Flinch

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/27170449.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Fandom: Nightwing (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Relationship: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson
Character: Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Slade Wilson
Additional Tags: Torture, Child Abuse, Knives, Blood, Death Threats, Blackmail, Evil
Slade Wilson, I CANNOT STRESS ENOUGH THAT SLADE IS A
BUTTHOLE, in this fic at least, Whumptober 2020, Blindfolds, Gags,
Sensory Deprivation, Blindfolded, no.24, im sorry damian stans, the
poor boi has it rough in this one, Vomiting, Threats of Rape/Non-Con,
Though the threats are vague and only happens in chap 2, there will be
no actual rape/non-con, only threats
Language: English
Series: Part 24 of Whumptober 2020
Collections: Whumptober 2020
Stats: Published: 2020-10-24 Updated: 2020-11-11 Words: 6,069 Chapters:
2/4

Flinch
by Jinmukang

Summary

Slade blackmails Dick into joining him. Things go downhill for Dick when Damian tries to
get involved and Slade decides the interference is a perfect opportunity for a lesson in
torture.

Notes

im sorry

please keep warnings in mind. this is heavy on torture... specifically torture of a child.

-hides under a rock-

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1

The gym is the only place in this entire mansion where Dick feels safe. Or, at least a little in control
of his life. It's been months since he's sold his freedom, and while he's allowed free reign of the
entire building excepting the west wing and the basement, there's hardly anything he can do in any
of these empty rooms besides glare holes in the walls.

At least, while he's in the gym, he can pretend the faceless punching dummies belong to Slade
Wilson.

Because fuck that guy.

It's the safest place in the mansion. It's the only place he's allowed to work himself up to the point
of hitting, kicking, and screaming. As long as he doesn't harm the equipment or himself, Slade
doesn't care what he does in here. Granted, if he shows his frustration too much anywhere, Slade
will use it against him. Which is probably why whenever Slade needs something from him, he
looks for him inside the gym.

So maybe it's not the safest place in the mansion.

But it’s still better than cold, empty rooms.

And Dick doesn't really care anyway. Everything stopped being safe the moment he was pinned to
the carpet of his own apartment and whispered to that… that…

His knuckles ache. The punching dummy just wobbles, and Dick wonders what would really
happen if he tore it apart.

He doesn't even get to entertain the idea of slamming his fingers into the tiniest weakness of the
padded fabric to rip it at its seams, because before he winds up for another punch, the sound of
heavily booted footsteps make themselves known behind him.

Which definitely means something is up. If Slade wanted to come in here just to mess with Dick,
he could have easily left his movements more silent than a moth's wings. He punches the dummy,
wipes sweat from his brow, then turns to glare at his captor.

It's not Slade who looks back, but Deathstroke in full attire.

Something is definitely up.

"Apprentice," Deathstroke says smoothly, sending chills of annoyance down Dick's spine. He hates
everything about this, but Slade refusing to call him anything other than apprentice or boy is just an
insult to injury. It's like Slade owns him. Like Dick doesn't have a right to any other name.

However, instead of lashing out like he oh so desperately wants, he straightens his posture, flattens
his expression, and brings his hands behind his back to grasp onto each of his wrists.

Time for the most humiliating thing of all of this. His mouth already tastes disgusting.

"Master."

Dick can't see Slade's face under his mask, but he knows the other man is grinning. It's been
months, and Slade has yet to tire from Dick's discomfort.
"Tell me," Slade practically purrs, folding his arms across his chest and looking too relaxed. "Do
you remember the conditions of your stay here?"

What's Slade's game? Why is he bringing this up now? Dick grinds his teeth for just a second
before forcing himself to respond.

"I do what you say, when you say it, and immediately follow any and all orders without question."

"And in exchange?"

Now Dick can't help but feel a little bit of his uneasiness show in his face. He swallows and shifts
his feet.

"You won't detonate the bombs."

Dick can practically smell Slade's smugness as he asks "and where are the bombs located?"

