A/N: So, this is going to be a pretty long fic. It clocks in at about 130k words when completed. I plan to update regularly on Sundays, as the fic is already written, simply not posted yet. This is Slade/Robin slash, with a side of Star/Rob that doesn't come into the story much besides a canon backstory. As for the warnings, this fic is dark. Because I can't help myself. And graphic. Because I can't help myself! There's rape/violence/death etc etc etc so proceed responsibly. Slade is a bad person and Robin is at his mercy! That being said, I can't wait to share this fic with you. Comments are love!

"So, do we have a deal?"

Slade's voice is cold and demanding. His face is as inscrutable as always behind the half-lit mask, an icy eye skewering Robin on the spot.

(Roast bird.)

The man towers, backlit by the screens showing the status of Robin's friends. Alive, for now. At Slade's pitiful version of mercy. Robin's fists clench and unclench in golden gloves. He doesn't notice.

He knows that Slade isn't offering him a real choice—they both know how he will answer. There's not one speck of Robin's soul that would let his friends be hurt in his place. There's not a bit of his mind that doubts Slade would kill them if he refused, if only out of spite. Fear makes Robin's heart quicken, fear for his friends and for himself, but not real fear.

Deep down, he believes he will survive. Everything else has worked out. Slade has been beaten before, and even his most twisted plan yet will fall to Robin's ingenuity (or Batman's, if it comes to that, which it won't.) The possibility of following Slade's orders forever is not one he can fully conceive nor one he tries to imagine, a horror lurking just below his pulsing blood.

"Yes," Robin says, and with a word he sells himself for the lives of his friends.

Slade grins like a shark behind his mask.

/

Robin wakes up and he doesn't remember where he is for the first five seconds, which are the best five seconds of his day. After that, the last thing he can recall is Slade leaning in, breath on his face—Slade's alive after all—and a piercing pain in his neck. Robin rubs it to find needle marks under his fingers.

Drugged. And god knows what else.

The drug that's giving him his killer headache, he surmises. It's not helped by the bright lights streaming in through his closed lids, and Robin shifts his body to put his hands over his eyes, only to realize with a shock that he's naked.

His eyes shoot open, fingers groping at the area over his eyes. He sighs in relief at his mask still nestled snugly under his brow, eyes opening under the white lids of the mask. Robin's right—he's completely naked under the rough sheet that covers him, white like the rest of the small room.

Which means Slade—undressed him—

Robin feels nauseous, wrapping the thin sheets around him. He goes through a mental inventory of his limbs, nothing more bruised than usual—he can remember the ones on his arms were gained from blocking Slade's blows, the ones on his thighs from falling to the ground and rolling. Nothing feels out of place, and he feels slightly better about it all.

It occurs to him that Slade won't give him back his Robin uniform, and he has to pinch his arm to get himself to sit up and his mind to work.

The room is small and a faded off-white that reflects the bright lights too much. Robin's mattress is shoved up against a corner, and he can feel the rough plaster behind him. There's an open door frame to his left, and he can see dirty tiles and a rusted sink through it. A bathroom. In front of him, a steel door locks him in.

It reminds him of Slade, for some reason.

He squeezes his eyes closed, centers himself. The situation, his friends' lives on the line, causes anxiety to pool in his belly, but he pushes it down. It's just another part of the life of a crimefighter, Batman has taught him. He'll have to find a way out of this by himself, without his friends; find a way to deactivate Slade's nanobots. But he can't fail. And until then, he'll have to play along, no matter how much the thought makes his gut curl with revulsion.

Do it for your friends.

That, he can do. That's what he'll always do.

The door creaks, whirring gears giving warning before it opens. Robin pulls the sheet over his body with a squeak that he really hopes Slade doesn't hear as the door creaks open and the man appears.

From the floor, Slade towers even more, but Robin refuses to be intimidated. Even as he looks down to make sure his body is totally covered.

Slade throws something onto the floor. Robin peers over to see a white T-shirt and pants. "Get dressed," the man rumbles.

Robin looks up at him, momentarily confused; Slade doesn't move. "But I—Can't you . . ."

"Do you really want to test my patience so soon?" Slade says sharply. Robin fidgets awkwardly and then grabs the sheets and pulls them around himself to hide his body. He picks the clothes off the floor, eyes still on Slade, who stands as immovable as ever. He hurries into the unbarred bathroom to change.

