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Damian comes to slowly. His vision swims into focus like looking up into bright light from under water. His head pounds mercilessly. Every nerve in his body screams in discomfort, muscles aching dully.
At first, he doesn't understand what his senses tell him. Bright lights glare relentlessly in front of him, casting the rest of the dark space around him in shadow. His mouth is forced open wide around something round, parched tongue lolling. Some kind of circular gag that stretches his jaw painfully wide. As he squirms, abrasive rope chafes against the bare skin of his chest and arms, arms tied forearm to forearm behind the back of a cold metal chair. His legs are stretched wide apart, the calves drawn up parallel with the seat and securely bound to cross bars that run between the legs of the chair.
It's supremely uncomfortable and infuriatingly effective. He only wiggle a little. When he flexes his arms, trying to see if he can create some space, he realizes his biceps are also connected by a sturdy length of the rope, leaving him not nearly enough space to try and work his arms free. His legs are no better, thighs burning from being forced so wide, knees bent in a position that has them aching fiercely.
Looking down his body, he can see that he's entirely bare except for a pair of stark white boxers. The ropes that criss-cross his bare torso and arms are intricately knotted. As decorative as they are immobilizing. Performative and functional.
Swallowing as best he can around the gag, even though there's basically no saliva pooling in his mouth, Damian tries to look around, to get a read on his surroundings. The lights are haloed in those reflective umbrella-looking covers that photographers use. Straight ahead, he see a set up of video cameras. Three little red lights blink at him.
Three cameras recording.
He can't see much of the room beyond the circle of light around him, but when he looks off to the left, he can see the soft bluish glow of a computer screen about fifty feet away. He squints through the blinding lights, trying to make out something on the screen.
His heart jumps when he realizes it's playing a video. A video of him, bound and helpless in this chair. He struggles harder against his bonds, and the Damian on the screen struggles too. Off to the side of the footage, he sees a column of text scrolling up the screen, the speed of the scrolling kicking up in response to his squirming.
Not just a video.
A livestream.
Whoever abducted him and tied him up here, whoever set up these cameras, is broadcasting this video live on the internet. People are watching right now. Commenting.
His breath comes out in sharp puffs as clarity over what's happening snaps into painful relief. He'd been walking across campus after staying late studying in the library, and realized midway that he was being followed. He remembers ducking into an alley, casual, hoping to catch his stalker off guard and—
It clearly didn't go down that way. His mind's too foggy to remember anything after that. Or maybe they'd simply managed to knock him unconscious before he could orient himself toward an attack.
Regardless, he's got a pretty good idea who set up that camera. They've been popping up anonymously over the last month. No names, just a stupid title accompanied by #FuckTheRich. Clearly a skilled hacker, given Oracle's continued inability to track him down thus far.
In his first video, he'd tied a real estate mogul up with a ridiculously sized dildo shoved up his ass and made him read a very long list of tenants in his slummy apartment buildings that had gone without heat all winter while he vacationed in Cabo. By the time they tracked him to one of his own apartments, the streamer was long gone.
The internet hailed him as a hero to the working class, to the impoverished and downtrodden, called his acts of public humiliation and sexual assault a form of modern-age vigilante justice. Sodomy, bondage, corporal punishments, degrading positions. Millions of people have watched his streams, clamoring for more. Caring less for the social commentary than for the spectacle, the humiliation.
Literally #FuckTheRich.
Unfortunately for Damian, he is the rich.
He tries to relax his sore muscles, to steady his breathing. Surely his father's realized he's missing by now. Oracle will be furiously trying to crack the layers of encryption hiding the stream. They'll find him soon enough.
But, of course, they haven't found any of the victims until it was too late and the humiliation was already done. But he can't let himself think about that now. He's been trained to resist physical and mental torture alike. He can endure this.
He's not sure how long he sits there, focusing on breathing. Trying not to show his discomfort and give the spectators the show they're expecting. And, okay, partially because he knows his family is watching too, and he doesn't want to worry them by looking like he's in any more distress than necessary. His legs are quick to go numb, buzzing with pins and needles. His tongue feels like sandpaper.
He tries to shut out his body's physical discomfort with deep meditation. It works. For a while, but eventually the rough edges grate against his inner focus. He curses himself for not keeping up with the meditation exercises as well as he should have since starting at Gotham U.
Footsteps make him jolt back to awareness, eyes scanning the shadows outside the halo of white light. A silhouette moves up to the cameras, adjusting something. Damian glares as fiercely as he can manage, though he's sure he looks ridiculous with his mouth stretched open.