Dick takes a deep breath. "Inside the skulls of Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, and Damian."

How Deathstroke got the bombs inside all of their heads, Dick will never know. All he knows is
that he came back from patrol one night to find Deathstroke sitting on his couch, the X-rays of each
of their heads sitting on his coffee table. Of course, he didn't know it was their heads until he was
overpowered and manhandled to the ground so Slade would explain it all too happily.

Dick doesn't know what Slade's plans are this time around. He hasn't done anything besides force
Dick to train in various forms of combat. He hasn't said anything about joining his mission or
killing people or… or anything . Just training. Dick's beginning to think he just enjoys having
power over Dick.

"Come," Slade says, forcing Dick from his thoughts, "I have something I need you to do."

Dick forces himself to nod, and not question why Slade brought the bombs up. He simply brings
his hands to his front, unwraps the tape around his knuckles, and follows along even though the
sweat sticking under his workout clothes is uncomfortable and he'd much prefer a shower before
dealing with whatever Slade wanted from him.

The walk through the mansion halls are as lonely as always. Dick's sure that even if Slade wasn't a
jackass with the thirst to kill for money, this place would still be empty. The entire mansion was
built somewhere within the Appalachian mountains, practically in the middle of nowhere. Hidden
expertly within the trees and designed to be practically invisible to any eyes traveling above. To get
here, they had to take a helicopter.

A helicopter . Dick cannot stress that enough.

He lets his mind wonder as he follows Slade. It's probably for some sort of training exercise
outside. Maybe he's being brought to the gun range? He tries to tell himself it's nothing, but there's
still an inkling of unease in his gut.

Why did he bring up the bombs?

Slade suddenly comes to a halt, and it's all Dick can do to not slam into his back. He stops and
looks at the door Slade stopped in front of with widening eyes.

The door to the basement.

One of three places Slade has forbidden.

Slade doesn't bother with any dramatics like locks or passcodes. No doors are locked here. Dick
knows better than to push anywhere he's not supposed to.

The literal heads of his family are on the line.

He watches with a horrible emotional cocktail of nervousness and curiosity as Slade turns the
handle and opens the door. There's nothing special right away. Just stairs leading down into the
shadows.

"Follow," Slade says, and Dick does.

The travel down is… uneventful to say the least. Nothing to see besides stone steps and gray walls.
However, Dick quickly becomes aware of a drop in temperature. A dramatic one. One that seeps
through his sweat soaked clothes and straight into his bones like freezing little needles.

It's when they reach the basement floor he realizes why it's so cold, dark, and secretive down here.

It can hardly even be called a basement once Dick gets a good look.

It's more like a dungeon. Long hallways, iron doors with iron bars, dim candles built into the
walls…

It's Slade Wilson's personal prison.

Which is strange, because Slade doesn't often take prisoners. Dick's normally the only one to own
that title when it comes to Slade.

Slade doesn't give him a chance to really take in everything and just continues down into the
dungeon, passing door after door, each holding just glimpses of various dangerous looking tools
and chains and contraptions… ones that have Dick's head spinning just by thinking about the range
of torture that can be performed in each room.

His bewilderment must be more obvious than what he meant it to be, because Slade turns to look at
him and lets out a chuckle.

"You have questions," he notes.

Dick swallows and turns his head from the doors. He forces himself to look Slade right in the eye.
Or… the hole where his one eye is hidden under. "… I do."

"Ask."

Deep breathes. "What is this place? Why are we…"

Slade chuckles and turns away, grabbing at a ring of keys from within one of his pockets. It seems
the no locked doors policy doesn't apply down here. "I didn't plan on taking you down here so
soon," Slade explains, turning down a seemingly random corner. "I planned for you to know this
place… intimately… soon enough. Except, well, something came up. And I supposed this portion
of training could begin a bit earlier than planned."

He stops in front of a door, one that's more heavier fortified than the rest they had passed. The iron
widow on the door is covered by a steel plate, possibly making the inside completely shrouded in
darkness.
Dick watches with growing anxiety as Slade pushes the key into the door, turns it, then steps back
to allow Dick a clear, complete view on what's inside.

