Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/489161.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
  Fandom:
      Aspen_Extreme_(1993)
  Relationship:
      T.J._Burke/Dex_Rutecki
  Character:
      Dex_Rutecki, T.J._Burke
  Additional Tags:
      Rape, Non_Consensual, Child_Abuse, Drug_Abuse
  Series:
      Part 6 of Aspen_Extreme
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-18 Words: 4533
****** Break ******
by Amarok_(ButterflyGhost)
Summary
     TJ and Dex come to terms with the past.
Notes
     Strong warnings for drug abuse, prostitution, child abuse.
He sucked. Teej knew it, Teej's Mom knew it, Teej's Dad knew it. The whole town
knew it.
 
“Hey, Dex,” Teej was sitting next to him on the ward, looking pale and sad,
like he had done ever since they'd arrived in this damn place. “It's okay,
we'll get outta here soon.”
 
“I'll never get out,” Dexter said. “They'll let you out, 'cause you're not
crazy. Me? I'm staying here.”
 
“You're not crazy,” Teej said, in a resigned tone of voice. “We just feel that
way 'cause...” he winced. “Like the doctor says, it's withdrawal.”
 
“Yeah? Well, it fucking sucks.”
 
“I know.” Teej stared at the wall. “But if we got brains, we only have to do it
once.”
 
Dexter had already done it a few times. Couldn't quite remember how many, but
this was definitely the worst. “Whatever,” he said. “You can do it once, then.
I'm fucked up. They let me outta here, I'm just gonna screw up again. And
again, and maybe again. And then I'll die.”
 
“You won't die,” Teej looked at him, frightened. “You don't gotta die.”
 
Dexter shut his eyes, leant his head against the wall. “Everyone dies, Teej,”
he said. “It's kinda cool, when you think about it. At least one day it stops.”
 
When he looked up, Teej was crying. “Hey... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...
Teej, I'm sorry.”
 
“Yeah, I know.” Teej stood up, wiping his face. “Look, I gotta go lie down.
I'll see you later.”
 
Sure, they'd see each other later. It was a goldfish bowl. They couldn't get
away from each other. Dexter clenched his fists, hard, so his nails cut nice
little crescents in the meat of his hands. He'd stopped chewing his nails,
because they didn't have anything else sharp in here. He never thought the day
would come when he didn't want to see Teej.
 
The next time they saw each other was at group therapy. Some of the others
spoke up, but Teej kept his head down, and didn't make a sound. Dexter stared
blankly at the wall, and just grunted when asked to talk.
 
Afterward they walked together to the canteen, and sat at the plastic tables,
on their plastic chairs, with plastic plates, and spoons and no knives, and ate
mashed potato and grey fibrous bite sized chunks that might have been bits of
carpet, or might have been meat. You couldn't really tell from the taste. As
for the peas, they were horrible. He might never eat peas again.
 
Teej pushed his plate away with a sigh. “I can't eat this crap.”
 
No wonder they were both losing weight. “I can't either,” he said. Even if he
hadn't been feeling sick, this slop would have made him wanna puke. “I think
they're doing it on purpose,” he scowled, and Teej actually laughed, like he
thought he was joking. He didn't get it, Dexter thought. These guys really were
out to get them.
 
The next day when Teej's mother arrived, she asked to speak to Teej alone,
before Dexter joined them. You see, Dexter thought. They've got to her. Now
that she was acting funny, it wouldn't be long before they'd poisoned Teej
against him too. Of course, when he went through to see her she stood up and
hugged him, and pretended everything was okay. And Dexter was really good at
pretending. He smiled, and listened, and talked a little bit, like he was okay.
But he knew.
 
“What did your Mom want to talk to you about?” Teej was quiet for a moment, and
Dexter went cold. Not Teej too... not already... Then Teej sighed. “My Dad's
moving out.”
 
“Oh.” That got through. It wasn't all about him, after all... “Oh, fuck. I'm
sorry.” Actually, it was about him. This was his fault.
 
“It's just fucking bullshit, that's all.” Teej scuffed his feet on the worn
carpet. “They told my parents a bunch of stuff, and it's not true, and they
argued about what to do, and my Dad moved out. And it's this fucking place, and
it's the cops, and Mom and Dad just don't get it.”
 
Dexter felt a flutter of relief. They hadn't got to Teej yet. Teej knew there
was a plot. He was still on his side. He grabbed his hand, and squeezed. Teej
stared at him, and pulled his hand back.
 
“You know we can't do that here,” he said.
 
“I was just holding your hand.”
 
“They keep asking me about you,” Teej turned his head away, and sucked in his
lip. “We gotta be careful.”
 
Dexter stared at him. “You know, they keep asking me about you too.”
 
“Yeah?” Teej turned, folded his arms across his chest, looked suspiciously up
and down the ward. “What they been asking?”
 
“Do we do it together, when did we start, did anyone take pictures...”
 
“Oh, fuck.” Teej shook his head. “They been asking me the same stuff. I think
'cause we both got the...” His voice went dry, and Dexter managed to smile.
 
“'Cause they found us in a whore house, and we both got the clap.”
 
“Keep your voice down,” Teej blushed. “Jesus.”
 
“So,” Dexter said, when he'd stopped laughing. Boy, he'd needed a laugh. “What
do you say? When they ask you about us?”
 
“I tell 'em not to be such fucking pervs and mind their own damned business.”
 
Dexter laughed again. “Cool,” he said. “I just play dumb and pretend I don't
hear them.”
 
“Fuck,” Teej said, and started cackling himself. After he'd stopped though, he
was shaking. He stared at Dexter despairingly. “We're never getting out.”
…
 
About a week later, the cops turned up again. This one was a lady cop, and she
wasn't in uniform, and she looked nice, but he knew not to trust her. There was
a camera behind that big mirror, he knew it. And that wasn't him being
paranoid, because if you got up close enough you could just about see through
the glass. They must think he was stupid. He was feeling stupid too, even more
than usual, because they'd stuck something in his arm when he freaked out. But
what the hell did they expect him to do? She was a fucking cop.
 
“So,” she said, smiling. “I see your friends call you Dexter. What can I call
you?”
 
“Sam,” he said letting the angry buzz push him through the sedative cloud. “Or
Peter. Or Luke. Or whatever the fuck you like. I don't care.”
 
There was a long silence, as she looked at him. Then she sighed. “None of those
are your actual name,” she pointed out.
 
“I know that,” he said. “And I do know my name, I just don't like it. I'm a
junky, not an idiot.” He smiled at the look on her face, then lay back a bit,
and shut his eyes. “Call me Dexter,” he conceded, relaxing into the drug haze.
It wasn't the same as what he'd been taking, but it was better than nothing. A
nice warm tug, like the tide going out, if he had ever seen the sea.
 
“Okay, Dexter,” she said, gently. “Is there anything you want to tell me
about?”
 
“Why? You got everything you need to know in there. You probably got pictures.”
 
“Pictures? Why do you say that?”
 
“Does it matter?”
 
There was a silence, and he wanted to open his eyes to see what she was doing,
but he kinda couldn't give a damn. The silence lasted so long, he almost fell
asleep.
 
“Did you know we recovered pictures from your father's house?”
 
Jesus. Damn. His eyes snapped open, and he surged forward, tried to get to his
feet. The orderly grabbed him, and pulled him back down, and he struggled.
“Kid,” the guy said, “calm down, or we'll have to tie you down.”
 
Dexter slumped, and started crying. No point fighting the guy, no point
fighting anybody. You could never make them stop.
 
The cop leant forward, looking concerned. “Are you all right, Dexter?”
 
“Do I look all right?”
 
“You look upset. Do you want to talk about it?”
 
He stared at her, confused. “I thought... I thought we'd got all the photos,”
he said, realising as he said it that he was dumb. That he was fucking dumb,
because he'd just confirmed it, and maybe she'd been lying about the photos.
 
“Who's 'we',” she asked. “Do you mean you, and your friend TJ?”
 
And again, like an idiot, he nodded.
 
“Dexter,” she said, “I need you to know, it's not your fault.” He said nothing.
“You do know that, don't you? It's not your fault.”
 
“Fuck off,” he said. He didn't want to hear that from her. Teej already forgave
him. He blinked. He realised he'd said the last bit out loud.
 
“Teej has forgiven you? What for?”
 
He tried to stand up again, but the orderly put a hand on his shoulder, more
gently this time. Dexter felt his knees turn to rubber, and sank back on the
chair. He wasn't gonna say another damn word.
...
 
Next time he saw Teej was in another interview room. They were both so frantic
they didn't even think about the mirrored wall. Teej was already in there,
white as a sheet, and the minute Dexter walked in the door he rushed up to him,
and hugged him, and started to cry. Dexter patted his back, and made silly
comfortable noises, like Teej's Mom did when he was little, and she'd cuddled
him, and made him feel better. “It'll be all right,” he said, even though it
was the biggest lie he'd ever told. Eventually Teej stopped crying, and pulled
back, blowing his nose on his sleeve. Christ, Teej hadn't done that since he
was a kid... his Mom woulda had a cow.
 
