Welcome back to the story of pain, and brainwashing, and general unpleasantness! Now with actual sexual content! (Though not yet Sladin. No worries; we'll get there.) Enjoy!

Warnings for : Brainwashing, inappropriate erections, masturbations, and inappropriate fantasies.


Things get easier. Slade's training isn't any less brutal than it was, but he can handle more of it. He's stronger, tougher, a better combatant than he ever was before Slade took him in. What mistakes he makes still get him disciplined, but that's fine. He deserves it.

Slade's only trying to make him better, and he knows that. He does his very best never to disobey, which earns him a lack of punishment, and he comes to know the difference between discipline and punishment intimately. When he's bad, when he actively and purposefully steps out of line, he's punished. It's painful, humiliating, and he'll beg forgiveness before Slade lets the matter be done. When he makes mistakes, then he's disciplined to ensure that he remembers not to do it again, and that's painful too but it's shorter, he's not expected to seek forgiveness but to understand what he did wrong. Discipline is nothing more than a reminder; it's just another form of teaching.

He's earned himself a name now, he has an identity again and that feels… It feels so good. He is Slade's apprentice, and Slade is his master. Will always be his master.

As he embraces that role, Slade teaches him more things. New forms of martial arts and combat styles, the proper way to handle a knife, ways to use his talent for acrobatics that turn it into a dance of blades, where any angle is one he can strike at. His time in the cell is less now. Slade will sometimes leave him to practice on his own, instead of locking him away, when his master has something else to do, and he still spends most evenings — he assumes they're evenings — stretched out beside Slade's leg on his bed. Sometimes he sleeps, sometimes he just listens to the tap of the laptop's keys and relaxes, happy just to be by his master instead of alone and in silence.

Slade's almost kind, now that he knows how to interact with him. He deserves what he earns, and it's as simple as that. Pain, when he's done badly; praise, when he's done well. He earned the uniform that he dons every morning, he earned the books that keep him company when he's alone, and he earned the privilege of the removal of Slade's mask. He's done well.

Eventually, a morning comes where they're sparring, dancing in circles around wooden staves. It's familiar, he knows Slade's styles, and suddenly there's an opening. He doesn't think, he just takes it, moves in, and his staff cracks across Slade's face with every ounce of force he can manage. Slade hits the ground, staff rolling away across the mats, and he chases victory and knocks his master to his back, pressing the end of his staff beneath Slade's chin and forcing it up and back.

There's a moment of stillness, a moment of Slade drawing in a shallow breath as blood beads from a split at the corner of his mouth, before that single blue eye focuses on him again. Slade raises a hand, presses it against the side of his staff but doesn't push it away. He stays still, holding the staff there, coiled to drive it down, to move as soon as he needs to. Just because Slade's on the ground doesn't mean he's the victor. If he lets his guard down for an instant, if he assumes that he's won, he'll be caught unawares and finished off. He's made that mistake before.

"Enough."

He draws away, letting his staff rest at his side, and as Slade touches a gloved hand to the split in his lip and gets to his feet, it hits him that he won. He actually, legitimately, won. Slade looks down at the shine of blood, gives a little hum of thought, and then lowers his hand and steps forward. He stays obediently still as Slade traces fingers over his cheek, brushing a bit of his hair back and then tilting his chin up with two fingers. He holds Slade's gaze easily enough.

"That was very well done, Apprentice," Slade murmurs, and pride blooms in his chest.

"Thank you, Master," he answers dutifully, through the smile curving his mouth.

Slade squeezes his shoulder for a moment, then orders, "Put those away; this proves you're ready for better things."

He obeys, moving to gather Slade's staff from the ground and then stride across the training room to put them back up on their spots on the wall. "Better things, Master?" he asks, as he turns back around. Slade is kneeling in front of a chest near one corner of the room, one of the ones he's never seen opened before, and certainly never had the masochism to dare opening himself.

He waits at the mat, watching as Slade pulls out what looks a lot like two matching, sheathed swords. His gaze lingers on them as his master comes back, and when one of them is pressed into his hands he takes it almost reverently. These ones are smaller than the blades that Slade uses, but pulling it an inch out of the sheath proves that it's real, sharp, steel. These are not toys.