His stomach twists violently. His breath leaves his lungs like he's taken a violent blow to the gut.

There's chains hanging from the center of the dark room, shackles locking tightly over clenched,
bare wrists. There's a boy hanging from them, his uncovered toes just one chain link away from
having enough purchase to let his heels touch the grime covered ground. He's not wearing a shirt,
and his pants are torn near his knees.

Wrapped around his eyes is a blindfold. Over his mouth is a painfully tight looking leather gag.
Locked over his ears is a pair of what is definitely sound canceling headphones.

Damian.

Dick finds himself backing away, his heart in his throat, but he quite predictably runs into Slade's
chest. He can feel every single one of his nerves twist violently as Slade wraps his fingers around
Dick's biceps to keep him standing there, in the doorway, with the perfect view of his littlest
brother hanging in chains.

Then, his eyes slide to the side of the room where there are metal tables set with… with tools.
Knives. Hammers. Whips. Pliers. Brands.

He almost chokes on his tongue when Slade leans down so his mouth is right by Dick's ear. "He
tried to fight me all alone on my last visit to Gotham, demanding to know where you are. I easily
took him down, but he needs to be taught a lesson, don't you think?"

Slade’s last trip to Gotham was three days ago. Has Damian been here… hanging here for that
long?

"Slade…" Dick whispers, shocked that his voice still exists at all.

The hands on his biceps tighten.

"Master-" Dick quickly corrects himself, but it doesn't fix a single thing. Stirn, unmoving hands
begin to force him to walk forward until he's fully inside of the cell, able to smell the faint reek of a
child's sweat, and the smudges of blood that stick to his skin. Dick clutches his fists so tightly he
can feel his fingernails threaten to break skin. The closer he gets, the more wounds he can see on
Damian's mostly naked body.

Slade was careful taking him down.

"Now here's what you're going to do," Slade growls while Damian continues to hang there.
Blinded, deafened, gagged, helpless, probably completely unaware that they're in the room. He lets
go of Dick's arms and walks towards Damian. He curls a hand in Damian's hair, causing the boy to
tense.

Dick wants to scream.

"You're going to do exactly as I say with no back talk." Slade tugs on Damian's hair, causing a
muffled grunt, before he taps the pointer finger of his free hand right onto Damian's left temple.
Right where the X-rays showed where the bombs were implanted. "Or else."

Dick can hardly sort his thoughts. He can barely breathe. All he can focus on is the hand in
Damian's hair, watching as Slade pulls his head back so his neck is exposed, showing the
beginnings of an Adam's apple that bobs nervously.

"Master-" Dick gasps, he can't even keep his voice even.

Slade squeezes his hand in Damian's hair, causing Damian to bend backwards even more and
release short, almost panicked breaths. The sensory deprivation must not be doing any favors for
him. The way his toes barely touch the ground doesn't even allow him to feel for vibrations.

"Pick up the knife, boy."

And something shatters in Dick's chest. "Please, Master- I'll do anything-"

"Pick up the knife!" Slade snarls, and Dick can't help a full body flinch. "If you question me one
more time, I'll chain you up to watch me break him myself. Only, if I do it, I'll make sure he dies
slowly, and painfully. I won't even use the bomb."

Dick wants to cry. Instead, he sucks in a breath and turns to the table, picking up the first knife he
sees with shaking hands. He tells himself that he's doing this to save Damian's life. That if he does
as he's told… Slade should let Damian go.

Teach him a lesson. Teach him a lesson.

Slade's not sending a message. He's teaching a lesson. Which means he won't be forced to kill
Damian.

Just learn how to torture him.

"Good boy." Dick can practically hear the smile in Slade's voice as he finally lets go of Damian,
backing up so the boy is left hanging in his shackles, breathing hard and definitely fighting off
anxious twitches.

