slade wilson didn't know the definition of comfort. he knew war and death and bloodshed and violence; it was his very essence. he was tainted and he knew that. not once, would slade ever deny such an accusation. he was a killing machine. he was deathstroke, the terminator.

but you— you were important to him. almost more important than his work; you had him wrapped around your little finger and you didn't even know it.

shortly after moving in with slade, he'd encountered your first period. crumpled on the bathroom floor thanks to a wave of nausea, your skin hot and greenish, cramps debilitating enough to make walking an impossible feat and the strangest cravings.

he'd bring you extra blankets when you asked for them, or would peel them off when you were too hot. he'd make you or go grab whatever you were craving. every six hours he'd remind you to take your midol, bringing you two tiny white pills and a glass of water. and when he wasn't up and fussing over you like a mother hen, he'd sit beside you; letting you climb all over him until you found yourself a comfy position, running his fingers along your spine, carding a hand through your hair, or gently rubbing at your belly to try and soothe you.

after a while, slade supposed maybe he had caught onto this whole comfort thing. after all, you certainly looked pretty comfy; curled up in a nest of blankets on the sofa, your favorite movie playing and surrounded by your favorite snacks.

"need anything while i'm up?" he asks, lingering beside you whilst standing before the sofa. a hand running through your messy hair you hadn't bothered to brush, a slight smile cracking across his features, "anything at all."