Grayson made him promise not to do something so stupid, and yet here he is anyway.
It went just as he implied it would. He would hate to give him any grounds to say 'I told you so.' Not that he would, but the potential is bad enough.
Damian's precautions weren't enough. Slade had taken the bait- but also responded faster than he anticipated. The Robin was caught by the collar, kicking and struggling as he's lifted with ease and held out the window he'd climbed in on. At that moment he wished Slade had just dropped him. It would be much more preferable to the way he was being appraised- scrutinized, sized up, picked apart for value.
There's a moment as he's being tugged back inside that his heart sinks- there's still some use for him hence why he's even still here. He only has enough time to be disappointed and mildly fearful before he's being slammed into the desk, splintering the surface with an unrestrained crack. He coughs, unable to breathe but struggles to get up anyway. A dark chuckle sounds off from Deathstroke and it sounds surrounding- like he's everywhere. The grip falls from his collar and tugs at his ankle instead and his suspicion is confirmed. He immediately struggles and kicks, but the man had taken his utility belt- he didn't have much to work with. The most he could do was shoot his meanest glare at the looming shadow.
Slade merely laughs again, "One day I'll have to thank the bat for always sending his birds my way. He knows I can't resist. Something about kids being exploited for me-" he plops down in the chair sitting behind the ruined furniture- using the grip still secure and bruising on Damian to pull him into his lap. The hold is awkward, what with all his thrashing and attempting to fight back. Damian pulls a knife from his boot and aims lethally, moral compass forgotten in his desperate struggle tojust get away, but his wrist is grabbed and twisted harshly. There's a small whine, he drops the knife only to grab it again with his free hand. His wrist twists again, this time snapping and he cries out. As a result he misses and buries the knife into the back of the chair.
"You know I was expecting your bluebird to be here. Guess you'll have to take his place, but I am pretty disappointed," Slade comments. With two tight holds, one on his wrist and the other on his ankle, he lifts Damian and breaks his side over his knee like a twig. "Let's see if you perform nearly as well as he does," Slade mutters over the resounding yell with a sinister smug tone.
Tears of pain settle in the corner of Damian's eyes as he struggles to breathe again. Every breath is fire near ribs that are surely broken. He tries not to move, so Slade does so for him. His ankle is released in favor of grabbing his other wrist and Slade holds him up like a ragdoll, watching him wince and squirm. Two small wrists in one hand, Slade frees up his second hand to tug open his belt. He's hard, throbbing as he frees his cock from the confines of his suit. Damian tsks through shaky breaths.
"Did you OD on viagra? You should talk to your doctor- Aah!!" Wilson isn't interested in Damian's quips, squeezing the broken wrist with a vengeance until he shut up. "God you're a brat," he sneers, stroking up the length once before forcing it into the open mouth. The boy's eyes widen behind the mask and he tries to peel away but there's nowhere to go and Slade is forcing him forward. It's too big- It's too big and it's forcing his jaw uncomfortably wide. All too soon it hits the back of his throat and keeps going. His body heaves on reflex and that seems to entice the man as a soft hum escapes him and he continues on. The member seems to go on forever, it's thick and drying out his throat as it chokes him- sliding in snake-like until he finally has no more to give.
"You've got potential kid," Slade announces and sharp eyes snap up towards him, but he can only manage a weak glare behind his full discomfort. "Keep practicing and you may just be as good as Grayson yet. Gotta start them young after all," he finally starts to pull off and Damian's chest is on fire, a different kind of burning but just as discomforting.
He gasps as soon as he's allowed to breathe again, the taste of salt lingering in his mouth and wincing through the pain. He doesn't get much time to relish his freedom because it comes back, quicker this time. The hand grips into his hair and pushes him low, working him up and down the shaft. Each time the head brushes the back of his throat his body jolts with another retch, threatening to puke. His muffled voice grumbles around the shaft in his mouth and he tries to bite down but his throat finally gives in and the bile expels from his throat before he can realize what's happening. Despite all the other circumstances, this is when his face burns with shame, vomit running down his chin and uniform mostly but some in Slade's lap. His eyes drop as low as he can manage, but widen when he continues on without a word- even going as far as to do it again. He heaves again, harder this time, hurting his chest as another wave of puke escapes him. He paints the chair with slick fluid and flecks of dinner, his chest seizing in pain and his throat not happy either.