He holds the knife out in front of him, the light is low in the cell, but he can definitely tell how
sharp the edges are. He honestly would rather plunge this knife into his own heart than put it
against his kid… but Dick has a feeling Slade wouldn't let Dick go that easily. Somehow, Slade
won't let Dick die here. He'll keep Dick alive, then chain him up, and force him to watch Damian
gain gruesome death that he doesn't deserve.

He's helping Damian. He's helping Damian. He's doing this to make sure he lives. That they all
live.

So he holds the knife out in front of him, approaches, and forces his face to not show how much
distress he's in. His lips wobbles, and Slade definitely notices it, but he doesn't comment on it. Just
chuckles.

God, Dick hates him so much.

"Put the edge against his jaw… but don't press hard enough to cut flesh," Slade says, and Dick
crawls away to some corner of his mind to do exactly as he's told. Robotically. Not feeling
anything. His brain is screaming. "Run it down his neck, yes just like that. Trail the tip over his
chest, not cutting, but let him feel it. Let him imagine the things it can do to him. We will prove his
expectations to be underdeveloped in a minute-"

And Dick does as he's told. He trails the knife over Damian's skin, forcing himself not to flinch
every time Damian's breath catches. He brushes where Slade tells him to brush, threatens with a
small push when Slade tells him to threaten.
He breaks skin on Damian's back when Slade tells him to break skin.

I'm sorry Damian, he can only scream inside his mind as digs the blade in at an awkward and
extremely painful angle near Damian's collar bone.

The kid writhes and certainly does his best to ignore the torture… but he eventually screams
through the gag.

And Dick keeps doing as he's told. The shattered pieces of his sole are now a fine, crushed dust.

"There we go…" Slade compliments happily, when the first tear appears under Damian's
blindfold. "You're doing great, apprentice."

And it doesn't stop there. And Dick keeps doing as he's told. He keeps pressing the knife. He keeps
trailing it. Tearing skin. Puncturing sensitive places. Using Damian's struggles and tremors against
him.

Like a monster.

I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry.

Eventually, Slade finally tells him to stop. Dick backs away like Damian’s fire. He watches with
wide eyes as Damian sags against the chains and heaves a shaking breath that rattles his entire
blood splattered chest.

“Go upstairs, shower, and go to bed,” Slade says, putting a hand on Dick’s shoulder. Dick can’t
help it, he flinches. All he can think about is how Damian is desperately trying to get a hold of
himself. Unaware that the torture is over. Unaware that it was Dick who… who… who did this.
Slade doesn’t seem to care about Dick’s flinch. He just tightens his iron strong grip and leans
closer to Dick’s ear. His mask is off now. Dick can tell by his familiar hot breath against his cheek
and ear. “You did good, apprentice. I’m proud of you.”

“What…” Dick breaths, memorizing every line of red on Damian’s skin that he caused. Dick
swallows down a mouthful of vomit that tries to rise. “What about-”

The grip on his shoulder shifts, thick fingers squeeze the base of his neck dangerously. “I said go
upstairs. Shower. And Go. To. Bed. The brat is no longer your concern.”

There’s a threat in Slade’s voice. One that Dick has been conditioned to immediately obey for fear
of worse punishment. Fear of a button being pressed and every single one of his siblings…

He looks at Damian for a heartbeat longer; tells himself that Slade will let Damian go. That
Damian will soon be back at the manor and recovering.

Dick nods his head then turns heel, forcing that little pit of despair to turn into something that
could be mistaken as hope. He walks past all the other cells, not looking inside a single door,
before he’s running up the stairs two at a time and sprinting to his room.

The moment he’s in his bedroom—a large one at that, but filled with nothing but a bed and a
dresser—he beelines to his bathroom and is already stripping his clothes before he can close the
door behind him. He tries to wipe his arms and hands with his shirt as he takes off his garment, but
he can still see smudges of red on his skin. He turns on the water as hot as it can go then collapses
by the open toilet.

He empties everything in his stomach, then continues gagging every time he smells blood on his
body until steam has completely fogged up the mirror.