The place is narrow, only a toilet and a sink; barely enough space to change in. He hurries, paranoid that Slade will appear in the doorway to watch him with his one merciless eye. The clothes are rough against his skin as he pulls them on, and there are no tags, just plain white fabric meant for exercise. It's the kind of thing he'd wear in the cave for training with Bruce.

Robin pulls it on hurriedly and slows his steps when he walks out the doorway. Slade stands there, passive and unmoving as ever. "Follow," he commands, and Robin winces at his own subservience even as his feet behind to move.

He follows Slade through white passages, the same type as his room—no windows. Robin purposefully moves more slowly than Slade until the man grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him bodily forward, Robin wincing and stumbling.

"Don't play games with me," Slade warns. His hot breath is in Robin's face, Robin wincing and struggling against him. His hands pry at Slade's grip on his shirt, but to no avail—he never was able to get the much stronger man off of him once he had gotten a hold. Robin's left with a vicious glare, trying to bring up the contours of Batman's face in his mind to perfect it. "This is not the battlefield, boy. Here, I am your master, and I expect to be treated as such."

The declaration of control, of dominance, makes every ounce of Robin's brain lash out. "Fuck you." His face explodes with instant pain, and seconds later he's spitting blood on the ground while stars dance in front of his vision. Slade puts his hand down.

"I control the lives of your friends, remember?" he says silkily. "Is your dignity really the hill you want them to die on?"

Robin grits his teeth, now stained pink. Metal fills his mouth, but it's not entirely unwelcome; it's real, and alive, and fills him with adrenaline. His teeth grind, but he doesn't reply.

"Answer me," Slade says softly.

"No," Robin grinds out.

"No, what?"

What? He can't mean . . .

Robin grits his teeth, lip twisting to sneer at him. A horrible, evil man. His rival and enemy in every sense of the word.

And here he is.

Forced to do everything he demands.

The weight of it seems to bear down on him, fist curling at his side and a hand clenching on Slade's gauntlet. Slade seems intent on making him submit, rubbing in his defeat. And yet he's right—there's nothing Robin wouldn't give for the life of his friends, not even his pride.

"Master," he spits. Blood stains the floor from his mouth.

"Good boy," Slade says smoothly, and Robin's anger hikes up another notch. Slade drops his shirt and spins on his heel, Robin stumbling to regain his footing. His face forms a snarl at Slade's back, but he doesn't protest as he moves along.

I will get you, Slade, he promises, as much to the man as to himself. When this is all over, I will end your career as a criminal. Slade marches on, oblivious to his thoughts, but they make Robin feel better. He's escaped more dangerous situations, and he'll escape this one.

Hopefully, a little voice in his head adds traitorously, and he squashes it like he wishes he could squash Slade.

The room that Slade settles on is just as blank as any other, the huge steel door towering over Robin. Slade takes off his glove to reveal what looks like a perfectly normal hand, scanning his thumb against the lock. Seconds later, the door is opening, Slade putting his hand on Robin's shoulder to pull him inside.

Robin shirks away from the touch, glaring, before giving his shoulder a shake and heading inside himself. The room is huge, at least by the standards of his own, and it has one obvious purpose: training. It smells new, though, not like the old-feet-sweat of used exercise rooms. He can see that the pads that line half of it wall to wall, the equipment and staves that sit at the edges.

"You're going to train me?"

"You are my apprentice," Slade explains, amused. "I don't intend to let you get away with subpar skills."

The moniker sends angry itches down Robin's spine, but overall he actually feels – relieved? It could be worse, though what exactly worse would be he doesn't care to theorize about. He loathes Slade tell him what to do, but as long as he's forced to, getting a chance at fighting him is better than sitting around in his room. He shifts on his feet in preparation, though he stops when he sees Slade's gaze lingering on him.

It feels . . . uncomfortable, even though he can't see the man's face, like he's being evaluated and picked apart. Slade has a way of always making him feel small.

Slade makes his way across the floor, boots echoing on the weird material. Robin follows with shorter strides, adrenaline rearing in expectation as he wipes blood off his lips. Slade hands him a bo, one that, Robin notes, was made specifically for his height; it balances perfectly in his palm. Just like his clothes.

How long has Slade been planning this? The thought that it could have been so premeditated sends shudders down his spine, like so many things about Slade. He's not given time to think about it, however, because Slade's staff is coming straight at his head without any warning. Robin ducks, and they begin—

It's familiar, at first, the back and forth between them—almost as if they really are on the battlefield.