After a silent moment, the figure steps forward. A man dressed in a hoodie and jeans. The hood is drawn up, casting his face in shadow. Damian can't make out anything but the slope of a nose and the jut of a jaw.
"Good to see you're awake," a man's voice rumbles from beneath the hood. He recognizes it from the past streams. "Comfortable?" Damian just narrows his eyes and glares. "Today's special guest, for anyone unaware, is none other than biological son of Gotham darling Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne."
He steps closer to Damian, staying to the side so Damian remains fully in frame of the cameras. He's careful not to let himself face the lights, to keep his face obscured in shadow.
"I have to specify biological because, as we all know, generous, philanthropist Brucie Wayne is known for his taste for orphans." He shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, head cocking to the side. "Anyone ever wonder why that was? I personally always got skeevy vibes." His laugh is low and bitter. "Did your daddy adopt your big brothers so he'd have his own stash of little boys to fuck, Damian?"
He can't help it, a sound like a snarl rips out of him at the insult. Father would never— His throat burns, bone dry and unused so long.
The man just laughs again. "Ooh, touched a nerve, did I?" He steps right up next to Damian's chair, one finger tracing along one of the lengths of rope tied around his bicep. "What, Daddy diddle you, too? I hear most of the rich are like that. You've got therapy money, though, I'm sure you'll get the trauma sorted out in your thirties or something."
His thumb slides in through the circular opening of the gag, black latex rubbing against Damian's parched tongue. He wishes more than anything that he could bite down.
"You must be parched with your mouth hanging open like that," the man muses, pulling a bottle of water out of his pocket. Damian eyes it warily as he twists the cap off. "Here, take a drink." When it's brought up to his mouth, he recoils. The man sighs. "It's not poisoned or anything, just water."
To prove his point, he takes a drink of it himself. Reluctantly, when it returns back in front of Damian, he tips his head and allows the man to start pouring it through the hole in the gag. He pours it slow, so Damian doesn't choke.
It's cold and fresh, a soothing balm on his parched tongue. Before he knows it, the whole bottle is empty. The man tosses the bottle aside and retreats back into the shadows. Over to the computer. Damian tries to watch what he does on the screen, but is unable to get a good angle around his body.
When he eventually stands, Damian realizes the image on the stream is split into three now. One, the same shot it had been before, his whole body centered in the frame. The second is a close-up on his face, the video quality crisp. The third, most concerningly, points straight at his crotch, showing off his parted thighs and white boxers in high definition.
His mind races as he tries to figure out what act of sexual humiliation the man has planned. Because that's the unifying thread between all of the #FuckTheRich streams. And while, yes, the shibari bondage does carry a sexual connotation, it's not nearly as overt as the others before him had been.
But his captor doesn't seem to do anything. Nothing about the situation changes. Sometimes he sits at his computer, speaking aloud to read out disgusting comments. Sometimes he rolls over in a desk chair, still shrouded in shadow at the edge of the ring of light, and talks at Damian about how horrible his family is.
Then, every so often, he comes into the light and dumps another bottle of water into Damian's mouth. Very quickly, his stomach feels too-full from the volume of the liquid. He tries to refuse, tries to turn his head away. His captor just grips him by the hair, tilts his head back, and starts pouring. Damian has no choice but to drink it, or else choke on it.
He figures it out after the forth bottle, when his capture laughs as he tosses the empty plastic aside and says, "that ought to be enough by now."
Pressure builds. He squirms in his chair. The pressure builds. Slight urge growing to need growing to desperation. He groans, eyes squeezing shut. He has to pee.
He has to pee so fucking bad.
Damian is used to holding his bladder for long periods of time. There's not always a good time to go relieve one's self on patrol or on a mission. But 67.6 ounces of water over the course of several hours without going is too much even for someone with strict bladder control.
He grits his teeth around the gag. This game is more than the bondage. More than the gag. More than the disgusting implications toward his father. The camera aimed at his crotch, another on his face to capture the reaction. This is the humiliation.
Damian's going to be forced to wet himself.
Piss himself on camera while a million on the internet watch. While his family watches as they desperately try to track the location of the stream. He feels his cheeks burn.
"Ooh, I think he just figured it out, chat," his captor's voice mocks. "Not too bright, this one." The man spins himself slowly in his desk chair. "Did you know he's in med school? The finest doctor Wayne money can buy. Ooh, they should make a reality TV show once he graduates. The Nepo Doctor. What do you think, would you guys watch it? Would you guys want Dr. Wayne here treating you?"