“They found the pictures,” Teej blurted out, as soon as he could talk. “I
thought we'd burned 'em all.”
 
“Yeah,” Dexter sat down on the couch. At least the seats in here were comfy. He
patted the cushion next to him, and Teej flopped onto it, then turned his head
onto his shoulder, and curled up into a ball. Dexter put his arm around him,
and Teej sank sideways onto his lap, knees to his chest, hands over his eyes,
facing out. “I'm sorry,” Dexter said, and cleared his throat. “Was it just
pictures of me, or did they find the ones of us together?”
 
“They found 'em, yes.” They both groaned at the same time. “Swimming,” Teej
continued, “that's all it was, swimming. You wouldn't think they'd get so
fucking freaked.”
 
Yeah... that's right. Those pictures had been important to Dexter for so long
that sometimes he forgot they were just a bunch of pictures of two boys
swimming in the lake.
 
“Hey, it's all right,” he said, to reassure his friend. “The only bad ones are
me, you're not in trouble.”
 
“It's not fair,” Teej said, “that you're in trouble, and I'm not.”
 
“Don't worry about it.”
 
Teej stopped shaking, and Dexter carried on soothing his back. After a couple
of minutes Teej uncovered his face, looked up at him, and smiled, an actual
happy smile, that one which looked like a light bulb. “Hey,” he said. “I just
realised. We're in here all by ourselves.”
 
“Oh yeah?” Dexter's dick sprang up to attention, like a soldier saluting the
flag. The thing had been bothering him for weeks, except for times when they
made him take something to put him to sleep. Teej musta felt it, because he
shuffled round to face Dexter's body, and started rubbing him through the
fabric of his trousers.
 
“Does that feel good,” Teej asked. “'Cause I gotta say...”
 
The door swung open, and Teej lurched into a sitting position, banging the top
of his head on Dexter's chin on the way up.
 
“Shit,” Dexter curled up defensively. He was a fucking idiot... he hadn't even
thought that they'd be watching.
 
Next to him Teej had started to keen. It suddenly hit Dexter that since they'd
been in this place they'd both been behaving more and more like kids than
teenagers... if they didn't get out of here soon they'd turn into babies, only
with permanent hard-ons. And now that they'd seen him and Teej together, they
were never getting out.
 
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Teej was crying, with his arms wrapped round his head.
Dexter realised his friend was being dragged away, and... He was suddenly
furious. He threw himself to his feet, yelling Teej's name, and flew straight
at the orderly, punching him in the face. And even though it went worse from
there, he wasn't sorry. Not sorry at all.
…
 
Later on, when he was getting better, the doctor told him that he'd suffered a
psychotic break... a setback. Because apparently he and Teej were there in the
first place because they'd both broken at the same time, whatever that meant.
Which was why they weren't in prison for drugs, or assaulting police
officers... not that this place wasn't a prison. Dexter scowled at the woman.
“What do you expect? Most people woulda broke. A buncha cops kicked down the
front door.”
 
“Don't you trust the police?”
 
Dexter leant forward, and with cool deliberation, banged his head on the desk.
 
“Don't do that, son,” she said. He sat back up, and gave her a filthy smile.
She had really nice tits.
 
“I'm not your son.”
 
He'd done it with women a few times when he was a kid. He could actually count
the women on one hand... literally. Only five of them. Of course, when he was a
kid, he couldn't do anything with his dick, so it had been all fingers and
tongue, but the women seemed to really like that. One of them had been
pregnant, and she let him suck her milk, which he woulda enjoyed more if she
hadn't been wanking herself at the same time. Fuck, he hadn't thought of that
in years... how old had he been then? Musta been young, because when she
stroked his dick it didn't do much of anything. It stood up, which she liked,
but he couldn't even remember if it tingled. At least she'd been gentle.
 
His first real time with a woman was when he and Teej ran away together. That
woman with all the good drugs had loved them. It started off when she caught
them blowing each other, and sat down to watch. So, when they'd finished,
Dexter showed Teej what to do to a woman's cunt, and she'd moaned and wriggled
so much that they both got hard again. Then Teej started licking her out, so
she let him go first, then she took Dexter. After he'd finished he was so
grateful that he went down on her again, until his whole face was sticky and
wet, and he was nearly, but not quite, hard. Which hurt, so he ignored it. Then
she wanted to see Teej fuck Dexter, and Teej said no. She actually laughed at
him, because Teej didn't just say no, he got upset and started crying, which
wasn't very manly. But Dexter got it, because he knew Teej was thinking about
the photographs. And he was glad, because he really didn't like getting fucked.
 
When Teej calmed down he said that he wouldn't fuck Dexter, ever, but that when
Dexter was hard, he could do him instead. That is if Dexter wanted. And at the
time Dexter was so wrung out that he said no. The woman was pleased with them
anyway, and promised to help them out if they'd help her out. She said they
were naturals, and she'd get them good jobs, and she'd fix them up with
whatever they wanted. Which sounded like a good idea at the time. So they got
stoned, and fell asleep. Later though, when they'd woken up, and she'd given
them some blow to get them in the mood, he got really hard again, just thinking
about it. He'd been putting his fingers up Teej's ass for a couple of weeks,
since they got here, and he knew Teej was ready for it, because he'd come
sometimes without even touching himself, just from having Dexter's fingers in
him. And, nobody had ever let Dexter fuck them up the ass before, so he really
wanted to know what all the fuss was about.
 
He couldn't remember the woman's name, but she was something else. She'd helped
him slick Teej up, and got real excited when Teej made noises. Then she'd
helped Dexter push his dick in. At first Dexter wanted to stop, because he was
scared he was hurting Teej, but she told him not to be such a pussy. And even
though Teej was crying he kept shoving his ass up, and telling him not to stop.
It was only after Dexter came that he realised he used to do the same thing,
and then the woman was laughing her head off, because Teej and Dexter were both
crying, and Dexter kept saying he was sorry, and she seemed to think it was the
funniest thing in the world.
 
It was okay though. He couldn't have hurt Teej that much, because he asked him
to do it again. Next time he did Teej that way, the woman was really inspired,
because she had Teej in her cunt at the same time Dexter was in his ass. Dexter
almost wanted to know what that felt like, to have so much going on at both
ends, 'cause it looked like Teej was dying. But he didn't want to know enough
that he'd let anyone back in his ass, so he just grunted and hefted on top of
Teej until all three of them had come. When they rolled Teej out from between
them he just lay there like a spent rag, and Dexter lay down beside him, with
his head on his shoulder, and fell asleep.
 
After that, the woman said Teej deserved to know what ass felt like, so she
slid herself down on his cock, then she opened her legs out and leant backward,
carefully positioning herself to let Dexter in. And that was just about the
best thing he'd ever felt, because he could feel Teej through the back wall of
her cunt, and he didn't know who he was fucking. She was so damned slippery
inside. He had her breasts pressed up against his chest, and her arms clenched
around him grasping his ass, but Teej had one hand in his hair. Dexter was
looking over her shoulder, and Teej was looking right back at him, and his eyes
weren't blue any more, they were black. And he looked like... looked like a
painted angel in the church, or a drunk slut, his lips pouty and red, like he
was a fucking whore who couldn't help putting out. He heard himself saying it,
and it sounded like his Dad, and he hated his voice for saying those words, but
every time Teej's cock nudged his and he felt themselves slide against each
other through the woman's slippery skin it felt like... he couldn't think of a
word. There wasn't a word for it, but when he came he thought he was gonna die.
 
The doctor was looking at him from across the desk, and she really did have
lovely tits.
 
“You're smiling,” she said. “What are you smiling at?”
 
“You,” he said. “You know, you're really sexy.”
 
“Young man,” she said, “that's not appropriate.”
 
“You sure? I'm really good at it. We could do it here...”
 
“Stop that now,” she said, but at least she said it kindly. “Now, if you
remember, I was asking you about the police. Why don't you trust them?”
 
He sat back. “'Cause I'm not a fucking moron.” He sulked for a moment, then
smiled. “Did I ever tell you I've done a few police men?” Of course, he hadn't
told her anything, but what the hell. She wanted to talk about sex, and he felt
like she deserved to be shocked.
 
“How old were you?”
 
“Er... dunno.”
 
“Do you remember any of their names?”
 
“Oh yeah, right.” He laughed. “Like they're gonna tell me their names.” He
scratched his head and yawned.
 
“Your friend's mother tells me that she and her husband informed the police
when you were nine, because they were worried about you. Do you remember
anything about that?”
 
“Oh, yeah. There was a cop with red hair. He fixed it for my father so the
whole thing went away.”
 
“Do you know why he did that?”
 
“I think he liked me,” Dexter shrugged. “I didn't like him much. Didn't like
any of them, but he wasn't the worst.”
 
“What did he do to you?”
 
“Nothing.”
 
“Nothing?”
 
“Nah, I did it to him. He let me use my hand.”
 
“And you were nine?”
 
“Musta been, if it's when Teej's Dad phoned the cops.”
 
“Do you remember why he called the cops?”
 
Dexter felt his mouth dry up, remembering what a fool he'd been. “I don't wanna
talk about it.”
 