"Did you think I was going to keep you confined to wooden weapons forever?" Slade asks, with a touch of amusement. There's no gap for him to answer before Slade's stepping around to his back, hands sliding down the outside of his arms. "You'll start with one. When I'm satisfied you know how to use it, you can learn to use them both at once."

"Like you," he comments, and Slade squeezes his arms for a moment.

"That's right, my boy. Draw it." He does, pulling it from its sheath with a distinctive rasp of metal against metal. The steel gleams in the light. "This will hurt," Slade says, tone entirely matter of fact. "There's very little room for error with blades, and you will make errors. Follow what I say, and I'll make sure you end up with a minimum of scars. Clear?"

He nods, holding the blade before him. "Yes, Master."

Slade's gloves slip down his arms, gripping his wrists and guiding him to sheath the sword again. It's taken from his hands, as Slade's other arm clasps around his chest, firmly holding him for a moment. "Tomorrow," Slade promises. "I want you fresh when we start training with live blades, Apprentice. For now, we'll do a bit of cool down, and then you can come with me and get washed off." Slade lets him go, giving a soft chuckle, and he turns his head in time to see his master wipe the trickle of blood away from his mouth. "I think we're done with sparring for the day."

If Slade's expression and tone wasn't amused he'd be worried, but the glint in that familiar blue eye is proud, and that makes it easy to relax, to know he's done a good job. The end goal was always to make him a better fighter; eventually he was going to grow enough to be dangerous even to Slade, at least a little. Just because it's a surprise to him doesn't mean his master didn't see it coming.

Slade hooks the swords onto previously empty racks on the wall, and then comes back over to him. He leans into the clasp of a hand against the back of his neck, and gives a soft sigh at the brush of lips to his forehead. "You're getting better every day, pet," Slade murmurs. "It won't be long now."

"Until what, Master?" he asks, even though he knows he probably shouldn't press.

Slade watches him for a moment. "Until you're trained; ready."

He's let go, and then he asks, "Master?" Slade looks back at him, standing still and not necessarily encouraging his questions, but not denying them either. Good enough. "Master… What's the endgame here? What am I supposed to be ready for?"

For a moment he thinks that he's crossed the line, asked something he shouldn't have. Slade steps back towards him, lowers a hand to cup his jaw and tilt his head up.

"To be mine," Slade answers simply, quietly.

He frowns. "I am yours."

"In some ways," is granted. "In other ways, you still belong to other people. I'm going to burn all of that out of you, and when you're ready, you'll truly be mine. Completely. When we get there, you'll understand, but for now don't worry about it. Trust me to take care of you; I'm only doing what's best for you, pet."

"I know, Master."

Slade lets go of his jaw, ruffles his hair with a smirk. "Good boy. Now come on. Three laps around the acrobatics course to cool down and then back to me. Take your time; get the form right."

He smiles, and obeys.


The blades aren't as difficult as he expected them to be, and for the most part he avoids any particularly bad injuries. Then again, when Slade eventually lets him spar with the live blades — against Slade's — it quickly becomes apparent that he's only not getting hurt because Slade is miles better than he is with them. Slade would be cutting him to ribbons, if his master wasn't good enough to only be hitting him with the flat of the blade. More than enough to bruise, and to hurt, but not to draw blood.

Slade does seem to believe that he's good enough with them, so he doesn't view the defeats as failures but as just another part of training. Until he's good enough to win, he's going to lose. It's just that simple.

A different complication comes to light.

At first he doesn't even register it, hidden under the adrenaline and excitement of spars, but slowly he comes to realize that he's… noticing things. Like the heat of Slade's body at his back, the grind of armor against his skin, how good it feels when Slade's fingers clasp around the back of his neck. He doesn't know when it started, he doesn't know what to do with it, and luckily it's taken out of his hands before he has to decide, and before it gets too bad.

"You've been distracted lately," Slade murmurs to him one night, standing in front of the mirror and holding his jaw to carefully, precisely, scrape a razor across it.

It was a bizarre thing to realize that he was starting to grow very faint shadows of stubble; certainly not every morning, but about once a week there will be enough for Slade to pull him aside and clean it off. It's a weird thing to mark the passage of time by, and yet there's still a childish part of him that's thrilled that he has stubble.

Slade's still shaving him, and it's not a direct question, so he doesn't risk answering. At least until Slade finishes, setting aside the razor to be rinsed clean and wiping his face with the cloth set aside for that, and asks, "Would you like to tell me why?"

