sure he'll know this wasn't some drunk, volatile dream. He'll feel it in the morning, and the morning after, and he might wonder if it really was Slade or an unkind stranger. 

But he'll remember this. The feel of his cock, the way Wayne's body accepts him, purpose made just to take it, every thought gone from his head. 

Wayne makes a noise, head falling against the pillow. His hair's sweat damp, and under Slade's weight he's boneless, all his strings cut and left at Slade's mercy. 

He'd wanted that. Purred his words and smirked at Slade like he wouldn't do just that. He's got teeth, and he won't be yanked around, and Wayne chokes as Slade slides his arm under his throat. Wraps his fingers around the pretty, bruised column of his neck, forces his head back up. 

"Look at me." He snarls. Wayne's eyes are wet, streaked with tears, and his mouth opens, trying to bring in air. He squeezes, hopes the imprint of his fingers will last for weeks. "Look at me when I make you mine." 

He does, though Slade doubts he can see him through the tears, and there's no fear there. Only a hazy, empty sort of look, choking out another moan. Enjoying it, even through the pain and the disorientation. 

Wayne's eyes roll back a little, eyebrows tugged together, and Slade lets him breathe when the color on his cheeks turns from scarlet to purple. Slides his fingers into Wayne's mouth instead, a pleased grunt when Wayne starts sucking, tight suction around his fingers with every thrust of his hips. 

All too soon, Wayne's moaning around the length in his mouth, eyes screwed shut. 

"You like that?" Slade asks, voice low. Jerks his fingers in deeper, and Wayne does gag this time, though he keeps sucking. Tight heat around his fingers, around his cock, it'll be a wonder if he ever lets Wayne leave the bed. 

Right then, it's the only use for him Slade can possibly imagine, the only true purpose for a man like Wayne. He seems to agree, and only flinches a little when Slade sucks sharp marks into his throat, tender bruises layered over other bruises.  

Before he knows it, Wayne's talented mouth and the abused heat of his hole is enough to tip Slade over the edge. He ruts through it, filth falling from his mouth right against Wayne's ear, and even with an orgasm rocking through him he feels Wayne's shiver at his words. 

Slade keeps going until he can't, and buries his cock to the hilt for the last of his orgasm, panting hard against the other man's bitten shoulder. Teeth marks that will linger as reminders for Wayne, even if they never see each other after this. 

He grunts, nerves a little on fire, fingers paused in Wayne's wet mouth as he drools down Slade's wrist. Just as quickly, it's too much— too tight and too hot and too enticing to go again, and again, and again. He pulls out regretfully, earning himself another whimper from Wayne's abused throat. 

When he pulls his fingers free, Wayne coughs, slumping into the pillows again. 

Slade wants to collapse beside him and bask in the feeling. The satisfaction. Instead he pushes to his knees, drinking in the sight. The patchwork he's made of a pretty thing like Wayne, bruises and bites and whole handprints on Wayne's usually unblemished, airbrushed skin. 

Even with all those marks, he looks perfect. Handsome as ever, and more right than ever with Slade's come leaking from his hole, down the curve of his thigh. Wayne pants into the pillow, breaths still ragged, and Slade takes what little chance he can to slide from the bed. 

Roughly, he sets a hand on Wayne's ass, squeezes until the other man groans. "Knew you'd be good." He states, voice rough, and begins redressing after a brief clean-up. 

He gathers the bulkier pieces of armor, only needs enough to keep him decent. He takes a last, quiet look at Wayne, still struggling to pull himself back together after Slade so thoroughly broke him down, and then leaves. 

Slade's not an easy man to startle. Not even close. There are very few people alive who can sneak up on him at the best of times. 

Wayne's not one of those people. Especially when he's stumbling, footsteps uneven, and not making a secret of his presence. 

Slade flicks on the bedside lamp, sheets kicked around his waist. After a very good fuck, adrenaline still running high, all he's done is lay in bed and consider how to get off the ship before morning. In the doorway, all his plans are promptly crushed, Wayne leaning heavily against the door frame. 

The shorts are gone, replaced with boxers that do nothing to hide the roadmap of Slade's advances. Even now, hours later, the sight of him sends a jolt of heat down his gut. 

Wants to drag him into bed and remind him all over again who sits at the center of Wayne's glittering little universe now. 

"Hey." Wayne mumbles. Coughs, hoarse, and pushes off the doorframe. "I think something happened." He says, quietly, and Slade's stomach twists suddenly. 

The clenching, cold sort of feeling as he realises Wayne's a lot more sober. That he really might not know who, and what, was done to him. 

"Mind if I stay with you?" He asks. In the dark, lingering in the doorway, he looks more than a little vulnerable, shoulders drawn in. 

Slade digs his teeth into the tip of his tongue. "No." 

Wayne's face pinches. "No I can't stay, or no you don't mind?" Even as he asks it, he's inching closer, bringing all his bruises into stark reality. Slade's fingers printed on his hips. A crescent moon of teeth peeking over his shoulder. Wayne flicks the lamp back off.

Slade says nothing as Wayne makes his way to the bed, letting himself in with a stiff sort of gait. All his grace gone, replaced with the aches and pains of Slade's intrusions. 

"So," Wayne murmurs, almost whispers. "You're my bodyguard, right?" 

Slade grunts, tense. Watches as Wayne settles himself in Slade's bed like he owns it, snagging a pillow. 

"Well, some asshole had their way with me and then went back to their own bed, which is kind of rude when I let him do unspeakable things to me." Wayne yawns, jaw cracking. "Normally I'd ask you to beat him up, but that was you. So." He lightly punches Slade's bicep, wincing when there isn't any give. 

"What." Slade states. 

Wayne sets his head down, looks at Slade in the dark. Eyes red-rimmed still, and his mouth is a bruised level of plump. "I told you," he hums lightly, "we could do the whole mercy and helplessness thing again." 

Slade considers jumping overboard. And then thinks, long and hard, about throwing Wayne over instead. 

For half an hour, he was Wayne's whole world. And now, Wayne's smiling a little, lips dry and cracked, a soft sort of amusement. 

"What." He repeats, darker and lower. 

"You think I'd let anyone else have their way with me like that, sweetheart?" Wayne huffs a little. Shuffles closer under the comforter until his fingers are curled around Slade's bicep. "Don't be ridiculous." 

"You are—" He cuts himself off. 

"A master planner, incredibly handsome, and the most accommodating partner you've ever had?" Wayne cuts in lightly. "Yeah, I know." 

"I'm going to kill you." 

"Not after I let you fuck me stupid, you aren't. Get some sleep." 

Slade grits his teeth. "We are talking about this." 

"In the morning," Wayne murmurs, almost soothing. He rubs Slade's bicep lightly. "I need some sleep after you rearranged my insides, darling." 

"Wayne." He hisses. 

Wayne hums, burrowing down a little more. 

As much as he'd like to continue this, he bites his tongue until it hurts. Wayne's smile widens a little more, a ring of bruises forming at his throat. He looks tired, heavy lines beneath his eyes, and Slade can't bring himself to keep going. 

With a huff, teeth grit and a distinct feeling of discomfort in his gut, he settles down, allowing Wayne to cuddle up against his arm with a soft sigh.