He flushes the toilet and steps into the scalding water, hardly even noticing how his skin burns.

All he’s aware of is the red running pink down the drain, and the drops of water on his cheeks that
is definitely from the spray of the shower.

He’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself.

He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to fully wash the blood from his body.

All he can do is stand there and let the practically boiling temperature of the water assist his
emotional turmoil in becoming something physical.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

Damian knows more than what he lets on.

Dick finds himself slipping further under Slade's thumb.

Chapter Notes

welcome. please, please, sit. pull up a chair. get comfortable.

slight warning, this chapter has vague threats of rape/non-con. these threats are vague
and almost blink and youll miss it. have no fear though, there will be none of that in
this story. just threats. because slade wilson is a wonderful asshole.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It's been about five minutes since anyone's touched Damian. This is the only evidence that he has
that the torture is over. His entire body stings, and he feels similar to what a turkey must feel like
on Thanksgiving day.

All carved up.

His shoulders ache, as do his hands, both of which have been tasked with carrying his entire body
weight for the past few hours. However, all of his limbs felt weak and sensitive even before
Deathstroke grabbed him from the corner of the cell he's been sitting in for the past… probably
three or four days… and strung him up.

Every single cut along his body is like poisoned tipped needles, and he can feel blood dripping
from almost every part of his person down to his pants, legs, feet, making a very uncomfortable
puddle to stand in at the tips of his toes.

A brush of air across his cheek is the only warning he gets before the blindfold and headphones are
ripped off. Damian resists grasping, blinking his teary eyes to try and focus, his ears feeling numb.

In front of him is none other than Deathstroke, an array of weapons on a table behind him, however
the only one that's bloody is a simple knife.

He quickly looks around the rest of the room, searching, but then thick fingers grab his cheeks and
force Damian to look Deathstroke straight in the face. Damian glares and clenches his fists.

"Grayson isn't here, brat," Deathstroke says smoothly. "So your little act can end. I know your pain
tolerance is higher than that."

Damian narrows his eyes as Deathstroke uses his free hand to loosen the buckle of the cursed gag.
The second it's out of his mouth, he spits at Deathstroke's face. There's specks of red in his saliva,
but Damian assumes it's from the cut corners of his cheek thanks to that gag. He's been tasting
copper for quite some time now.

The thing about Deathstroke's mask is that you can never tell what he's thinking, which is why
Damian braced himself for a slap the second the assassin raised his hand. However, Deathstroke
simply wipes the spit off his mask and then proceeds to brush it off in Damian's hair.

"Where's Richard?" Damian hisses, tugging on the chains holding him up. "I know he was here."

"How, pray tell?" Deathstroke says, his voice teetering between a scoff and amusement.

Damian strengthens his glare and ignores the stream of blood that passes over his eyebrow and
trails down the corner of his eyes. "I know the difference between the hand of a sadist, and the
hand of a reluctant third party. You forced him to hurt me."

Deathstroke's entire posture shifts. His head tilts and he's shoulders follow suit. A knee bends ever
so slowly. It grates on Damian's tolerance to see the man so full of himself, so confident in
Damian's presence. To think just a few months before, this guy was stubbornly trying to convince
Damian that he was his actual birth father.

Pathetic.

"And what difference is that?" He asks. Curiosity lacing his tone.

Damian bites the inside of his cheek.

The reason his pain tolerance is so high is because it was trained into him. Ra's Al Ghul forced his
mother to convict the deed while he was still a small child. Richard's hand against his skin,
dragging a knife in painful ways felt exactly the same as his own mother's.

But neither of them have felt like the rouge's of Gotham. The random crooks. Deathstroke himself.

Damian decides to not answer that question out loud. Instead, he twists his bleeding lips into a
snarl. "Whatever you're trying to do, it isn't going to work. Richard isn't yours."

"No," Deathstroke agrees, finally beginning to back off. He turns to the table filled with torture
devised and Damian feels himself tense. Richard at the instruction of Deathstroke hurt. But the
psychopath himself? However, Deathstroke turns and grabs a small box from the corner, one that
when he opens it is filled with bandages and other various medical instruments.