He swallows, meeting Slade's gaze in the mirror and then dropping away from it. "I— Um…"

He can feel the brush of Slade at his back, and it hasn't really mattered in so long but he's naked, damp from the shower, and his thoughts are straying where they shouldn't go. To the curve of Slade's mouth in a smirk, to the feeling of legs and arms wrapped around him, pinning him down, to the brush of Slade's fingers on his skin and how those gloves feel. It's a dangerous line of thought, but his mind betrays him and then his body follows suit. He flushes, trying to stand carefully still and hoping that Slade doesn't notice how he's firming up. Getting hard like he has dozens of times recently.

"Hmm," is Slade's response, and he knows immediately that his reaction has been noticed.

He squeezes his eyes shut, feels the brush of Slade's fingers over his arm and mutters, "Sorry, Master. I— I can't—"

"It's alright," Slade interrupts. "You're young, pet; it happens. Have you been getting off?"

He flushes a little harder, but shakes his head. "No, Master. It's only been while—" He has to swallow again, has to force out, "While we're sparring."

Slade's silent for a moment, and then chuckles. He snaps his gaze up in time to catch it when Slade kisses his temple and then says, with a smirk, "I'm flattered, pet. I'll give you some privacy to take care of it; feel free to rinse off afterwards if you need to." One hand squeezes his shoulder, and then Slade says, more seriously, "From now on, I want you to do this at the very least once a week. That should help you have a bit more control."

He can't quite meet Slade's eyes, but he nods and manages not to curl in on himself as he does. "Thank you, Master."

"Of course, my boy." A hand reaches around, taking his chin and pulling it up, prompting him to look up and meet Slade's gaze in the mirror. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," Slade says, voice low but firm. "Humans have needs, and bodies react in strange ways sometimes. We'll work on getting you control of it, but until then, I want you to remember that it's not your fault. It doesn't make you wrong, or bad, or any other thought in that head of yours. Am I understood?"

It's… It's good to hear that.

He lets out a small breath, and nods again. "Yes. I understand, Master."

"Good." Slade lets him go, takes the razor off of the counter, and steps away. "I'll be outside when you're done. Take your time, Apprentice."

He watches Slade go, and then looks down at the slight rise of his erection. The heat of Slade's fingers still lingers on his jaw like the mildest of brands, leaving him with a distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach that says this is not just a phase or some kind of reaction to the fact he hasn't jacked off in… well, not since Slade took him. It's not like he's imagining Starfire, or Raven, or — hell — even Cyborg or Speedy, like he sometimes used to. It's Slade. It's all Slade.

He takes a shallow breath and slowly heads back into the shower. The tile is cool against his back as he leans against one wall, slowly sliding down to sit against the ground, legs slightly spread. Despite the gap in time, it still feels natural to lean his head back against the tile and close his eyes, his right hand slipping down between his thighs. He tries to think of Starfire, of her green eyes and smile, of the curves of her and the orange skin of her waist. For a minute, he manages. It's not as… as enticing as he remembers it being, but it's enough to get him hard underneath his own hand.

But the images slip away from him, like bits of sand. He tries to keep them, but he can't keep her in his head, can't imagine her well enough to be able to relax into it. He remembers, he just…

He gives up on that. Raven's been the subject of his fantasies a few times — even though he always worried that somehow her powers would let her know that — and it's not hard to call to mind the pale length of her legs, the cool amusement in her eyes, the black hair that never quite covered the back of her neck.

That's gone even faster. It's not that Raven's not attractive, but she was never one of his more common fantasies and there's just something that's not right about it now. Something unappealing.

Well, he has other things to think of. He's tried not to because, well, he was never sure how anyone around him would react to it, but there were nights that he gave in to temptation. Speedy was the most common one, from back in the days they'd trained together. Fast, smart, a challenge in a dozen different ways and he'd loved that. He'd been so ahead of everyone else in his age group, among the sidekicks, that it was a relief to meet someone just as good. He doesn't know if Speedy had ever entertained any thoughts about something happening, but he did.

That lasts him longer, thinking about the fight, the grapple of bodies and the thrill, the excitement, of meeting a match. Thinking about the sharp grin and then, even better, that little smirk.