"Don't be stupid. More weight on your back foot," Slade says, infuriatingly casual as the side of his staff pushes Robin to the ground. His boot comes down on where Robin's chest would be as the boy spins out of the way, jumping back on his feet.

Robin can only stare in mild wonder and then anger as he realizes his enemy is correcting him—training him. "Don't tell me what to do!"

"I'm your teacher now, boy. Do as I say, and it might hurt less." He punctuates it with a searing feint and kick that leaves Robin gasping.

The next time a blow lands, Robin rocks onto his back foot and lets the force rattle through his bones.

This time, his shoulder isn't the only thing that smarts, and he has a feeling his pride will be taking more blows than he does in a sparring session with Starfire.

Except now, Slade's condescending voice tells him exactly what he did wrong every time he misses, every time one of Slade's glancing blows hits his skin.

There's something else, too, and Robin becomes more and more furious as he's straight up unable to hit Slade. The man seems to dodge too easily. Robin's blows always whip through the air millimeters from the man's body. It's not any different from his regular tangles with the man—here and now he is one on one, with no planning, against someone with documented metahuman abilities. It's the kind of opportunity he's wanted for so long, and he jumps to action with enthusiasm. It's quickly dimmed by frustration.

Slade twists and turns and dodges and moves like the wind. Robin's never remembered him this fast, this dangerous—this lethal. He curses and dodges, barely able to get hits in, the exhilaration of it all giving away to pure frustration.

Why can't I HIT HIM? Was there something in the drug?

Fights with Slade are the biggest challenge that Robin has ever faced in his short career as a hero, but now the challenge seems impossible.

"You drugged me," he says.

"Yes."

"Trying to train me in an unfair fight?"

Slade laughs lightly. "No fight is fair. The drugs aren't making you weak. I've just been holding back, my boy."

"I'm not"—Robin aims a nasty spinkick before flipping away; it glances off Slade's gauntlets—"your boy."

"Perhaps not yet," Slade admits.

With a yell of anger, Robin launches himself at him.

But failure makes him angry, and he struggles to control himself. He can't tell if the heat beading on his skin is from his anger or his exertion.

"Frustration is making you sloppy,," Slade says. His bo catches the side of Robin's leg as he charges, tripping him to the ground. Slade leans over his back. "Practice precision. Control yourself." His dialogue is nothing like the taunting of battle or his threats to Robin's friends; it is simply the commands of a teacher.

He sounds for all the world like Batman. How dare he act like Bruce.

"I do what you say because you're blackmailing me, Slade. That doesn't mean we have any—any real relationship."

Robin grunts in anger, pulling himself forward embarrassingly across the floor. He jumps up and spins on Slade. Now anger really has flushed his face.

"You will still obey me when I train you, boy."

Robin stalks him in a circle, eyes fixed on Slade's mask. Slade moves in turn, orange and black bringing to mind a tiger ready to pounce—and Slade isn't tame like Selina. They stay that way, gazes flickering back and forth.

"Planning to make me better so I can finally beat you and save my friends?"

"You assume you would ever be able to win against me," Slade says, unbothered.

Robin feints to the left, sliding under and between Slade's legs at the last second. He's on his feet, swinging at Slade's back. The bo connects with the most beautiful sound in the world. Robin has to quell his small triumph, jumping back to avoid Slade's counterattack.

It's something. Something to show him that he can do this, a small way to exert influence. He grins in satisfaction. "Is that so!"

They go back and forth, Slade's cool voice making Robin furious enough to try and hit him. The rhythm is almost calming, reminiscent of the Batcave—sparring with Batman and Batgirl. It's familiar, if a bit painful when Slade gets in a good blow. He doesn't know how long they fight—much longer than any of their previous ones, much longer than any sparring session of his has gone before. Robin begins to wonder if or when Slade intends to end it, but he refuses to ask. He refuses to give his hated enemy the satisfaction.

His only measure of time is the pain that the exercise incurs. Robin's muscles ache, and he has to start correcting for their weakness in his strikes. Slade seems just as unflappable as when they began, moves conserved and strikes lethal.

"Pace yourself," he advises.

Robin glares at him. A gasp. "I know how to fight, Slade. I've learned from better."

He can almost hear Slade's derisive snort from across the room.

They continue.

Robin's breathing starts to come shorter and shorter. He has to pause between strikes to get more air in. Mouth open, he heaves in oxygen, but there's nothing to do but keep on fighting. He's not sure how long he pushes forward, locking his pain away in a small part of his mind where it can't make him less effective.

Slade is still as silent as ever.

They continue.