Damian watches wearily as Deathstroke approaches, pulling out thread and a curved needle.

As he threads the needle, Deathstroke continues to speak. "He's not mine. Not yet. But he will be.
He has it in him, I've just got to remind him of it."

"By having him torture his brother?"

"By having him torture his son."

Damian's not sure why he flinches there. He tells himself it's because Deathstroke jabbed the
needle through a deep cut in his shoulder. Damian quickly forces himself to become composed.
"You're a foolish old man. Richard isn't my-"

"Biological father, no." The tugging of thread forcing itself though his already irritated skin
without any numbing is agonizing. Damian doesn't voice his pain, just continues to glare while
Deathstroke's finishes up that stitch, then moves on to the next one. "But we both know that blood
has nothing to do with the bond between a parent and a child. Do not try to lie to me boy, I know
how Grayson ticks. I know how you tick."

"You know nothing about us," Damian snarls. "I'm no more important to him than any of the
others."

Deathstroke chuckles at that, like he's already won, and then he doesn't say anything more, just
continues to stitch Damian up from the cuts he forced Richard to inflict. Damian doesn't try to
converse. There's no point to. It's almost impossible to get anything from Deathstroke, especially if
he feels like he's already won.

Soon enough, Deathstroke is taping the worst of the cuts. Once he's done with that, he reaches up
to the shackles that have long since cut off most of the circulation to Damian's fingers. "Fight me,
and I'll string you up by your ankles," Deathstroke mutters before taking off the shackles.

Damian can't help it, he falls into Deathstroke's waiting arms. He tenses, but doesn't fight, as
Deathstroke practically drags him out of the torture room and into the original cell Damian has
awoken in. A manacle connected to the center of the floor is attached to his ankle, then
Deathstroke steps back, leaving Damian to stand there with wobbly balance and glare.

"What are you holding against him?" Damian demands before Deathstroke can leave. "Why would
he join you?"

When Deathstroke speaks, there's a smirk in his voice. "Absolutely nothing, baby bird. I
recommend you quit worrying about him and think about your own survival. The quicker you let
yourself break, the quicker we can be done with this."

Damian growls, about to step forward and… he doesn't know, throw a fist or something, but then
Deathstroke laughs and walks out, making the cell grow dark with the clanking sound of a bolt
locking.

It's thankfully not as dark as it was in the other cell. This one is meant for long term captivity, a bed
shoved in a corner and a bucket in another. There's a slot at the bottom of the door where food and
water will be shoved through three times a day if Deathstroke keeps up his patterns.

He wants to keep Damian alive and healthy. There's no fun in torturing a barely alive captive. The
food even tasted good.

Damian hobbles to the bucket and smirks. It's been emptied. A small revenge. The image of
Deathstroke cleaning out a human waste filled bucket, even if it's his own human waste, has him
keeping a smile on his face until he settles down onto the thin mattress with springs that stick up
like a bed of nails.

He stares at the ceiling for five minutes, getting out of his body and every stitch that insistently
pulses to remind him it's still there. He stays that way until his breathing is even and his eyes are
drooping.

He rubs the nail of his ring finger on his left hand, and then brushes his right hand across his
temple.

"Any day now, Timothy..."

Nothing changes and Damian sighs, preparing himself for the long run.

-o-o-o-o-
Slade doesn't say anything about what he made Dick do for the next three days. He would have
continued to say nothing if Dick hadn't looked so out of it during their morning sparring session.

But Dick did look out of it. He knows he did. Still does. He had a nightmare again last night, and
he's come to the realization that Slade hasn't left the mansion at all since he made… since that.

So he looks out of it. Sue him.

"What's on your mind?" Slade asks in a way that almost sounds like a demand. Dick dodges under
a swinging kick aiming for his head and then shoots forward to grab Slade around the ribs.