There's something curdling in his gut, something souring the pleasure, and he grits his teeth and makes a sound of irritation, pulling his hand away. Why can't he…?

Alright, mission tactics. Analyze the situation, identify the problem, and then take steps to solve it. This is just another puzzle that he needs to figure out. Slade— Slade wants him to do this so he has to. It needs to happen.

It's not that he doesn't still find them attractive, at least in his mind, but there's something strange about it. Something feels wrong about thinking of any of them here and now, in a way it never has before. Well, he's different in a lot of ways now. Physically he's taller, stronger, bigger, and maybe his mind doesn't know how to figure that into his imagination. He's sure that they are too, but he doesn't know what they've grown into, how they've changed, even what they sound like these days. Picturing himself — his new self — with any of them feels…

It clicks into place in his head like the thunk of a lock.

Oh god. He's an adult, he looks like an adult, and in his mind they're still just teenagers. Small and skinny and still all awkwardly long limbs and edges of baby fat, caught in between children and adults and nothing like what he's grown into, what they must have grown into by now too. God, he just can't.

His breath catches, and he leans his head back against the shower wall and stares up at the ceiling. What is he supposed to do? He's always needed some kind of picture or fantasy in his head to get off, but everything that he used to use, it's all…

Cyborg. Yes. Cyborg was a couple years older than the rest of them, bigger, already an adult and that's the memory he has. Cyborg was never one of his higher fantasies, but that doesn't mean he can't make it work. His mind had gone just about everywhere as a hormonal teenager, wondered what might actually be between those legs even if he was never insensitive enough to ask, so he's got memories to pull from, he can—

The touch of metal next to hot skin — like it was heated by the system inside him — pressed against him, pinning him down, poised over him. Stronger than him, always so much stronger, and that voice was deeper, even laughing in his ear about how he'd actually won a match. Kind eyes and a gentle smile, and it's not hard to imagine Cyborg holding one of his shoulders down, reaching down between his legs and that metal hand would be cool, fingers bigger than his, probably not practiced but eager.

It's a bit of a struggle to impose that over his own hand, but he manages it. Cyborg's always had time for a pat on the back or a ruffle of hair, so he knows what those metal fingers feel like, and he's always been good at sense memory. It's not much different than what his fantasies used to be like.

He leans back into the shower wall, tilts his head back and flicks his eyes open to stare at the ceiling, opening his mouth to pant through it. God, he feels... It's been so long, and it feels all new and so familiar at the same time. It's a bizarre kind of mix of sensation, between the familiar act, and the utterly new feeling of his own hand — that's not the only thing that's bigger — and callouses he never had before. It's strange, but it also still feels good, so he doesn't want to look too closely at any of it. If he thinks about it too much, he might start to really think and that could be the end of everything.

He swallows thickly, closes his eyes so he can go back to his fantasy, and for just a moment he sees the dark skin of Cyborg, sees those kind eyes, but then he thinks about that hand on his shoulder. Firm pressure, the sensation of being pinned on his back, and then it's not dark blue eyes in his mind but a single light one, darker skin turning pale, the grip on his shoulder tightening to push him down harder. Slade stares down at him, smirking, warm fingers lowered between his legs and stroking, expert grip and just how he likes because of course Slade would know exactly what he likes.

He feels a whimper catch in his throat, snaps his eyes back open. The smirk in his mind's eye doesn't go away.

He can't quite make his hand stop, can't quite make himself stop despite the realization that it's Slade in his fantasy, not anything else. Somehow, despite the fact that Slade is — god — decades older, his kidnapper, his master, his trainer, it doesn't feel as wrong as trying to picture the rest of his team. And it comes so vividly. It's so easy for him to imagine Slade against his back, fingers around him, breath on his neck, voice a low, rich drawl in his ear.

It almost scares him how easy it is to fall into that fantasy, to find himself enjoying the feeling of his own hand, arching away from the wall. Another whimper slides up his throat, imagining Slade's chuckles in his ear, the possessive slide of fingers across his shoulder.

And then he's coming, pressing his skull back against the wall and biting down on a cry, and it's such a raw feeling after so much time. It rushes up and through him like a wave, and he finds himself gasping, faintly trembling. He barely knows what to do so he just takes it, endures, feels every bit of it as if it's years ago and he's back to doing this like some kind of kid just barely figuring it out. In the dark, in the privacy of his own bed or shower, feeling half enticed and half ashamed by the illicit thrill of his own imagination.