“That's all right. What do you want to talk about?”
 
“Nothing. I'm done.”
 
And for the rest of the session he shut up, shut off his brain, and shut her
out entirely.
…
 
After another few weeks they let Teej visit. Supervised of course. Dexter was
angry, and didn't want to talk him at first, because it wasn't fair that they
let Teej out before they let him out.
 
“Who you gotta blow to get outta here,” he asked, eventually, not caring that
the social worker in the corner flinched.
 
“They just let me out because they thought I was getting better.”
 
“Yeah? You don't look better.” Actually, Teej looked pretty bad for someone who
was supposed to be getting better. He had black shadows under his eyes. “You
been getting any sleep?”
 
“Not much. You?”
 
“Oh, yeah. This place is great. They got more drugs than a whore house.” Teej
winced then, and Dexter kicked himself. “Hey, I'm sorry, I shouldn'ta said
that.” He reached over the table, and patted Teej's hand. Teej glanced
nervously at the social worker, but turned his hand over, caught Dexter's, and
squeezed. “What's going on,” Dexter asked, trying to be nice again.
 
“They got my blood results back,” Teej said. “I'm clear. I mean, I had to take
some antibiotics, but it's cleared up. And there's nothing... you know. Nothing
serious.”
 
“Yeah? Good.”
 
“You?”
 
“Yeah. I don't got Aids at least.” Which, when he thought about it, was a
miracle. “And I stopped taking antibiotics for the other stuff last week. So,
all clear.”
 
“Good...” Teej looked at their conjoined hands, and smiled. “We were lucky.”
 
“Right,” he said. “Lucky.” He lifted his other hand, and patted Teej's cheek.
Then, who cared what the social worker thought, he leant across and kissed
Teej, softly on the lips. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't wanna hurt you.”
 
“You didn't hurt me.”
 
“Liar. You think your Mom's ever gonna forgive me?” He didn't ask about Teej's
Dad, because he reckoned he already knew the answer.
 
“Yeah,” Teej said. “I mean, she's been told we shouldn't live in the same
house, and I think they're gonna put you in foster care. But... Mrs Murphy said
you could move in with her, if you help her with her chores. She's getting on a
bit, and she doesn't want to go into a home. So, you know. Maybe we'll be
lucky.” Teej didn't sound like he believed it, and Dexter didn't either, but it
was a nice daydream.
 
“Mrs Murphy trusts me?”
 
“We all trust you,” Teej said, valiantly.
 
“What does Mrs Murphy know about all this anyway?” Dexter couldn't believe that
the poor old lady would trust him if she knew.
 
“She knows that you were raped,” Teej said, tightly, and Dexter gasped, and sat
back. He'd never even thought that word about himself. “It's true, Dex,” Teej
continued, squeezing his hand. “Like I said, it wasn't your fault.”
 
“We weren't being raped when we ran off together,” Dexter pointed out. Teej
glanced again at the social worker, and lowered his voice.
 
“No,” he said. “We were being groomed as whores.”
 
Dexter let go of Teej's hand, and covered his face. He... he'd known that. Or
he would have done, if he'd ever allowed himself to think. Shit. He'd let it
happen. Not only that, he'd let it happen to his friend. “Fuck,” he said,
“sorry.”
 
“Dex,” Teej continued, carefully, “I'm really sorry, but they got other
pictures of us...”
 
“What, from my Dad's place?”
 
“No. All that stuff with Estelle. And, er, what we did to each other. You know.
When she watched.”
 
That was her name. Estelle. Like it mattered. “You're... you're kidding.”
 
“No. And,” Teej looked sick. “Apparently, they were filming us.”
 
“Oh. God. Just shoot me now.”
 
“It's all right, everyone's been arrested. But...”
 
“But what?” He wasn't sure how this could get worse, but he knew, from
experience, that it could.
 
“But, we're gonna have to testify.”
 
“I'm not doing that.” Dexter scraped his chair back, but didn't stand. “I'm
just not gonna stand up in a room full of strangers and tell them that
stuff...”
 
“We don't have to. It'll be like a private interview, and when they show the
video in court they'll block out our faces...”
 
“Oh, God.” Dexter bent over his knees and wrapped his arms over his head. “I
wanna die.”
 
“I'm sorry... I'm really sorry. It'll be all right.”
 
“Don't tell me it's gonna be all right. I'm too old to lie to.”
 
“Time's up,” said the social worker.
 
“Please,” Teej slid his hands across the table, grasped Dexter's sleeve. “Just
five more minutes?”
 
The social worker looked very sympathetic, but shook her head. “No, I'm sorry.
We're gonna need the room.”
…
 
Eventually, of course, they did let Dexter out. He'd completely missed
graduation, but that was okay. He would never have passed his exams anyway. He
was sad about Teej though. He woulda gone to college, if it wasn't for him.
 
Foster care wasn't so bad. The couple who were fostering him didn't bother him
too much, though they did make him take an antidepressant every morning, which
he hated, and a sleeping tablet at night, which he liked. He was allowed to see
Teej, although his Mom was always in the room these days. Dexter called her Mrs
Burke the first time he saw her again, and she looked like she'd been slapped.
Then she kissed his cheek, and said, “Mom. Don't ever forget that,” and he
hugged her, and Teej cried, and left the room for a minute.
 
It wasn't so bad, not really. And Teej said that when the snow came his Mom was
even going to allow them to go skiing together, so long as they could find
someone to keep an eye on them.
 
And even though the court thing was awful, and he hated all the counselling and
shit, and even though people did whisper behind their hands, he could just
about stand it. Because, in the end, he and Teej had survived.
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 weak. Damian wants him to know it; he’s alive only because
Damiandesires it.
Because Grayson is....
Grayson is.
Damian then turns and leaves.
 
Damian retires to bed that night, Grayson's furious expression on his mind.
Even better, the thrum of victory along with it. He had rejected Grayson who’d
come chasing after him . Sparks fly up his spine, adding to the low level of
arousal he’s been feeling ever since the moment he’d entered and spilled inside
of Grayson. The hunger he’s been unable to appease.
Grayson would look good like that, seething, tied down to a chair, wrists to
the armrests, ankles to the legs. He could take his time with Grayson.
Tease him until he was begging.
Damian would leave him there, blindfolded, keeping his touches light, just
enough that Grayson was aroused, hard, and fuming. Then leave him. The moment
his arousal flagged, Damian would return him to that same state of limbo.
Let his fingers trail everywhere except where Grayson desired it most.
Until his need overcame his pride, and he begged.
Damian would have him understand that the only person, thought, feeling he was
allowed to receive pleasure from was Damian, and only when Damian chose to give
it.
Grayson would come when Damian whispered it — an order to be obeyed — into his
ear, his body shuddering at the sensation and his moans broken at the
intensity.
“You belong to me,” Damian whispers in his ear.
Grayson shudders in response, body jerking in pleasure as it should in response
to Damian’s voice. He comes, and Damian watches him unravel for him.
Damian shudders, gasping, mouth slack at the image, but groans in irritation a
moment later.
It’s still not nearly enough.
He needs more to push himself over the edge, and Damian flips between multiple
fantasies.
Grayson begging for forgiveness.
Grayson fully nude and jerking himself off desperately, shame-faced while
calling out Damian’s name reverently.
Grayson on his knees, face pressed against the ground, drooling against a gag
and his hips raised in the air for Damian like a dog.
Grayson blindfolded, a toy shoved down his throat for him to suck, muffling his
moans, arms tied behind his back, forearm to forearm, and legs twisting in the
sheets at the vibrator kept inside him with a harness around his hips.
Grayson’s smile and the heat of his hand on his shoulder.
Damian comes hard at the final thought, gasping and curling his toes.
 
