#weirdo-fangirl-dragonchild666

[everydarkcorner]

can we get some blackmail up in here

Absofuckinglutely we can!

@poppyrous “Interrogation” is coming up next time. ;)

Read on AO3!

Blackmail

When Robin’s communicator beeped—only Robin’s communicator—his heart dropped into his stomach.  Because who would ever only call him?  Batman?  Alfred?  Something was wrong.  It had to be.

              Reaching for his communicator, he stretched out his

other hand to switch off the treadmill.  The belt rumbled as it slowed

under his feet.  Panting, Robin flipped the communicator open.  He tapped on the message, and at the same time grabbed his water bottle and took a swig.

              Which turned out to be a mistake, as an image of him, utterly naked, flashed up on the communicator screen.

              Robin choked, stumbled on the still-moving treadmill belt, and smacked his head on the control panel.

              Legs buckling, he tumbled off the side of the treadmill and slammed into the floor on his back.  In the corner, Cyborg looked up from where he was lying back on the weights bench, an impossibly heavy bar bell raised over his head.  Beast Boy, supposedly spotting Cyborg but actually watching cat videos on his communicator, looked up with a sympathetic wince.

              ‘I’m fine!’ Robin gasped, Cyborg could come over.  He rolled over, snatched up his communicator, and snapped it shut.

              Cyborg set down the bar bell with a heavy metallic clang.  ‘You sure, man?  I think I heard your skull crack.’

              Robin staggered to his feet, crushing his communicator in his fist.  ‘Yeah.  Yeah, I’m fine.  It’s fine.  I’m just.’  Blood pounded in his temple; he pressed a hand to it with a grimace.  ‘I’m just gonna go lie down.’

              ‘Uh-huh.’  Cyborg somehow manage to arch an eyebrow he didn’t have, sharing a suspicious glance with Beast Boy.

              Ignoring them, Robin rushed out of the gym and down the corridor.  Starfire had dragged Raven out on some shopping trip, so the rest of the Tower was empty and quiet—but Robin still glanced up and down the corridor before reopening the communicator.

              Blood rushed into his face, burning-hot.  The photo was undoubtedly him.  He was lying in bed—in his bed, here in the Tower—the blankets coiled around one leg, and his head thrown back against the pillows.  His eyes were closed, his lips parted

…

              And his hand curled around his cock.

              He stared, hand shaking around the communicator.  Who?  How?  Cyborg updated the Tower firewalls practically every week.  How could anyone sneak a photo of him—of him—

              The communicator beeped again, and Robin almost hit the ceiling.

              Hissing through gritted teeth, Robin clicked the button to open the new message.

             I think it’s a good portrait of you, Robin.  – S

              Robin swallowed.  S.  A wave of heat crashed through his body.  For a moment, his thumbs hovered over the buttons.  Then he typed out one word.

              Slade?

              The response came in seconds.

              Who else?

              Robin stared. No.

                No, no, no.

              How?  How had Slade snuck a camera into the Tower, let alone Robin’s own bedroom?  The shot was angled from above; Robin looked up now, scanning the empty ceiling for a small, robotic shape.

              Nothing.

              Another message flashed up on the screen.

                That was only a screenshot, Robin. Would you like to watch a clip?

              He didn’t get a chance to respond.  The video pinged through a moment later, and Robin’s numb fingers hit play before he could stop to think.

              It was the same shot, watching him from overhead.

Except it was worse, because now he was moving, sliding his own hands down his body to squeeze his half-hard cock.  In the video, Robin hummed, raised his hips and stroked with one hand, while the other traced back up his body and flicked over his nipple.

              Holding the communicator, Robin went cold.  Shit. Shit, no.  He remembered this. No, no, no, no, fuck—

              The Robin in the video closed his eyes, rocking his hips against his hand.  And then he turned his face half into the pillow, drew a long breath, and sighed, ‘Slade …’

              Robin snapped the communicator shut.  ‘Shit.’  He closed his fist around the communicator, hand trembling, chest aching.  Then he realised he wasn’t breathing, and took a huge, shaky gasp. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

              It was a just a fantasy.  A stupid fucking fantasy.  No one was supposed to hear.  No one was supposed to know—

              The ring of his communicator went through his aching head like a spear.  Not a message this time—a call.  He stared at it, stomach tight, heart pounding.  Finally, inevitably, he flicked it open.

              ‘Slade?’  The word came out as a croak, his throat dry as sand.

              On the screen, Slade’s single eye narrowed as he smiled behind his mask.  ‘Did you enjoy the video?  I must say, I’m flattered, Robin.’

              ‘Shut up!’  Robin glanced behind him, but Cyborg and Beast Boy hadn’t left the gym, and the Tower remained quiet.