Finally Slade pulls off but it's more a curse than a blessing. Every breath tastes foul and sends more fiery pain through his torso. His head lolls to the side, still drooling down his front. He coughs, threatening to puke again, but instead just squeezes his eyes shut to not confront the smug look in Deathstroke's eye.
"Your grandfather told me you were better than this. I'll have to report to him how your skills seemed to have lapsed in time," the man laughs. Damian wants to bite back with a snappy comment about how he doesn't need a performance review, but his throat is sore and his wheezes are already coming out hoarse. He ignores the further jostling until he feels himself being freed of his uniform, legs suddenly exposed to the cold open. His protests have grown weaker over the time he's already spent here and the kicks have dulled in enthusiasm.
Slade gets his uniform around his knees with relative ease and settles the boy back in his lap, wasting no formality in making him comfortable. The saliva and vomit seem to be lube enough, though the young Wayne's cry into the still air beg to differ. He arches away, tugging at his broken wrist and trying to free himself desperately but to no avail. He's lightheaded and panicking and effectively out of all options except-
"Be a good boy and sit still," Slade commands.
It's not a request. This doesn't stop him from trying to shuffle and squirm too much to be considered compliant out of sheer spite. A firm and unforgiving grip stills him enough for the swollen member to force its way inside of him without hesitation. Damian arches with a choked yell, pained arms tugging with all the might he has left to get free. His sudden jolt earns him one hand tugged out of Slade's grasp, but he doesn't do much with it. How could he, there's nowhere left for him to go. His gloved fingers shakily claw at the distended imprint of the too large cock pressing into his stomach it felt like. He felt full in ways that he hated. The shock leaves him too preoccupied to pull away again when his hands are being tugged back above his head.
Shaky breaths turn to light hyperventilation. Visions of his grandfather flashed before his eyes- wide behind the mask. Slade had no reason to remove it- they had reached the level of familiarity long ago. "It hurts-" the words finally spill from his lips, voice strangled and betraying his own want to hide all insinuation he might be phased by his current position. "Master it hurts-" he gasps again, reminded all too well of the first time he found himself in a similar position, legs spread and blood trickling into the lap of the older man holding him securely. Slade lifts an eyebrow curiously at the sudden moniker- he's used to having to force it out of them- but the amusement in his soft groan clues in he knows it's not for him.
"Have to say I'm disappointed, thought you of all of the Robins would put up more of a fight. Your brother sure did when he was your age- but I suppose you have more experience than the rest of them." The condescending echoing laughter falls on deaf ears as he already slips into the panic attack smothering him like an old blanket. The taunting voice slipped into something deeper, more regal but equally demanding. White pain burns at his memory with each shift in his lap and he remembers how his fingers futilely scraped at his grandfather's face only to have his wrists held above him in the same embarrassing manner.
"Grandfather please," his voice trembles in a way that would make anyone with a moral compass feel awful. Slade just huffs in annoyance, cupping his face and pinching hard to force him to look up at him. "I want to see my mother," He continues on, gazing past Wilson head lolled to the side just so. He's shutting down, compartmentalizing, making the trauma much easier to deal with day-to-day. Can't have that, can we?
Slade lets his head fall back against his shoulder, shifting his hips with a small thrust to hear him shout in pain again. "What kind of business man would I be if I let others take credit for my work?" He asks no one in particular, pulling the knife previously held by the chair from earlier and tracing the blade up the small, spread thigh drawing tiny pricks of blood. Damian groans, trying to shy away from the pain and spreading his legs further, hoping that compliance would earn his freedom. Instead the blade carves deeper, tearing through the fabric of his uniform and staining he tattered edges with more free flowing blood.
"Wait-" He gasps, the pain jolting him out of the hard memory. "Slade," he hisses, venom returning, but too worried about the blade making him shudder to try wriggling again. "Welcome back Boy Wonder, sorry I interrupted your trip down memory lane," His smooth voice drips in his ear. Damian tries to shy away from it, but the words make his blood run cold. "You don't know what you're talking about," He spits through gritted teeth, testing his luck and trying to wrench free from his hold. "Ah ah ahh," He warns, the knife tracing over the outline of his overly responsive cock. It twitches at the threat and Damian is careful not to move further. "Now, as a close acquaintance of your grandfather I'd have to say I'm not surprised our tastes are similar. But, our methods are very different. Remember that boy, or I will be forced to remind you," His tone drops to something lower and more threatening as his hips shift again and Damian cries out in painful memory.