When Damian enters the dining hall, his mother is sitting at the other end,
Damian’s plate placed to her left, unlike his usual place to her right. Damian
carefully folds away any emotions, including frustration at the fact that she
continues to test him even after more than a week. He wonders what she would do
if he did fail, but Damian has no intention of finding out anyhow.
Damian greets Talia first with a kiss on the cheek and then takes his place,
setting down a wrapped object by his seat, without any show of displeasure or
surprise and glances at Shrike who’s standing by the wall behind Damian.
Still here. The man really had no life.
He slides his chair in, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap.
He looks down as he does so, and it’s a fact he notices even more so with
Mother; his feet don’t touch the ground. It makes his skin crawl as he tenses
but bears with it, recalling how even with Pennyworth’s reign over the manor,
more often than not, he’d eat sitting on kitchen counters and rooftops with
Grayson where it didn’t matter.
Damian smoothes out the napkin twice.
“Have the food brought in, Shrike,” Talia says, her voice rich and smooth.
Shrike nods and moves across the floor to the kitchen door and only leans in to
request it, then he returns to his positions, standing stiff, but obviously
bored and irritated.
The servants enter carrying the food on silver platters, and Damian begins
saying, “I brought you your gift, mother.”
He releases his hold on the napkin to offer it to her stoically, wondering
again what she had felt when she had heard her Beloved was dead. If perhaps she
had listened to anything Drake believed. Damian can’t imagine his mother
desperate. Al Ghul's don’t show weakness.
She pauses and smiles, taking it. “Damian...you never to remember fail each
year.”
It’s been their custom, since Damian could paint, for Damian to gift her with a
portrait each year, usually on her birthday. It’s not her birthday today, but
it had felt appropriate to present it to her today.
She’s pleased, and then they tuck into their dinner, sunflower seed soup for
starters.
Talia questions him about his opinion on the potential of new members of the
League, ones that had earned their acceptance by being able to land a hit on
their examiner. The more showy ones preferred to attempt to kill their
examiners.
The most recent recruits had been acceptable, ripe with raw power, but they had
lacked any fluidity or grace. The kind that the most proficient assassins held.
Three had passed among the ten. Damian had no doubt the three would all
eventually be killed either by their targets or by another member of the
League.
Mother agrees with him even as she asks, “And I assume you’ve heard of our
negotiations with Queen Bee?”
Damian nods, licking the last of the soup from his spoon. “You’re using her to
deal with the government in North Korea and to test Luthor’s safeguards against
psionics.”
Talia nods even as she waved at Shrike for the next course.
“Luthor can be reasoned with so long as Superman is not involved, but
nonetheless, his arrogance and ambition are still concerning.”
The tea leaf salad was served as Damian replies, “He has a concerning lack of
rationality in regards to Superman.”
“Yes, well,” Talia smiles, even as she lifts her fork to her mouth, red lips
curved, “we all have our weaknesses. It is only a question of whether you’ll
let them be used against you.”
Damian nods in agreement, the conversation switching to assignments for the
assassins.
When the main comes, Damian stares down at the meat, pausing in his retort to
physical enhancement drugs. He hadn’t thought to mention it to Mother. The last
and only time they had had dinner together after Damian had returned, there had
only been egg for protein.
His mother turns to him, raising an eyebrow, “Is there something wrong with the
quail, Damian?”
Damian stares at the remnants of the little bird on his plate before shaking
his head and reaching for his fork to peel off the tender meat. It’s juices
flow into his mouth, nearly melting on his tongue when he bites in and forces
himself to swallow.
Damian tells himself he enjoys it. And he does.
 
Damian spends several more weeks working missions for Mother, training with the
assassins, though he notices there is agitation among them. Grandfather is
noticeably absent, a squad with him, and Damian recognizes that it’s most
likely him that’s causing the unrest. He is planning something, but Damian
forgets it all in a split second when he hears the whispers.
The moment he’s terrorizes the information out of a member of the League,
Damian’s boots are slamming down on the stone floor until he reaches the
meeting room door and kicks it down. He strides in. Mother and Wilson, standing
by the conference table, turn to glance at him.
Mother frowns disapprovingly even as she gather her tablet and stylus in hand.
“Excuse me, Deathstroke. It seems my son’s forgotten his manners.”
Wilson only bares his teeth in a grin. “No worries, Talia. Actually...I’ve been
meaning to have a little tête-à-tête with your kid here.”
Talia raises an eyebrow at him before shaking her head and pushing her seat in.
“I suppose it was only to be expected. I expect you both to behave cordially.”
She gives Damian a final look before she leaves, the door slamming shut.
“Hmm...” Wilson says slowly, hands free at his sides. “You’re still mad, aren’t
you? About Grayson.”
Damian doesn’t respond, just clenches his fists.
“It was a job, kid,” Wilson snorts. He leans against the wall, but his one eye
tracks Damian carefully. “I do what I have to do to get it done. And don’t tell
me you didn’t like it. For a fucking toddler, you have one stiff hard-on for
Grayson.”
“I don’t, Cyclops.” Damian replies, words low and controlled.
Wilson snorts, shrugging his shoulders loosely. “You do. Because that’s how you
are. You like hurting people, and Grayson is the kind of masochist that’d
gladly get hurt for family. Me? I just do it for money, but you smile when you
kill, the little bloody demon in the League. Grayson would run from you if he’d
seen it.”
Shut up.
Wilson’s smirking, his tone a drawl. “He thinks you’re sweet and misguided when
you’d tie him down and fuck him until he fainted if you could.”
Shut up.
When Damian’s finished with everything he has planned for Wilson, he will take
his time with him. He will torture him. Use his healing ability to its utmost.
He’ll start with his eye. Then he’ll sink a dagger into his eardrums, take away
his balance. He'll-
“Treating you like you’re some little kid to be protected... that’s fucking
funny. You’re just lucky he has a soft enough heart to care about you the way
you are now.”
“Don’t you dare speak of Grayson. You know nothing.” The words shoot out, harsh
and sharp. He has to work not to shake, has to calm the bloodlust in his chest,
calling out for Wilson’s terrified screams. He only requires to wound Wilson
once and then everything can begin. Outside of that, Damian reminds himself, he
won’t go any further. To do so would say that he needs to prove himself and he
doesn’t.
Wilson raises his eyebrows, “Kid. I’ve been fighting him before you were born.
Before your mom even got it into her pretty little head to fuck daddy bats.”
“Then it’s pathetic that your observation skills have earned you nothing,”
Damian sneers.
Wilson jerks his head, smirking, “Me? I’ve noticed enough. You want to possess
Grayson, and you have no understanding of what that desire even means, kiddo.”
“You mean desire.” Damian’s lip curls. “I think you underestimate me, Wilson.
Do you think because of my youth, I’m blind? Grayson is...exquisite. I’ll admit
I was blinded by the fact, ignoring that he was weak. But lust is just that.”
“Weak?” Wilson leans forward incredulously, a twitch in his lips. He sounds
genuinely surprised, if not amused. “Grayson’s an idiot, but he isn’t weak. He
knows loyalty, and he’s tenacious. The one who’s weak here is you. Running away
to mommy the second you’re scared big brother doesn’t like you anymore.”
There’s a dull ache in Damian’s arm, and Wilson is suddenly a lot closer.
Damian realizes he had used the table as a stepping stone, slamming his fist
into Wilson’s blindspot without thinking. The wall shakes, cracks spreading. He
can feel the blood thundering through his veins.
Damian says, low, high on adrenaline, “You may have made me realize that I am
better off without him, but let me make this clear, Wilson. I will kill you
once your contract with the League is finished. But before, unless you would
like to change your name to Polyphemus, I suggest you learn to bite back you
inanities.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Wilson folds his arms. “That it’s not because
you’re scared he hates you? That it’s because you think nothing of him? Lemme
tell you kid, wow, Talia really fucked you up.”
Damian snarled. “And how have your children been, Wilson? Ah. I’d forgotten.
You wouldn’t know because even your children can’t stand you. Perhaps it’s your
taste that scared them off. You do know it’s not Halloween, don’t you?.”
Wilson lashes out with his sword, the metal blade glinting where Damian’s
midsection had been.
Damian laughs from across the room. “No wonder you’re so obsessed with money.
You have nothing else. You’d do any demeaning job for money, wouldn’t you?”
“Working for money is demeaning? Says the kid who’s never earned a fucking
thing in his life,” Wilson shoots back, tone cold even as he advances.
“I’ve earned everything I have,” Damian snarls, circling the room as Wilson
matches his pace.
“What do you have, huh, kiddo? You don’t have a single thing.”
“I have my mother, my abilities, my destiny. Better than a pathetic scrounger
as you.”
Wilson laughs. “Your mother? She watched you rape Grayson with no emotion on
her face. She doesn’t care about you. She wants to use you. The only one who
might not want to use you is Grayson, but you’ve burned that bridge, haven’t
you?”
Damian places a hand on the back of chair, squeezing down as he forgets words.
They’ve never been of any use to him. He pushes himself up, flying through the
air as he runs down the length of the table, blade held at his side.
Their swords clash, Wilson leaping back as Damian rushes forward, ducking down
low to slice at his legs. Wilson leaps up, bringing his sword up and down,
aiming for Damian’s spine. It’s obviously a move meant to taunt him.
Damian sinks down lower, holding his sword up over his head, Wilson pressing
down, heavier and stronger. Damian lets his sword slide against Wilson’s and
arc around to slice along the man’s bicep. It isn’t particularly deep, but it’s
first blood, and it’s more than enough. At that same moment, Wilson brings his
knee up, slamming it into Damian’s chest.
Damian lets the blow force him back as he regains his balance, and—
Talia walks into the room, slamming the door open.
“I expected better from the both of you.”
Her eyes drag over the two of them, both panting. They don’t take their eyes
off of each other.
“Deathstroke, leave.”
Wilson straightens up after a moment, cracking his neck lazily, but he doesn’t
put his sword away. “Calm down, Talia. Just a friendly match.”
“I don’t take well to being lied to, Slade,” she replies coldly. She moves to
the wall beside the door, waiting.
“Alright, alright. I have to go stakeout my target anyway.” Wilson walks
forward, and Damian tracks him with his eyes before Wilson stops right beside
Damian.
Wilson pauses to say, low and quiet, inaudible to Talia, “By the way, I heard
Ra’s little pet Detective’s been making some progress. Maybe your daddy isn’t
dead after all.”
Damian stiffens, and he can’t help the way he leans in, waiting for more.
Wilson grins at that, baring his teeth even as he slinks away. “You’re still a
child after all, Damian. Looks like your mother didn’t crush that out of you
yet.”
He sheaths his sword and laughs as he walks out, rubbing his already healing
wound.
The moment he’s out of hearing range, Talia calls out sharply, “Damian.”
Damian turns slowly, lazily, chin held up. “Mother.”
“Put your sword away.”
Damian does after a long pause.
She looks him in the eyes, reading his expression as her lips press into a thin
line. “Deathstroke is still of use to us. I don’t care for whatever petty
quarrel over a circus boy you have with him.”
Damian nods sharply in response, already drifting.
He licks his bloodied lips, tasting the iron and salt driving his heartbeat,
drowning out her voice. Wilson’s wound had already been healing. It meant the
nanites that Damian had placed on his sword’s blade will have no chance of
being wiped away.
 