              ‘You don’t like it?’  Slade tilted his head.  ‘Shame. I can think of plenty of people who would.  Some of your adoring fans might appreciate seeing your more … intimate moments.  Or I could always send it straight to Wayne Enterprises.’

              Robin went cold.  ‘No.’

              Slade knew.  He knew about Wayne Enterprises, which meant he knew about Bruce, which meant he knew about—

              ‘Of course,’ Slade continued, as if he’d never been interrupted, ‘I could be persuaded to keep this private.’

              Robin hissed.  ‘What do you want?’

              He couldn’t see it, but he knew Slade’s smile grew wider.  ‘Well, Robin … that is the question.’  Slade stared up from the communicator screen, silent for so long Robin thought he wasn’t going to answer.  Then, finally— ‘Go to your room and lock the door.’

              Swallowing, Robin nodded and hurried through the Tower.

              He could barely breathe around the lump in his throat.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  What could he do?  If Slade released that video …

              Sure, it was a crime.  Slade would be in trouble—Robin snorted—as if being ‘in trouble’ had ever bothered Slade.  And Slade would never be caught, because he never was.  And in the meantime, that video could—would—make it across the Internet.  Across the world.  And as if the shame wasn’t enough to make Robin sick, what if people recognised his face?  What if they connected Robin with Dick Grayson, and Dick Grayson with Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne with—

              His chest tightened.

                Dad.

              He couldn’t do it.  He wouldn’t.  He wouldn’t let it happen.  Whatever godawful job Slade had for him, he’d do it, and then he’d find a way to get hold of that recording and destroy it.

              Hitting the switch for his bedroom, he stepped in the moment the door swished open, then locked it the instant it shut behind him.  Drawing a breath, he tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling.  Empty.  If Slade’s camera was still there, he couldn’t see it.

              Robin lifted the communicator.  ‘Now what?’

              ‘Take off your mask.’

              Robin narrowed his eyes.  ‘No way—’

              ‘I’ve already seen your face, Robin.’  Slade’s voice was smooth and even.  ‘Take it off.’

              Grinding his teeth, Robin reached up, and peeled the mask away.  He dropped it on the carpet.  ‘Happy?’

              Slade laughed, soft and breathy.  ‘Of course.  Now put the communicator on your desk, and sit down.’

              Crossing the room on stiff legs, Robin thumped down in his chair and set the communicator on the table, screen facing towards him.

              ‘Push your chair back, Robin.  I want to see you properly.’

              Robin scowled.  ‘What, no more hidden cameras?’  But he shoved his chair back regardless.

              ‘Do you think I’d tell you if there were?’  The angle on Slade’s camera shifted; Robin got the impression he was also sitting down.  ‘Take off your belt.’

              Robin’s heart thumped.  ‘What?’

              ‘Your belt.’  Slade drew each word out, slow and precise.  ‘Take it off.’

              Robin didn’t move.  ‘Why?’

              ‘Because otherwise, I will put that video online for the world to see.’  Slade’s voice turned cold.  ‘Do it, Robin.’

              His hands didn’t feel like his own.  Robin reached for the clasp on the belt; fumbled; finally unbuckled it.  It slid off his hips, snakelike, and thudded to the floor.

              ‘Now,’ Slade’s voice was whisper-soft, ‘hands on your knees.’

              Robin set his hands on his knees, trembling.  His stomach coiled, and a voice in his head screamed, Wrong, WRONG!  But his feet were pinned in place, and he couldn’t lift himself out of the chair.

              ‘Bring your hands up your legs, Robin,’ Slade said.  ‘Slowly.  Knees apart.’

              Robin’s fingers tightened on his knees.  ‘No.’

              ‘Yes, Robin.  I want to watch you.’

              ‘You already have.’  Each word felt like forcing razors up his throat.

              ‘I want to watch you do it for me.  Just for me.’  Slade shifted; leaning back in his seat.  ‘I want you to look into the camera when you moan my name.’

              Robin jerked, and would have leaped to his feet if not for—

              If not for the blood pooling between his legs.

              Facing burning, he gripped his knees in both hands.  ‘You’re blackmailing me … to get more blackmail material?’

              ‘You’re overthinking it, Robin.’  Slade’s voice was soft again, almost comforting.  ‘I liked what I saw, and I want to see more.  Imagine I’m there.  Imagine it’s me running my hands up your legs.  I know you like it.  Touch yourself.  Touch yourself for me.’

              He didn’t say ‘or else’, but Robin heard it.  And finally, achingly, Robin dragged his hands backwards up his legs, fingers stiff and shaking.  He couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t—he couldn’t—

              ‘That’s it, Robin.  Push up your shirt.  Let me see you.’