He comes down slow, panting, trying to regulate his breathing and the pounding of his own heart. It takes him a long time to ease both things out enough that he feels normal again, except for the satisfied hum lingering in his bones. It's then that he becomes really aware of the come splattered up against his stomach, and the water clinging to the bottom of his feet and ass from sitting in the water that's still at the bottom of the shower. He considers just wiping his stomach down, walking out like that, but there's a smell lingering in his nose and… and a sense of shame that's there too. Just a little twist of it in the pit of his stomach.

So he gets up and turns the shower back on, slipping beneath the spray and reaching for the soap. It's simple enough to scrub off, to wipe the trace of his release from his skin, and it's only about a minute before he's shutting the water off and stepping out again. It's easy enough to dry off with a towel, since he was careful not to get his hair wet again. After that's done he pulls on the clean uniform that Slade brought in with them, carefully deposits the used towel into a dirty laundry bin — where Slade actually does laundry, he doesn't know — and heads out.

Slade's waiting for him, lying on the bed as usual with the laptop open, and without prompting he climbs onto the bed and slides in beside his master. It's comforting to stretch out along the length of Slade's leg, to press his face in against one armored hip and sink back down into that familiar tap of keys.

It takes a couple minutes for Slade to pause, to reach down and run gentle fingers through his hair. "Feeling better, my boy?"

He presses a little bit closer, hesitates a moment, and then nods.

Slade tugs at his hair, hard enough to pull his head back and make him meet the gaze of that blue eye. The tug makes him shiver, as does the warning tone when Slade says, "Pet… Are you telling me the truth?"

He stays where Slade's lightly holding him, and then lowers his gaze. Slowly, he touches Slade's leg with his hand, gathers the words in his mind and finally admits, "Yes, and no. It felt good." He picks at Slade's armor, scrapes his nails over it to hook along the edges. "I thought of you."

Slade's still, and he can't quite bring himself to look up and see what reaction he might have inspired. "Did you? Is that new, or have you always had a darker mind, my Apprentice?"

"New," he murmurs. "I tried to think of the other Titans, like I used to, but… I'm an adult; in my head they're still kids. It wasn't right." Another moment of silence, as Slade strokes through his hair again, and then he bursts out, "I shouldn't have thought of you either. You're— It was wrong. I—"

"Stop," Slade orders, and his mouth clicks closed, shoulders tensing a fraction. "Oh, my boy…" He hears the laptop click closed, and then Slade is gently tugging on his hair, commanding, "Come here."

He lifts his head, and realizes there's an open spot underneath Slade's arm. It's not somewhere he's been invited to be before, so he pauses for just a moment to make sure he's reading things correctly before he pushes up and slides into the offered spot. Slade's arm hooks around his shoulders, gathering him close, other hand rising to guide his head in to rest at Slade's shoulder, fingers combing his hair away from his face.

"Alright, I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to accept it. Understood, pet?"

"Yes, Master," he replies dutifully.

"It does not matter what you choose to fantasize about, my boy. Absolutely no one has a right to judge you for what you think about, and it's no one's business but your own. Fantasy is not reality; even if you were thinking of Beast Boy and getting off to it, no one would have that right." He shudders, winces, and Slade gives a low chuckle. "I know; the thought disgusts me too. The point is, a fantasy harms no one. Think of them, think of me, think of Superman if you like, but don't be ashamed of it, my boy. You don't have to tell anyone what you thought of."

He hesitates a moment. "Even you?"

"Even me," Slade confirms, with a gentle squeeze of his shoulders. "I'm flattered, but it's not my business unless you want it to be."

He tilts himself further into Slade's heat, and then takes a forcibly deep breath, looks up, and asks, "What if I do want it to be?" Not that he does, but— but it's a valid question. For information, for planning, and in case… In case maybe he wants to do something. Later.

Slade looks down at him, meeting his gaze for several long, silent moments. Somehow, he manages to hold it. "Today," Slade finally says, "I would say take some time and think about that. Consider it a little more. In the future, maybe my answer will be different."

He relaxes, lets his current breath ease out slow, and then lowers his head to rest against Slade's shoulder again. "Thank you, Master."

Slade holds him there until he falls asleep.