Robin's muscles go from aching to burning. His strikes are uncoordinated. He stops landing even the occasional one on Slade. His feet feel like they could collapse under him at any moment, and he keeps them under him with sheer force of will.

Slade is still as fast as ever.

They continue.

Sweat pours down the back of Robin's neck. Rivulets stream down his face and he can't help but think, vaguely, that the gel must be washing out. It tastes bitter on his tongue. He can feel his pants sticking uncomfortably to his legs when he moves.

Slade is still as strong as ever.

They continue.

Robin's knuckles are white as he spins and slashes with his staff. He can feel his hands shaking. White dots dance in front of his vision like stars. Every time he swallows his throat rasps. The back of his throat and his ears ache. He desperately wants nothing more than to lay down on the ground and pull in air like a drowning man, soothing muscles that are now on fire.

Instead, he pulls on every inch of his will to keep on fighting like his life depends on it. The imagination gives him a burst of adrenaline; he blocks a blow by Slade and retaliates with a vicious jab at his legs. Robin jumps.

He catches the bottom of his foot on the staff. Robin falls backwards with a grunt as the wind is knocked out of him. He lays there, foot throbbing, wheezing up at the ceiling. Slade's staff finds its way to his neck.

Just a reminder that Slade has gotten the killing blow this round.

Robin grimaces, his exhaustion dulling the loss of his pride at losing. He rasps through his nose, still unable to speak—not for lack of trying.

"Get up," Slade says. The staff leaves Robin's neck.

Robin stares at the tiled ceiling for one more second.

Slade kicks him, hard, in the ribs. Robin lets out a yell as he's flipped to his side, gasping at the new pressure on his lungs. "Wha-!"

"I gave you an order."

Robin makes a spitting motion to the side as he turns and slowly rights himself on his hands and knees. Getting to his feet is more painful now that he's lain on the blessedly soft ground. He presses the pain down. There are any number of protestations he could make, a thousand reasons why this isn't fair—but that would require admitting weakness.

And you never let enemies see your weak spot.

Robin stands and glares defiantly, rubbing his ribs. Not cracked, but he's all too aware that Slade's steel-toed boots could easily have shattered bone. The idea that Slade might be going easy on him makes him sick, but that might just be the nausea from exertion.

Slade attacks, again and again, and this time all Robin can do is dodge. Attacks are met with more pain, and parrying sends shockwaves down his arms that threaten to knock him over. Pain defines every rasping breath he takes, exhaustion threatening to make him keel over whenever he moves too much on one side.

His eyes are filled with the same fury for Slade as always, even as his most common jumpkicks degrade and he has to resort to more ranged attacks. Slade seems to have somehow infinite stamina, moving faster than ever, blows hitting harder.

Robin goes down for the second time when he fails a kick he should have known better than to attempt. Slade grabs his ankle. Robin hits the floor on his bruised rib and lets out a yell he can't hold back, almost on his stomach in pain. The mat smells like new as he takes wheezing breaths.

"Get up," Slade says.

Robin tries to move but everything hurts and he has to anyways. He heaves himself to his knees, almost falling over from the dizziness. He stumbles on unsteady feet, coughing.

He lasts two moves before Slade slams him bodily into the mat. Robin feels his nose crunch and start to bleed, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. It smears on the floor. Robin watches it drip, trying to move.

"Get up," Slade drones, fuzzy and hard to hear.

Robin gasps with the pain of it, barely able to push himself to his knees. Blood pounds like drums in his ears, in time with his frantically racing pulse, heart trying to bring blood to every corner of his body. He's on his feet. Why is he doing this? What . . .

He's on the floor, staring up at Slade's mask, right before a boot comes down on his wrist. Robin yells, louder this time, trying to pull it out from under Slade's shoe.

"Get up."

"I . . ." Robin's face burns. He feels sweat trail down the sides of his cheeks like tears. He tries to move desperately, scrabbling at the mat with his forearms. His wrist aches. Robin's up several inches. He's staring back up at the ceiling.

This blow to his ribs definitely cracks something. Robin chokes on a yell, turning to the side so he doesn't drown in his own saliva. Can't he see-! I can't—

"'thought this was supposed to be training," he rasps. "Not a beating."

"Oh, but it is," Slade says. His mask leers over Robin's face, somehow predatory despite only one visible eye. . "This is a lesson, my boy. A lesson on the very simple premise of our relationship."

Robin opens his mouth to respond, angry, and can manage only a pained, shallow gasp as Slade presses down on his chest. He leans into it this time, boot shining in the light of the room.