“Grandfather.” Damian enters the room and and closes the door silently behind
him.
“Damian.” Ra’s glances down at Damian out of the corner of his eye even as he
continues surveying the assassins in the training grounds. They’re in his
study, oak book cases lining the wall, the room covered in rich, woolen
tapestries and rugs.
He always watches them train when he is at the mountain base. Usually in the
afternoon when the sun is at its highest.
It's only now that Damian's discovered what he's been planning after weeks of
research.
Damian walks up to Ra’s back, keeping a distance of a few feet.
“Your plans for Gotham.” The haughty expectancy in his tone is easy to draw up
as always. It borders on a demand.
Ra’s doesn’t reveal anything in his body language as he slowly turns to Damian,
his lined face impassive. “Are you planning on interfering?”
“Why did you not involve me in it?”
“Why would I have?” The man only replies with lazy disinterest.
“I understand Gotham better than anyone else you could possibly have assisting
you. Moreover, it was my father’s city.” And whatever feelings Father may have
had for it, Damian knew that it was just part of what would he his in the
future. It is his, and Ra’s who is involved in so many other schemes that he'd
even bother with small city like Gotham is blatant interference.
Ra’s stares cooly back at Damian before he presses his lips into a thin line.
“Sentimentality will do no one any good.”
“It is not sentimentality, Grandfather. It is an understanding of my
territory.”
Ra’s tilts his head, a faint smile on his thin lips. “And you consider...Gotham
your territory?”
“I do,” Damian replies stoutly.
“Then why on earth is it still filled with rotten scum whose lives should have
been ended years ago, Damian?” Ra’s leans in, sneering. “Tell me, it isn’t
sentimentality that you didn’t end pathetic creatures like the Joker or Harvey
Dent. The city is running rampant with vermin. Listening to Batman’s rules...
it’s obvious that you’ve grown soft. No....” Ra’s eyes him. “You were always
soft, and nothing I did was capable of crushing that out of you.” He
straightens his back and holds his head high with a cool glance at him and then
away at the assassins again.
Damian swallows, trying not to tremble. His breath quickens, heart thudding out
of his chest. It's...it's difficult to hear over the blooding pounding through
his ears. The soft tone of contempt is a familiar one, one that’s led to the
things Damian...Damian had needed to experience to grow. Over and over, Damian
forced into things he feared to become stronger. He is stronger now. He can
fight Grandfather. His abilities are nearly on par with man, and he has youth.
He shouldn’t be so afraid then.
He shouldn’t be afraid.
It isn’t fear at all, Damian reminds himself, it’s anger that has him
trembling, never fear.
“My plans concerning Gotham will not involve you.”
“Even when you’re using Drake—” Damian clamps his mouth shut too late as he
stares up at Ra’s with wide eyes. He has to work not to shake, does it by
clenching his jaw and fists, tensing his body and then relaxing, and it takes a
moment before he fully regains his composure, but he already knows it’s too
late. Ra’s will have spotted it by then. The weakness in Damian. When Damian
dares to meet Ra’s eyes again, the man’s expression is only one of resigned
disdain when he looks at Damian. He doesn’t even bother to hide it.
When Damian breathes in, eyes-wide, he tries and fails to feel worthy. He turns
tail and leaves the room as quickly as possible.
 