              Closing his eyes, Robin swallowed and shoved his shirt up, hands brushing over his stomach—his chest.  In bed, on his own, it felt so natural.  Just something he did, like showering and brushing his teeth.  Now, every movement was stiff.  He felt like he was standing on a cliff edge, toes already hanging over the empty air, and so close to falling.

              ‘Relax,’ Slade breathed.  ‘Just pretend it’s my hands on you, Robin.  Pretend, like you did before.’

              Something caught in Robin’s throat, and with a surge of heat he realised he wanted to moan. It was Slade’s voice—the way he let each word roll deliciously off his tongue, as though he was savouring every syllable.  Robin bit his lip, and without Slade’s prompting, flicked his thumbs over his nipples.  He tipped his head back, biting down on another moan at the spark-like tingles that shot over his skin.  He imagined Slade’s hands, tracing his chest.  Slade’s mouth, closing over a nipple and sucking, licking, biting—

              He pinched a nipple, hard, and whined at the sweet, sharp sensation.  Was that how teeth would feel?  Panting, he did it again, shivers racing down his spine.

              ‘Yes, Robin.’  Slade sounded breathy, lower even than usual, and with a rush of heat Dick realised he might also be touching himself, somewhere below the view of the camera.  ‘Show me what you want me to do to you.’

              Closing his teeth on his tongue, Robin slipped one hand down his body and into his pants.  For all his effort, he couldn’t restrain the automatic, ‘Hnng!’ as his fingers closed around his cock.

              ‘Pants down, Robin,’ Slade murmured.  ‘I want to see.’

              Robin wriggled, lifting his hips enough to shift his leggings down.  And—fuck—he was embarrassingly hard, throbbing painfully.  Sweat trickled down his back, and his face was scalding, and he moved his hand around his cock and groaned.

              ‘Good boy,’ Slade growled.  ‘What are you imagining?  Tell me.’

              Robin’s head spun.  ‘Your—your hands on me.’

              ‘And?’

              But he couldn’t form words.  Couldn’t think.  Blood pounded in his cock and he ached and the room was spinning.  And it was all he could do to keep his hand moving, and Slade—Slade was watching him—

              Slade didn’t seem offended.  Instead, he took over, murmuring so low it all sounded like a threat.  ‘I will have every inch of you, Robin.  I will taste your skin, and press you beneath me, and watch you writhe while I fuck you.’

              Robin whined as the pressure built in his cock, his hand moving faster as he climbed higher.

              ‘My name, Robin,’ Slade said.  ‘Look at me.  I want to hear my name.’

              ‘Slade,’ Robin breathed, ignoring the knot in his stomach.  He was so close.  Not just on the edge of a cliff anymore but teetering over, longing to fall.  ‘Slade, Slade, Slade—’

              His eyes flashed open as the tension through his body snapped all at once.

              He managed, just, to fix his gaze on the communicator, his vision hazy and unfocused.  He wasn’t sure if he was moaning Slade’s name anymore, or just moaning, but either way he was tumbling, wind roaring in his ears, and he felt breathless and alive—

              He slumped.  Tipped his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.  His hand was wet, and his legs ached, and distantly he recognised the ongoing thump, thump, thump in his head where he’d bashed it on the treadmill.

              ‘Very good, Robin.  You are … perfect.’

              Robin blinked and lifted his head.  Slade’s expression was impossible to read, and Robin didn’t try to answer.

              ‘Next time,’ Slade promised, ‘I will have my hands on you.’

              The screen flashed, and went black.

              Robin sat staring at the blank communicator for far too long.

                Next time.

              Next time, he’d hear Slade’s voice up against his own skin, rather than through a tinny speaker.  He’d feel Slade’s hands tracing his bare skin.  He’d feel the weight of Slade’s body pressing against him.

              He shivered.

                Next time.

[everydarkcorner]

Interrogation sounds nice for the bad Things happen Bingo...

Oooohhhh yes it does.

I went slightly balls-to-the-walls with this one and kept writing until 01:15AM with no time to edit, so if there are any mistakes do let me know. ^^;

Interrogation

Read on AO3!

Robin should have known better than to answer his communicator halfway through a grapple swing.  It was distracting, and it put him off-balance, and it usually ended in him smacking into a wall or tumbling across a rooftop.  He knew better.

              So when he flicked the communicator open, and the image of him flashed up on the screen, sat in his desk chair with his shirt shoved up to his armpits and his hand around his cock, he almost deserved it.

              Robin yelped, and narrowly avoided crashing through a window.  Instead, he slammed into the concrete wall next to the window.  Pain shot through his ribs, and then his shoulder wrenched as he fell two feet, and stopped dead, dangling by one hand.  Groaning, he clipped the communicator back to his belt, clasped the grapple in both hands, and hit the retract button.  It dragged him up the office building, and he tried to ignore the way people inside looked up from their computers, frowning at first, and then grinning as they recognised him.

