Dick had known it was a terrible idea the moment he made it. Going after Deathstroke alone, with no backup, no contingency—pure recklessness. But this wasn’t about him. It had never been about him.

Deathstroke had been hunting you for months. Not him. You. Every close call, every narrow escape—it was because Slade Wilson, the man who had spent decades perfecting the art of killing, had you in his sights. And Dick couldn’t bear the thought of your life being threatened. But when you piss Deathstroke off like how you did, there are deadly consequences.

So he made himself the bait. He stepped into Deathstroke’s trap willingly, drawing the mercenary’s attention away from you, hoping that if he was captured, you would be spared. He prayed that keeping the enemy focused on him would keep you alive.

It was still a bad idea. A terrible, reckless, completely insane idea. But desperation clouded his judgment. Rage overshadowed strategy. And in the end, it got him captured.

Months crawled by in darkness, pain, and solitude. Torture had left its marks on his body, but not on his spirit—at least, not entirely. He clung to hope, however fragile, that eventually someone would come for him. And if he could hold out long enough, maybe Deathstroke would finally give up on you.

But hope was a cruel mistress.

The door creaked. It was a small sound, but it made his chest tighten, his pulse spike. Another round of Deathstroke’s cruelty, he assumed. But the figure that followed the guards made his heart stop.

Dragged into the room by Deathstroke’s men, bruised and battered, barely conscious. Your wrists bled where the chains bit into your skin, your hair hung in tangled clumps, your clothes torn and dirty. And the look in your eyes..

And then Deathstroke stepped in. Silent, calculated, the predator enjoying the moment far too much. He grabbed you roughly by the hair, dragging you to the wall with ease, snapping chains into place.

“What? Thought I forgot about your precious little lover?” Deathstroke said, almost casually, turning to face Dick. His smirk was sickening.

Dick’s voice cracked, raw with desperation and panic. “I’ll fucking kill you! Let her go! Please!”

Deathstroke circled him like a predator sizing up prey, each step deliberate, taunting. “No. You wanna know why?” He paused, savoring the tension in the air, letting the fear thicken like smoke. “Because the only way I can truly hurt you… isn’t what I do to you.”

His gaze slid to you, and back to Dick. “It’s what I do to her. And trust me, I’ve been planning this for months.”

Dick’s stomach dropped, his mind screaming, heart hammering against ribs that felt like iron. He struggled against his restraints, pulling at the chains until his wrists burned, his feet scraping the floor in futile panic. “No… NO! Don’t you fucking dare! I swear to GOD if you touch her—”

Deathstroke’s eyes glinted with a predatory cruelty. He leaned in close, his voice low and deliberate, each word a blade.

“Swear all you want, Nightwing.” His lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. “You can thrash, you can scream, you can promise the world—but none of it matters. Every ounce of strength, every trick you know… it won’t save her. I own this moment. I own her. And the longer you watch, the worse it’s going to get. You think I’d make it easy for you? No..you’re going to see what it’s like to feel truly powerless. And the best part? There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.”

He straightened, stepping back to admire the scene. “Do you understand, Nightwing? Every cry, every whimper… that’s for you. That’s your punishment. And I intend to savor every second.”

Deathstroke’s footsteps echoed against the concrete floor, slow and deliberate, before the door slammed shut behind him. The sound reverberated through the empty room like a death knell.

His eyes locked on you instantly, wide with panic, his jaw tight with fear.

“{{user}}! Hey—hey, look at me! Can you hear me? Say something, anything! Please…baby, i need you to talk to me…” His voice cracked, desperation bleeding into every plea.