Grayson returns, breaks into the League of Assassins’ base like it’s a sane
decision that anyone would make. And Damian’s almost unreasonably pleased by
it, the thought that Grayson would return for him. It's an emotion matched with
the anger at the hope it draws out. It isn’t an ambivalent thought that he’s
amused that even the League can be so pathetic as to allow an intruder to enter
their midst without injury. Grandfather should have trained them better.
Damian’s alerted to Grayson’s presence before he opens his eyes even as he
keeps his breathing steady. There’s the sound of Grayson moving around the
room.
When he does opens his eyes, it’s to Grayson crouched over his bed.
His first words are a wry quip. “What? No pets? I was honestly expecting a
zoo.”
“I have a League of Assassins. They are adequate pets,” is Damian’s short
response.
Grayson nods with a quirk to his lips, and Damian can see him scanning the room
still as he says, “A bit plain. Could use a Batman plush or two. Maybe some
actual personality in it too.”
“I find it more than acceptable as it is,” Damian replies coldly. His eyes
flicker over Grayson’s face while he’s distracted. Which Batman does he mean?
When Grayson turns back to Damian, he loosens his fist and he’s holding bugs in
his hand out to Damian as if Damian hadn’t known they were there.
“You could’ve helped me take them out,” Grayson says. He’s not wearing the
Batman suit this time. He’s wearing something else — what he’d worn before he
took Father’s name: Nightwing. He doesn’t consider himself Batman. So then he
meant Father.
Damian ignored the turmoil of emotions inside that cropped up at the thought of
if Grayson didn’t like being Batman then what did it mean for Damian who had
been his Robin.
“You had it handled,” Damian drawls, sitting up slightly to lean back on his
arms, letting his elbows lock. The last time he had been on the same bed as
Grayson... he can’t help the way his eyes trail down to Grayson’s spread
thighs, to the faint bulge in his suit. It’s easier to think of that, think of
the proof he was given that he could have Grayson if only physically.
“Damian,” Grayson says harshly when he sees where Damian is looking.
Damian only lazily draws his head back up to narrow his eyes at Grayson. “Why
are you here, Grayson?”
“Do you want to stay here, Damian?”
“Yes.” Damian doesn’t hesitate, still drawing some pleasure from the shock
Grayson can’t hide. He won’t settle for being a replacement.
“Why?”
“I explained it to you before. Gotham was not the right environment for me to
achieve the goals I desire.”
“What goals Damian?” Grayson asks almost harshly. The backlight of the moon,
harshens his sharp features and makes the man seem ethereal. He’s striking.
Damian has spent hours with a pencil and paper, paints and a canvas, following
in the footsteps of his betters in capturing beauty, but Grayson’s existence
easily outstrips any of his efforts. He thinks he’d like to capture the line of
his face, the faint frown on his full lips, and the furrow of his brow. He
really would enjoy that.
Damian kicks at Grayson ankle without preamble, unbalancing him and then grabs
his collar flipping them so that Grayson is underneath him, Damian kneeling
above him, knees bracketing his hips. “Wouldn’t you like to know? You who has
no ambition besides trailing—”
“Stop bringing Bruce into this. This is between you and me.” He’s looking
straight up at Damian, body relaxed. He’s too trusting. Damian’s heart skips a
beat.
“Father’s involved, isn’t he? You follow his ideals the same way. You say you
trust me, but because Father believes it, you believe I’m another irredeemable
killer,” Damian sneers, leering at Grayson.
“Bruce has nothing to do with this. I tru—”
“You would’ve trusted me then,” Damian hisses, eyes burning. In a matter of
seconds with only a few words, Damian’s losing all composure, all sense of
reason as to why he shouldn’t show Grayson everything he’s caused. Everything
he’s at fault for for doing to Damian. “You wouldn’t have turned your back on
me. I stayed for a week, waiting. An entire week.” His voice breaks, turning
too quiet as he tries to control his tone, blinking quickly. Damian had barely
spoken to Grayson or Pennyworth the entire week, a ghost in the mansion, just
waiting like a docile pet for a glance or a smile from Grayson to acknowledge
his existence and yet there had been nothing. Erased from Grayson’s life so
easily.
Grayson had ignored him for an entire week.
Damian can't possibly convey the humiliation he had gone through hour after
hour of waiting in that dusty mansion.
"I just wanted," Damian begins to whisper, "you to..." He catches himself in
time.
Damian manages to add a sneer in his next words, the resentment coming easily.
“Do you recall your behavior? You’re the same as Father, as the rest of them,
just waiting for me to break one of your sanctimonious rules.”
“Damian, I woke up drugged and you—” Grayson takes a shaky breath in, “Damian I
needed time. I can’t work off of faith alone. I was still reeling from it for
that week, enough that I couldn’t think straight enough to look into it, and it
doesn’t matter whether you chose to or not. I was hurt—”
“You’re blaming me—”
“No. Sometimes things happen that aren’t anyone’s fault, and people still get
hurt. What I mean is that there doesn’t need to be blame for there to be hurt.
I didn’t know what was going on at the time, just that you freaked me out and I
was hurt. Enough that I didn't act how I would've if I was clear-headed. I
wasn’t— I wasn’t blaming you Damian. You’re a victim here too—”
Grayson’s voice drowns out, and it dawns on Damian that Grayson may have been
blaming himself.
“Did you like it?” Damian asks, low, yanking him foward. Grayson doesn’t
resist.
“Wha— no, Damian—”
“Did you want it to be Father?”
“No—”
“Then why did you blame yourself?” Damian asks, a hint of mocking and
incredulity at the thought in his tone. “Don’t tell me it was because you
really believed you taught me to force myself on people or encouraged it? Or
that perhaps you seduced me? Tried to groom me to want you?”
Grayson’s pale in the moonlight, and he’s even slimmer than before, Damian’s
certain he hasn’t been eating or sleeping. He just wants to know why. For who.
If it’s him or if its because he no longer has a distraction to keep the
thoughts of Father’s death away. If he no longer has a replacement to fool
himself.
“I...I came...Damian.” Grayson whispers it with defeat in his voice. “That’s
pretty fucking damning in and of itself. I— I....didn’t stop you. You’re
eleven. I’m the adult; I’m the one who’s supposed to make sure that you don’t
do these kinds of things. I thought I must’ve...”
“You couldn’t,” Damian says, staring at Grayson’s pale face and the sheen of
sweat on his skin. “Stop me.”
That he’s thinking those thoughts...Grayson is inefficient, too soft for all
his intelligence, experience and skill. And the last two words linger on his
lips. He’s too much like his mother; he’s been trained too well to enjoy power
over others. Grayson leans in and Damian thinks about his breathing hitched.
Damian recalls the feeling of being inside Grayson, and there are some days
here his mind is so utterly distracted by the thought, the memory of the tight
heat clenching around him. He wants it too badly, craves the heat of fucking
Grayson as much as he wants and the high of climaxing until Damian collapses
with satisfaction. He wants to hold Grayson so close to him that his skin seems
to burn from the heat, feel each sweet, gasping breath Grayson takes press
against his own chest. Damian wants to press his face into Grayson’s chest and
be surrounded by him, breathing in his scent, Grayson's arms holding him tight
to hurt, and dig his nails into Grayson’s skin until he’s marked irrevocably.
So that Grayson knows.
He isn’t allowed to ignore Damian.
“I should’ve,” Grayson continues quietly in the silence. He looks away from
Damian, and the fact shouldn’t send Damian’s mind into turmoil as it does.
He sees it now.
It hits Damian, taking the breath from his lungs in a painful impact; even if
he’d understood it before, now he feels it: Grayson is here for Damian
partially because he genuinely cares, but partially because he can’t stand the
guilt that he engaged in such an act with Damian, the child, his little
brother. Grayson wants to get rid of the guilt, wants to forget that it ever
happened and continue playing the happy siblings because that is what he
believes everything should be. Father’s existence plays a factor, but Grayson
is caught up in ideals.
“Da—”
Damian’s phones rings by his bedside, and it’s still the ringtone Grayson had
set it too, grinning smugly as he’d sat beside Damian on his bed in Wayne
manor. He’d insisted that Damian keep Bob Marley as his ringtone.
His phone sings: “Cause every little thing’s gonna be alright...”
Still hovering about Grayson, Damian picks up the phone, typing in the code and
swiping the lock to glance cooly at the text. It’s from an unknown number, but
Damian knows it’s from Wilson. Damian doesn’t even bother watching the phone
and Grayson at the same time. He doubts the man will do anything.
He reads it.
Turns out Daddy is lost in time. Wonder what Grayson will do.
Damian’s blood turns cold. His entire body stills, and his throat and chest
constrict. This is what he should have expected. He’s had enough already, and
if... if Grayson’s here to appease Father, if he’s here trying to make himself
look good for Father when he returns by bringing back his foolish, demented
son, then...
“Leave,” Damian says, his voice trembling.
Grayson’s eyes are wide, and Damian can see the conflict in his eyes as he
reaches out to touch Damian’s cheek. It’s light and gentle as his fingers trail
down the curve of Damian’s cheek, and the sorrow is clear on his mesmerizing
features.
Usually he’s free with his touches, but the entire time, he’s been careful to
avoid any physical contact with Damian.
Damian smacks Grayson’s hand away. He says quietly, “I don’t need you. I don’t
need you and your naive ideals. I like killing, Grayson, and I liked raping
you.”
It’s enough to make Grayson stiffen, but he doesn’t leave yet. He doesn’t try
to touch Damian again. He only says, “I watched the videos, Damian. And I
really don’t think you did. You’re not like them. You’re something good.”
Damian snarls. “I am good, Grayson. I don’t need your reassurances. My morals
are the corre—”
“Why do have to think that being vulnerable is bad?” Grayson says. “It’s the
only way you can get closer to people. It’s the most exhilarating part of being
alive, Damian. When you’re vulnerable, and someone...someone accepts you no
matter what.”
Damian narrows his eyes, and then he leans in close, one hand grabbing
Grayson’s suit to pull him up. They hold stares for a moment before Damian
tilts his head back consideringly and then lunges forward too quickly for
Grayson to react as Damian bends down to sink his teeth into the side of
Grayson’s neck. He manages to draw blood before Grayson knocks him away, hand
covering his bleeding neck.
Damian goes willingly, having no desire to tear a chunk of flesh off the man.
Damian only leans back, tilted his head as he stretches his jaw impassively,
eyes on Grayson.
It will scar, and Damian likes the thought of his leaving his own permanent
mark on him. 
Grayson shakes his head, expression filled with confusion and outrage as he
wipes his mouth, saying, “I— Fuck. Damian. I’m— I’m not some pet for you to— to
mark. Using force isn’t right in this situation. Even if you’re angry. Forcing
people... the point of anything is that it’s mutual. Because you both care. And
I care about you.” His eyes are wary though. He’s watching Damian with a
careful intensity, his hand still over his throat.
Grayson says that as the man who beats up criminals to get them to do what he
wants as a hobby.
Damian licks his lips and doesn’t reply.
Grayson looks up and says, “I... I have to get back to Gotham now, but think
about it, Damian. Gotham’s your home. Alfred misses you.” He pushes himself up
and moves to the balcony, turning back with a wry smile. He holds Damian's eyes
for a long moment as if trying to communicate something. Then he leaps onto the
railing and then off, arms spread wide as if to embrace the sky. Damian only
wonders how deeply Grayson can feel the sting on the wound and what kind of
scar it will leave.
Damian watches the place on the balcony where Grayson was for a moment longer
before he runs his fingers across his lips. He can still feel the ghost of heat
across his lips, the smooth skin. His mouth tastes like iron. Damian licks his
lips.
Grayson is too naive. Damian only grants that it’s to his extraordinary
abilities that he’s managed to survive so long with that naivete.
No, not weak, Damian corrects and admits his wording had been wrong. He’ll give
that to Wilson.
Just a fool.
 