"Nothing, sir," Dick grunts as Slade grabs his shoulders and practically throws Dick to the side.
Curse Slade's superhuman strength. All the years Dick's known him and he still doesn't know
exactly how strong Slade really is.

He blinks shadowed memories of Grant out of his mind.

"Don't lie to me." Slade punches Dick in the stomach while he was trying to get back to his feet.

All the air leaves Dick's lungs as he collapses to the floor. A heavy boot lands in the center of his
back, which makes it all the more impossible to catch his breath.

"You'd be able to dodge that if you weren't distracted."

Dick grinds his teeth. He hates this. Hates it to his core.

"I'm just…" he licks his lips, hoping Slade doesn't best him up for this. "I'm just worried about
Damian…"

The foot on his back doesn't bring more pressure like he almost expected, but it doesn't let up
either.

A second passes. Then Slade's ever smooth voice. "I told you the boy was no longer your
concern."

"I know, sir, I just… he was really hurt and-"

Slade interrupts before Dick can say and I'm not sure you let him go like you said you would.

"I made sure he wouldn't bleed to death, if that's what you're worried about."

The pressure on Dick's finally becomes greater, he can practically feel it bending his spine. He
grimaces as Slade leans down and frowns at Dick.

"Anything beyond that is none of your concern."

His face is deathly still. Serious. Dick can't argue, because if he does then something bad will
happen. "Yes… master."

Slade gives a stiff nod then steps off of Dick. "Now get up. Focus on training, unless you want a
beating."

-o-o-o-o-

Somehow, after that, Dick manages to convince himself that Damian is fine. Slade has never lied to
Dick before. Everything he says is honest. He has no reason to lie.
If he said he'd let Damian go after Damian was taught a lesson, then he'd let Damian go.

It's as simple as that.

He doesn't think about it for two more days. He doesn't think about it for two more days filled with
the same old routine. Hours of training, of roaming, of sitting in the gym and dreading Slade's
footsteps. Of missing his family. Of wanting to go home.

Two more days almost becomes three when suddenly, right as he's preparing himself for bed, Slade
walks in without even knocking. Dick grinds his teeth, feeling vulnerable with his shirt off and his
pants just barely riding on his hips. Slade hasn't shown any… intentions… towards Dick since he's
been here, but Dick wouldn't put it past the guy.

He turns and tries to not glare. He probably does anyway. Slade doesn't seem to care, he just leans
against the doorway and folds his arms across his chest.

"Get dressed."

Dick knows better than to ask why. Instead he asks what, and Slade replies something he doesn't
mind getting dirty.

Dick doesn't mind any of his clothes getting dirty. They're all gifts from Slade. Not a single pair of
clothes here down to his underwear was something he originally owned. But… he supposes he
doesn't want to get his only pair of pajamas dirty.

So, with Slade watching, he undresses and slips into a baggy pair of jeans and a crew-neck tee-
shirt.

It's what he's been working out in since…

He stuffed his original gym clothes under his bed, let's leave it at that.

"Come," Slade says the second Dick is dressed. Dick glances longingly at his bed, then follows
along without any argument.

And then? Slade stops in front of the basement door, and Dick can't help but flinch back like he's
been electrocuted. Somehow? Right then and there?

He knows.

"You lied," he gasps before he can stop himself. Slade turns and raises an unamused eyebrow.
Anger swirls in Dick's stomach like a whirlpool. "Damian's still down there."

Slade grins, and Dick feels his breath catch in his throat. "I said he can go after he's taught a
lesson."

"But he was-" Dick stumbles over his words, struggles to keep himself from letting loose and
charging at Slade with a flinging fist.

"His lesson isn't a simple torture session," Slade chides, almost like he's pitying Dick.

Dick can hardly breathe. Damian's down there, and Dick's been up here happily delusioned into
thinking he's safe and sound back home? Dick gulps down air like it's made of molasses. "Then-
then- when-?"

"When he's broken," Slade practically purrs. Dick feels liquid nitrogen replace every single blood
cell. "When he's begging. We will continue this pattern, over and over again, until you no longer
hesitate in your actions, until he's choking on his own sobs and telling you, not me, you to stop."