All Damian can do is groan.
He just has to hold it until his family finds him. His captor isn't going to cut the stream until Damian pisses. If he can hold it, no matter how long it takes, no matter how bad the pressure grows, he gives Oracle the time to crack the encryption. He gives his father the time to put together whatever clues he's got so far and use it to find a lead.
He tries meditation again, breathing slowly and evenly, eyes closed. It's not terribly hard to shut out his captor's irritating voice, and the man seems to get bored with taunting him when Damian doesn't react, instead returning to talking to his chat.
The image of a candle flame flickers in his mind's eye, a small point of light in an empty void that wraps around him like a bubble. Everything else exists outside of the void. His captor and his cameras exist outside the void. Pain and discomfort exist outside the void. The urine threatening to make his bladder burst exists outside the void. All the exists inside is the flickering flame and the breath in his lungs.
Then his bladder spasms. Damian groans, the candle snuffling out. He slumps in his restraints, everything he'd been blocking out snapping back into painful relief. His extremities are completely numb. His stomach is strained too full of water, and his bladder burns with the need to release.
He feels the first trickle slip out, a small wet spot growing on the front of his boxers. His chest heaves as he desperately tries to hold it in.
"Oh, here we go!" the man cheers, rolling back toward the light to watch the show. "This is it, chat, the moment we've all been waiting for! Wayne heir pisses himself live on stream."
Damian fights. He fights hard. He fights with honor. But simple biology wins out over force of will and mental fortitude. A choked sound claws from his chest when the second trickle leaks out, larger than the first. It soaks through the white fabric, starting to pool on the metal chair. His face burns hot with shame. Shame at his failure. Shame knowing that a million people are about to watch him piss himself.
Defeated, he lets go.
The relief is immediate and overwhelming. He sobs, head bowing, feeling tears start to roll down his cheeks.
The stream of piss feels endless. It floods the seat of the chair, running in rivulets over the edge and onto the floor. On and on. It wets his numb thighs, dripping down to his calves, soaking into the rope binding them to the chair. The drips onto the concrete floor seem to echo like the pounding of his heartbeat.
When the stream peters out, Damian is left stewing in his own mess. The boxers cling uncomfortably to his piss-slick skin, outlining his genitals for everyone watching to see.
Hands clap down around his shoulders. "Bravo!" his captor taunts. "Look at Gotham's very own little nepo baby, crying in a puddle of his own piss. I bet Daddy's so proud—"
His words are cut off with a strangled choke, the hands scrabbling at his shoulders before falling away. Damian looks up through bleary eyes at the camera, still displaying the stream. He can see shadows writhing behind him at the edge of the light.
Wet thuds of skin being struck and struck hard are drowned out by groans of pain and pleas for mercy. Damian blinks sluggishly. The cavalry has arrived, it seems.
Red, green, and yellow approaches slowly. The glint of a bo staff arcs through the air, smashing the cameras. On the screen, the feeds go black. The chat is scrolling furiously.
Stepping carefully around the piss on the floor, Tim kneels next to Damian, placing a hand on his shoulder. He cringes away from the touch and it falls away, his brother looking devastated.
"It's alright, Dames," he murmurs, pulling the gag from his mouth. Damian sobs. Tim is already pulling out a utility knife from his belt and starting to cut through the ropes. "It's over now. We're going to get you out of here."
Legs freed. Then arms. He sags before all of the ropes are cut away from his body, collapses right onto Tim who catches him with ease. Painful pins and needles burn his limbs as he moves them for the first time in hours.
He sobs onto Tim's shoulder, his brother holding him despite the mess on his skin. Hands stroke his back, hold him tight. "Shh," he soothes, "I've got you. Everything is going to be alright."
He barely hears the words, soft in his ear under the background of the painful beating his captor is getting at Father's hands.
In the end, he'd done it. Held out long enough to give his family time to find him. #FuckTheRich turned out to be a scorned IT guy who'd lost his job after his gambling addiction led him to skimming money from Fortune 500 company he'd worked for, and his family had been forced to live in a shitty apartment while he was in jail. His wife divorced him. He blamed the rich for his misfortune.
Wayne heir pisses himself live on stream was watched by almost three million people by the time he lost the fight. Even though the stream was taken down, a lot of those people had already clipped his torment. Saved the moment he flooded the chair in urine and sobbed in humiliation.
He can't escape the videos online. They follow him. Haunt him. Eventually, people will forget. They'll move on to the next scandal, the next spectacle. Damian won't forget though. And the internet won't forget either.