Talia has made sure to make more time for Damian recently. She eats meals with
him, spars with him, goes on walks with him, converses with him on different
topics, though more than conversation, it feels like an interrogation either of
motives or knowledge when he speaks with her.
It doesn’t change the comfort it brings him to interact with her.
However, Damian is unsure of whether it as something to do with Grandfather’s
plans regarding Gotham or whether Talia herself is planning something. He knows
she’s been stirring unrest in radical political groups in South America along
with her activity with Queen Bee and Luthor, but he’s uncertain of what else
she has kept hidden.
Nonetheless, Damian has noted that she has been more open in their
conversations now. As if she sees him as an equal now.  It includes her
relationship with Grandfather, her own mother, her plans for Damian, the person
he must become, and...Batman as well.
Talia broaches the topic of Father more often now.
It’s Father, and... Damian still craves to better understand him. He allows the
desire because he knows it will be useful one day when he will have to fight
against Batman for everything he’s worked for. For when one day, he and Batman
are facing each other.
If Drake, for all his incompetency, somehow manages to bring him back.
“Should I tell you about your father?” Talia says today, over dinner, her voice
gentle and rich. “It seems as though he’ll return soon. Your grandfather seems
to be convinced from what he’s discovered while working Timothy.”
She drops the comment of Father’s non-death while watching Damian’s reaction
with amusement.
Damian narrows his eyes. “I am aware. If you would like to Mother. If speaking
of Father would please you.”
“I want to tell you of why I chose him.” Talia pauses, sipping her wine. “I’d
told you before we’d met when your Father was still journeying across the lands
to become stronger. Your grandfather liked him for his intelligence and
ruthless practicality...” Talia muses, “but that wasn’t what had drawn me to
him. Bruce was...is a man who will go to great lengths to achieve what he
wants, and he has to have a clear understanding of people to be able to do so.
He does...he is compassionate...to a fault. What drew me towards him was not
only that, but his ability to use that compassion. He’s capable of seeing not
only others but himself as well as nothing but tools, well enough to take them
apart and see how they function. And with that, he understands how to utterly
obliterate him opponents. It is truly pity you never saw him before he was so
inhibited.” She smiles fondly at the memory.
"He is ruthless because he is kind. I've always enjoyed the paradox of people,
and that is epitomized to it's utmost in your father. His intelligence and
capabilities and morality are that of the ideal man, the kind of man that all
should strive to be like."
Then Talia puts her silverware down to look at Damian, expression serious.
“Your father is the only one who’s ever been worthy. You have to understand,
Damian, no one else can compare to him. That is,” she smiles, “until now. When
you are older, you must be able to utterly destroy him.”
Damian continues with his food, cutting at the steak and lowering his eyes as
he places it in his mouth. He chews and swallows when Talia speaks again.
“Do you remember,  my son, that you had requested the removal of assassins and
nanites from Richard?”
“Yes,” Damian replies.
“I assume, after your first meeting, you know he had had Victor Stone remove
them for him himself...the assassins were placed elsewhere after a month. And
after your second, I realized...” Talia begins, smoothly, placing a hand on his
shoulder. She hadn’t brought it up before now, but Damian knew she had known.
“I realized. You are still young. I do not mean to deny the fact of your power
or intelligence due to your youth, but I recognized that while you may
understand what it is you want, you don’t quite yet understand the proper way
to achieve it.”
“What do you mean, Mother?” Damian asks, wary.
She hands him the tablet that had been lying on the table and reaches over to
tangle her left hand with his right. He allows it as he uses his left to accept
it and open it to see a dark room with a nude figure lying on his side,
sleeping. The scabbed teeth marks on his neck are clearly visible. It’s...
It’s Grayson.
“What is..the meaning of this, Mother?”
Talia strokes his shoulder, “Beloved, it is what you wanted. I believe it was a
mistake to separate you and him now. If both your Father and you see something
in him, then surely, he has something of value to offer. Circus trash,
certainly, but I told you I would give you the world. And he is a part of it,
part of everything that is and will be yours.”
Damian doesn’t dare to say a word, controls his breathing carefully, trying to
understand what he’s feeling.
“Do you like it?” She’s watching him.
Damian presses his lips together, aware his mother can’t see his face from her
angle, and replies, “...yes...I do. Very much.”
The sight of Grayson stirs up something in Damian’s body. Damian is nearly
dizzy with the emotion. This is...Grayson is a fool. A pathetic, pitiful,
beautiful fool. He had likely not even made it out of the compound before
Mother had gotten her hands on him. Grayson had been naive enough to believe he
could come into the League and leave unscathed. Damian had been fooled by
Grayson’s faith and naivete as well.
Damian turns toward Talia. “Thank you, Mother.”
Her red lips curves as she places a hand on his shoulder. “Consider it a thank
you, for all the paintings you’ve given me over the years.” She let her
fingertips trail his shoulder before completely breaking contact.
“Enjoy yourself, my son.”
“I will.”
 
Grayson is there, simply there, and Damian is...admittedly uncertain for once.
Knowing the fact that this is an event backed by his mother, and also therefore
the League, it’s certain: Grayson is Damian’s.
Grayson is already in their grasp, and unless someone is particularly
incompetent, then there is no chance Grayson will ever be able to escape. As
this is Damian’s home now, so will it also be Grayson’s until the day he dies.
Damian meticulously reviews the cameras at randomized intervals, ensuring that
the space between each is never more than an hour. Mother may have other plans
beside what she had told Damian, but so far, she seems to have been telling the
entire truth.
It’s a pleasing thought that Grayson is there at Damian’s disposal. If Grayson
is there...then...he won’t be touched. He won’t be harmed by some fool in
Gotham and won’t risk his life to protect some weak, pathetic person who’s
unworthy of him.
Damian watches him every night before falling asleep, listening to his deep
breathing through his headphones, fingers flicking over the tablet’s screen to
more examine each part of Grayson. Most times, he lingers on Grayson’s hands or
his thighs or ankles, recalling how Grayson would on occasion ruffle Damian’s
hair, how that night, Damian had marked his hands on Grayson’s lithe thighs and
hips, trapped him, pulling the vulnerable man towards him solely by his slim
ankle, Grayson’s attempts to escape weak and endearing. His breathy moans.
He lingers now on the curve of Grayson’s ass, recalling how his cheeks had
looked spread and the way his hole looked stretched around his cock, the heady
way it had looked when Damian had pulled all the way out, panting, a thin line
of precrum connecting Grayson’s swollen hole to the tip of Damian’s cock just
before he slammed back in, watching the way his hole spread wider with each
moment until it had accommodated the thickest part of Damian.
The way he’d tensed so pleasingly when Damian had pressed against his prostate.
Mother had captured Grayson the night he had come to visit, so Grayson had been
in captivity for over two weeks. Mother had given him the data and tapes from
those two weeks where Grayson had been kept tied up and blindfolded. He'd been
held in a containment room for five hours before he’d been knocked out and
untied and had his blindfold removed. Scare tactics, Damian knows. Then Grayson
had been free to roam in his cell of six feet by six by six. Not even enough
room for the man to stretch out his body and limbs at once. It included a
toilet and had been kept completely dark for the next five days.
He’d been fed by compartments that could only be opened by one side at a time.
Three meals a days of bland food, but only if Grayson did not act out or insult
any of the Al Ghuls.
During the time Grayson had demanded to speak with Talia or Ra’s and then only
at the end of the five days did he ask for Damian, his tone reluctant and
remorseful.
Damian is uncertain about whether the emotions were because he didn’t want to
ask for help from a child and let Damian know exactly how helpless he was or
because he couldn’t imagine that Damian would have ever allowed something like
that to happen to him if he was aware of it.
In between, processing the implications, Damian jerks off and imagines it
spilling over Grayson’s face, the white liquid splattering over his open mouth
and swollen, spit slick lips as he gazes up reverently at Damian. It helps him
fall asleep.
After the fifth day, because Grayson had behaved, the lights were turned on,
but for random intervals, keeping the man’s internal clock off. Grayson only
continued to pace the small box, keeping up his training so that he didn’t lose
muscle mass. That had been the content of the rest of the videos, with a few
scenes of Grayson acting out in anger, where he’d been punished with no food or
darkness.
Damian leans back in his chair as the recordings ended. And then he switches
back to the currently recording cameras to find Grayson looking consistently
more anxious. It must be breaking the man down, Damian muses, to have no human
contact for sixteen days. Grayson must feel claustrophobic by now. He skims
through the videos again before turning his tablet off and going to sleep, safe
in his certainty.
 
Damian dreams about forcing Grayson into position and fucking him over and
over, sweating and panting, making him come countless times until he’s limp and
compliant in Damian’s arms. Grayson’s heat pressed back against him, the man
depending on Damian for support to sit up, eyes half-lidded. Grayson’s soft,
satisfied sighs, his face pressed loosely into Damian’s neck.
Grayson nuzzles against Damian’s neck, and the feeling is suffocating.
Damian wakes up in a cold sweat, his underwear soaked, and the ghost feeling of
Grayson’s nose and cheekbone digging into his neck.
 
Damian calls Batwoman and Azrael. He informs them in Grayson’s voice that
Batman and Robin will be out of commission for an undetermined period of
time and he expects them pick up the slack. Then he calls the Commissioner,
lowers his voice and growls in Grayson’s version of the Batman voice that
Gordon will have to work on his own for a while.
Pennyworth...most likely already knew a vague version of the circumstances.
That Damian and Grayson had an argument. Damian doesn’t need to contact him,
and it’s through him or her father that Oracle will be able to draw the
necessary conclusions. He’d implied just enough to Kane and Valley for Gordon
to come to the conclusion that Damian had gotten upset over Father’s death and
had fought with Grayson, leading to Grayson chasing after Damian. It’s close
enough to the truth to be reliable. It will hold until Father fully returns
from being lost in time, and by then, Damian will be able to decide.
He’s not certain what’s holding him back though.
 
Grayson paces in his cell.
 
Grayson sleeps.
 
Grayson eats the food mechanically, spooning the food to his mouth.
 
Grayson exercises, doing push ups while holding a handstand, squats, sit ups.
 
Grayson lies on the small bed provided for him and doesn’t move. He isn’t
sleeping, Damian knows from the monitors, but he is still for an uncomfortably
long time.
 
Grayson paces.
 
Grayson ducks his head and... works at himself efficiently, his own touch
almost a replacement for a lack of human interaction or contact, and when he
comes, the only sounds he makes is a pained grunt.
 
Damian furiously jerks himself off three times that night, Grayson’s pained
sound echoing in his ears. He chafes himself when he runs out of lube.
 
Grayson literally bounces off the walls, using the small cell to its utmost. He
works off a sweat that makes his skin glisten appealingly. He almost smiles
when he does this.
 
Damian tries to copy the fluidity of his movements while on the practice field.
He doesn’t succeed.
 
Grayson sleeps.
 
Grayson paces.
 
Grayson doesn’t eat.
 
Grayson looks into the camera and says, quiet, tired, “Please let me out.”
Damian feels faint disgust that such an expression mars Grayson’s features.
 