Dick recalls immediately every single cut he gave Damian close to a week ago. He thinks about
having to reopen those wounds, cause more, keep going until everything he has and is becomes
stained with unwashable blood.

He still takes hot showers. He can still smell it in the quiet hours of midnight.

Slade sneers. "Don't worry so much, apprentice, there are more ways to torture someone than
drawing blood."

Dick's heart feels like it hasn't only skipped a heartbeat as Slade steps closer... but that it's
completely stopped all together.

"There are some things worse than making wounds and causing pain."

Dick understands what he means. He understands what he means and he can feel it settle in that
whirlpool of rage like a heavy boulder. He turns towards Slade, and tries to keep his voice even.
"Master... Please, you have to be joking."

"I'm not," Slade says, "and you know you'll do it too if I tell you to. You'll do it because if you
don't, I'll kill him and all of your other siblings." Slade pauses, his smirk widens. "How would that
feel, boy? To take your own child's innocence?"

Bastard. Psychopath. A sadistic and perverted piece of shit. His stomach twists and before he can
even think it through, he launches forward with a yell. Slade's one eye widens right before Dick
socks him across the jaw. However, before Dick can attempt to do anything else, a heavy fist slams
into his gut, right below his ribs. Every single molecule of air leaves his lungs and he's left gasping,
choking, and holding back the urge to vomit; helpless to do anything but wheeze as he's grabbed by
the color of his shirt and slammed against the basement door.

The knob jams mercilessly against his hip, and he might have cried out if he had any air left to
spare.

Instead, he can only attempt to catch his breath; his hands weakly grasping onto Slade's.

"Is this really what you want to be doing right now, Grayson?!" Slade hisses, a purple bruise on his
jaw fading into clear complexion as he speaks. "Do you really want to fight me now? Like this?"

Dick chokes as Slade presses harder against his shirt, each hand feeling like stakes driven though
his collarbones.

"Let me tell you now boy," Slade sneers. Dick's heart stutters like an old BMW. "I don't intend for
it to be taken that far. You don't want it to be taken that far. That's why, when you go down there,
you're going to do your damndest to make. It. Count. The sooner you quit letting your annoying
feelings on your family affect you, the sooner the brat can go home. Hurt. Traumatized. But alive."

"Fuck you," Dick spits. For a second, pure annoyance flashes through Slade's face, but all he does
is let go of Dick like he's touched something worse than trash.

Slade brushes his hands together, and gives Dick a steady look as Dick's finally allowed to suck in
a lungful of air. He coughs, then glares.

Slade simply stares back at him with sharp eyes. "Stop fighting me, apprentice. Accept this is new
 life and move on from your family. You're not leaving this one, kid. You're going to succeed me
one day, you'll be ruthless." He pauses. Then his lips begin to twitch back into that infuriating
smirk. "And you'll love it."

"I won't become you," Dick risks arguing back. "You can control me, use me for the rest of my
life. You can force me to kill, but I'll never be you."

"Yeah," Slade says, grabbing Dick's shoulder and squeezing. It takes every ounce of strength he
has to not flinch as Slade prods him to step out of the way of that blasted basement door. "Keep
telling yourself that kid, it will be all the more enjoyable for me to watch yourself realize how
wrong you are."

And with that, the door opens, revealing the dark and condoning depths down below. Dick's legs
feel frozen until Slade impatiently tugs on his shoulders. Dick feels similar to the depressing
atmosphere of the staircase as he slowly begins to walk down, having nothing to feel but the cold
dread of the future.

Chapter End Notes

until next time! ya'll screamed so lovely in the last chapter. i would love it if you
screamed at me again :3

next chapter will be fun. this one was simply the calm before a storm.

End Notes

-pokes head up from under a rock-

uh. scream at me in comments?

the more people that scream at me in comments the more likely i might actually continue
this one..................

so........

-goes back under a rock before my damian stan friends can snipe me-

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