"You are my apprentice. I am your master." Robin glares up at the hated voice. "I require obedience, and I demand respect. This is my due. Because—" Robin gasps in air as the boot mercifully loosens on his chest "—I have won, and you have promised me my payment for having the mercy not to end the lives of your friends."

"That's not—" Robin's voice is cut off in a yell as Slade's boot really does shatter something in him, a rib or two most likely, as he rolls again to the side. Pain shoots up through him, deeper in him than the time he broke his arm, too close to dangerous things. He tries to breathe, and it hurts. All he has are shallow gasps.

"I'm getting tired of your backtalk." Robin gasps up at him, pain pulsing in his chest like a deep bass drum, echoing in his ears. "Let me enlighten you as to your position. It seems not to have quite sunk in yet. Regardless of the status of your pitiful friends, you are here with me. There is nobody who is going to come to save you, and nobody who—to be quite frank—can hear you scream." He crouches down. "Except me, of course." Slade resumes his circling, Robin following him with narrowed eyes. "And I can do anything I want."

Is Slade trying to scare him? His voice sends shudders down Robin's spine, and yet—he's been fascinated by and dealing with Slade for years. He's not about to bow out now, even if Slade does have the momentary upper hand.

The only thing he fears is for the lives of his friends. What happens to me doesn't matter, he thinks, and the thought jolts him for a second. It's not that he doesn't feel fear, but . . .

Robin is sure now that there is very, very little he wouldn't do to save his friends. Why does he have the feeling that Slade is going to push him to that limit?

"But you won't," Robin says, absolutely certain of himself. "You won't kill me, and you won't hurt me too badly. I still have to be your 'apprentice'."

Still worryingly willing to hit him, though. The broken ribs that send spikes of pain every time he breathes attest to that.

"True," Slade muses, though Robin knows he's not oblivious to the air quotes. "However, I think you'll find there is a lot more between those two things than you would like to imagine."

His eye rakes Robin up and down in a way that makes him shudder despite the heat on his skin from the exercise. There's a subtext there that Robin will have to decipher later—but with Slade there's always subtext. That's why Robin thinks he's never really been able to let go of him, never gotten bored with poking at the layers like he has with so many other villains. Slade seems to sneer down at him as he paces.

Robin sticks out his foot.

It's a half second impulse to Slade's circling, a sweep that's he's known so many times before, anger making his foot move quickly. It smashes into Slade's steel toed boot with an almost painful noise. Robin winces, pulling back. Slade looks down.

He laughs, once, nastily.

"You never cease to entertain, do you?" Robin tries to struggle as Slade leans over, grabbing the collar of Robin's white t-shirt. He hauls him up. Robin thrashes, exhausted muscles trying to eke one more surge of adrenaline out of their situation before going limp.

Everything hurts. Slade's pulling up on him only puts more pressure on his ribs. Robin tastes blood. That's bad. I know that's bad.

He faces Slade with all the resolve he still has, finding it still lingering in the back of his mind, to his appreciation. Slade's breath warms his face. His rasping mask fills Robin's ears. Robin's foot hurts.

"As far as you are concerned, former hero," Slade says softly, "I own you. Every part of you is mine, to do with as a I wish. You will call me Master, you will do as I say, you will not talk back, because you exist to serve me. If you pretend otherwise, you will be punished.

Today's lesson is that you cannot win."

"I will never stop being a hero," Robin says, a voice of complete and absolute assurance. Slade's punch hits him in the stomach, right on his broken ribs. Robin curls in a C shape around the gutting pain, unable to find the air to yell. Blood spatters Slade's mask. Robin realizes it's his own as he slumps, choking. Pain lances through every vein. I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe—

Robin gasps in a breath that tastes of metal. He hangs limply from Slade's one-handed grip. The back of his neck starts to ache from the fabric digging into it.

"Do you understand?" Slade asks.

Robin just stares. Blood trickles down his chin. He doesn't see the backhand coming, but he feels it reverberate through his skull. His neck snaps to the side, his mouth filling with blood. Pain blooms on the side of his face.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," Robin snaps, too fast for his own liking. I can hear you, Slade, he bites back, and feels filthy.

You can't fight if you're beaten half to death, he reasons. It still stings.

"Yes . . . ?"

"Master," he spits.

"Good boy."

Robin does not feel fear.

(Not yet.)

What he does feel is the beginnings of an inky hatred blooming in his chest.