Grayson sleeps, and Damian likes him there, safe and contained in his grasp,
away from Father and Gotham. Damian hears his words again. Damian, come
back.There’s the pull of Gotham’s haze and the rush of the night air against
his cheeks, the pound of cement under his boots, and then the ground so far far
below him as he soars. Like a dream. For all that it had once been real.
 
Grayson. Grayson. Grayson. All of Damian's thoughts are consumed by him, day or
night.
He's distracted, and it's a heady distraction. 
Damian habitually checks in on the man, measures his heart rate, weight, blood
pressure, anything else Damian can possibly think of. He falls asleep with his
headphones of, listening to the unfaltering sound of Grayson's heartbeat. It's
the only sound that can lull him to sleep anymore.
 
Mother asks him how Grayson has been.
Damian hasn’t been to visit, has only watched him on camera, and there is no
doubt Mother knows it. Damian says that Grayson has been fine. Amusing. He
subtly switches the topic, but he knows she recognizes the segue.
She moves on to Damian's readings on political warfare anyway. He's...grateful.
During a lull in the conversation, his eyes flickers from his food to her face
when she isn’t looking at him, eyes dragging over her features.
And then he asks on a spur of the moment, putting his spoon down. “Mother, did
you let Wilson act as he did while you were present there and not stop him?”
Talia turns and stares at him almost coldly before she replies, “May I know why
you ask?”
“To understand.”
“Yes,” She says after a pause, “I did. I wanted you back.” Her eyes don’t leave
his. It’s Damian who looks away first.
Damian looks down at his food as he says, evenly, “I see. Thank you for
answering me, Mother.”
His mother hums, and Damian can’t decide.
 
Damian has them knock Grayson out and then tie him back up, gag and blindfold
him, and then he enters the cell, standing just past the border.
He stays there for a moment until Grayson begins to struggle again, making
verbal noises, obviously knowing that someone’s there, and Damian pauses
himself, forces himself to stop. He unties Grayson’s gag.
“Damian,” Grayson says, even still blindfolded, lips chafed and red from the
gag, arms and legs bound, lying at Damian’s feet. It’s the first thing that
comes out of his mouth.
"Damian, I want to protect you."
Damian freezes, his heart sinking in his chest. Then he forces himself to
unfreeze, knowing that like everything else in his life, he is doing a
performance for someone else.  The cameras are on, and the League is watching.
Damian can feel cold hands pressing into his shoulders, trying to push him to
his knees as impassive eyes watch. And yet... he no longer cares. Because he
has something, someone who can leave him content.
And even worse.
Damian regrets this, regrets hurting Grayson, and that’s not a necessary
emotion at all.
Damian knows as he sits back, removing his hands from Grayson that if he stays
with him, he's going to fail. He's going to become nothing. Absolutely no one,
forgotten and lost in history like he knows his mother fears so greatly.
Because Damian first thought to his failure isn't angry denial. It's Grayson in
the morning in a T-shirt and sweat pants, bedhed sticking up everywhere, the
man yawning and scratching his stomach in the most unappealing way possible. 
He thinks about Grayson too often.
Grayson who didn't trust Damian at first, but offered him a chance anyway.
Grayson who smiled in the cape. Grayson whose soft, breathy laughs makes
Damian's head dizzy. Grayson who has warm callused hands and who's touch meant
safety and security in a way that Damian had learned overtime. A pat on the
head means pride in him, means affection. A squeeze to the shoulder means
comfort and understanding. A hug means protectiveness and love.
Grayson is by no means perfect, but he’s as close as a person can possibly be.
And it's easy. It's so easy to want to Grayson.
Damian's internal clock tells him the cameras and microphones should be
obscured now. He looks down at Grayson.
“I think about fucking you,” Damian replies. “All of the time.”
Grayson pales.
“I even think about hurting you sometimes,” Damian adds. “I know what normal
children think about. Normal eleven year olds have barely just skimmed their
understanding of intercourse and relationships, but I am not like them. I never
will be.” Damian’s voice cracks at the end, and he’s not certain of whether
it’s an act to have Grayson let down his guard or not.
It works either way.
“It’s— that’s,” Grayson says, voice hoarse. “We can deal with that. And it’s
fine. You don’t have to be like other eleven year-olds, Damian.”
Damian breathes in shakily, loud enough for Grayson to hear.
“I don’t believe you, Grayson.”
“Yeah, well,” Grayson laughs weakly. “Give it time. Give me some time to pull
you over to the dark side. We have overly concentrated caffeinated beverages
and reckless idiocy that keeps us going.”
“Tt...my willpower is enough to keep me awake.”
“Yeah? Well—”
“I don't care about that, Grayson. Stop being so childish." Damian’s voice
trembles. "What I care about, what I want is to protect you. I don’t want your
protection. Do you understand that?”
“Damian.” Grayson sounds so relieved, his body relaxing the slightest. He
laughs softly, sounding unbelievably genuine now. “Is that it? If that’s all...
“ Dick grins, a sigh of relief passing his lips. “You’re good, Damian. You are.
And you’re not weak. You’re exactly what you should be.”
Damian is exactly what he should be.
He makes his decision right then as those words reverberate in the depths of
his mind, the turmoil in his chest settled. He only reaches out now to touch
Grayson’s cheek, fingertips skimming his skin, light enough for Grayson to even
question its presence. Grayson arches into the touch, obviously starved for it,
but it only emphasizes when he pulls back like he's burned a moment later.
Damian pulls back.
“How are Titus and Batcow?”
“Good,” Grayson replies and there’s almost fondness in his voice.
Damian nods even if Grayson can’t see it. He gazes at Grayson’s face for
another moment before standing up and saying, “I will have Mother release you.”
“Damia—”
“Grandfather is using Drake to plan an attack on Gotham. And don’t let Mother
capture you again, idiot. The microphones will be turned on in the next moment.
Keep your silence.” Damian turns and makes the sound of boots on stone with his
mouth. There’s the steady sound of boots on stone before the slam of a door,
and Damian watches as Grayson relaxes.
Grayson is skilled at control over himself, his body especially, but his body
still reveals truths because he's trusts Damian. And the most naive, simplest
one is apparent. Grayson is smiling very faintly.
Then Damian slides the needle hidden in his sleeve out and raises it above
Grayson’s neck. He stabs it down efficiently, Grayson not reacting before it’s
half in, and by then, he’s already falling unconscious.
 
Damian leaves Grayson and finds Mother training. She’s graceful, flying through
the air with an air of regality, but she’s not nearly as fluid as Grayson. She
doesn’t belong there, high in the air, as he does. He thinks that she perhaps
belongs better grounded on the stone their mountain base is made of. She is
solid strength with a resolve that drives her.
She turns at Damian’s entrance into the training room, reaching for a towel to
wipe the sweat off herself.
“Come with me, Mother.”
She raises her eyebrows, an amused expression on her face. “Where to, my son?”
Damian doesn’t respond, only walks forward and down the hall. His mother
follows, towel cast aside.
They arrive in the observation room above where Grayson is held, now
unconscious.
“Do you have an announcement?” Talia asks. “If you would like, I can have him
trained to your specifications.”
Damian blinks, and then says, “Set him free, Mother.”
She looks so disappointed in him, and like always, it’s another test.
Nonetheless, she beckons to a follower and says, “Release him. We have no use
for him anymore.”
Damian watches her even as he knows she's ignoring him now in irritation with
his weakness. When the follower is gone, Damian turns to her, wills her to
listen as he stares her down until she returns his stare. “Grayson is only a
distraction at the moment. When I decide I will have him, I believe it is only
appropriate that I be the one who captures him.”
Talia’s expression slowly turns from impassive to pleased, and she unfolds her
arms to place one around Damian's shoulder, rubbing his arm.”Of course,
Beloved.” She presses her lips to the top of his head. Damian doesn’t respond.
Instead he watches through the assassins’ body cameras as Grayson’s unconscious
body is carried away to be placed in a secure location a few miles away before
he's untied.
They dress him with rough, efficient hands into a T-shirt and jeans.
Damian takes the moment to say to Mother even as he keeps his eyes on Grayson,
“I’m going to do this, Mother. I swear I will succeed. I will be better than
anyone else, and I’ll never lose again.”
Not even to Father.
He turns to her when he sees a movement out of the corner of his eye.
Damian nearly flinches when Talia is impassive for a long moment before placing
a hand on his head and patting his head. She’s never done that before. It was a
gesture he’d learned from Grayson. When Damian looks up, Talia is smiling
brighter than Damian has ever seen her do before. “Of course, my son,” she says
softly, lovingly. “I have never had any doubt in you.”
Damian’s heart raises in his chest, flushing before he manages to pull himself
away and return to Grayson’s figure, ignoring the heat in his cheeks.
Grayson falls with a ungraceful slump and eventually Mother bores and leaves
for other business, telling him they'll have dinner together.
Damian stands there until Grayson awakens, confused and groggy, but tensing
immediately to survey his surroundings. Grayson doesn’t have anything on him
but his clothes, but Damian’s confident he’ll be able to return to Gotham
without any trouble. When Grayson sees nothing that poses an immediate danger,
he still doesn't relax, just surveys the cave again and then looks back for a
lingering moment before he walks out as quickly as he can.
End Notes
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