              He finally scrambled up onto the roof, and allowed himself a couple of minutes to gasp for breath, crouching on the concrete.  Shaking himself, Robin flipped open his communicator.  He winced at the picture—his face was flushed, his mouth was open and his eyes closed, face tilted back in bliss.

              The communicator rang before he could close the picture.  Gritting his teeth, Robin answered.  ‘You nearly killed me.’

              Slade stared up at him from the screen, his single eye serene.  ‘You shouldn’t answer your communicator in mid-air.’

              Robin spluttered, jerking to his feet and staring across the buildings.  Slade saw that?  ‘Where—?’

              ‘I enjoyed our last little talk, Robin,’ Slade said, as though Robin hadn’t spoken.  ‘It would be a shame if it were our last.’

              It was expected, but Robin still felt a thrill race up through his skin.  He ground his teeth, trying to fight it.  ‘You gonna threaten to post that picture online, too?’

              Slade’s eye narrowed.  ‘Do I need to?’

              For a moment, Robin couldn’t move.  Blood pulsed in his ears, a steady thump-thump-thump like music pounding through the walls of a club.  He should struggle.  He should find a way to stop this.  To stop Slade neatly stacking one blackmail opportunity on top of another.

              He absolutely shouldn’t be feeling a rush of heat right now.  Shouldn’t be thinking of the sparks and the breathlessness, and the way he said Slade’s name on camera, just for him, and the way Slade had said, ‘Next time …’

              Robin swallowed.  ‘Where?’

              Slade’s eye turned up at the corner, and Robin imagined he was smiling.  ‘I’ll send you coordinates.’

              The screen went black.

              Robin sucked a breath, and then pressed his lips together as the coordinates came through.  Only a few streets away—a warehouse, by the look of it.  He snapped the communicator shut.

              He almost plummeted to his death twice more on the way to the warehouse, because his stupid hands wouldn’t stop shaking on the grapple.

              Robin slipped into the warehouse with bo-staff in hand; the door was unlocked, and the surroundings were quiet and empty, the sun just beginning to sink over the city.  Closing the door softly, he padded inside.  Dim electric lights buzzed on the walls, barely cutting into the shadows in the middle of the room—where a lone wooden chair sat.  And opposite the chair …

              Robin’s chest tightened.

              A camera.  Black and bulky, sat on a spindly tripod like a bird of prey glaring down from a telephone pole.

              Chewing the inside of his mouth, Robin turned his bo-staff over in his hand.

              ‘You won’t be needing that, Robin.’

              Before Robin could draw breath, Slade slipped up behind him.  His hand curled over Robin’s, and easily prised the bo-staff from his grip.

              Robin whirled.  ‘Slade!  Give it back!’

              ‘You can have your staff back—’  Slade twirled it expertly, then hit the retract switch; the staff zipped back into its handle, and Slade tucked it in his belt, ‘—after I’m finished with you.’  He gestured at the chair.  ‘Take a seat.’

              Robin curled his fists, glaring up at Slade.  But what was the point in arguing?  Slade had that photo—had two whole videos now—to use against Robin as he pleased.

              Stiffly, Robin walked to the chair and sat down.  Slade strolled up behind the camera, and touched a button somewhere; the camera lens whirred as it focused on Robin, and tiny red light flashed on.  Recording.

              ‘More home videos?’  Robin hated the way his voice trembled, ever so slightly.

              ‘Actually, I’d like to ask you some questions.’  Slade approached, steps slow and even.  Reaching into his belt, he drew out thin, white cords.  Zip ties.  ‘Hands on the armrests, Robin.’

              On instinct, Robin drew his arms up into his chest.  But when Slade leaned in and curled a hand around Robin’s wrist, Robin didn’t resist.  He let Slade push his hand down into the arm rest, and then tighten the zip tie around his wrist.  Robin winced, the plastic cutting into his skin.  When Slade took his other hand, Robin’s fingers were trembling.

              ‘Nervous?’  Slade’s eye flashed up to meet Robin’s gaze.

              Robin swallowed.  ‘No.’

              Slade laughed, low and soft.  ‘You should think about telling the truth.’

              Reaching into his belt, he drew out something else: a flat, black pad, like a plaster.  Robin’s heart thudded.

              ‘What’s that?’

              Slade pressed the pad to Robin’s arm.  ‘You’ll find out.’  He stepped back, and with a twist of his hand revealed a small, black box.  ‘Answer honestly, Robin.’

              Robin’s eyes flicked to the camera.  He wanted to say something—to put some kind of caveat on honestly. Something like, ‘As long as you don’t make me hurt anyone,’ or, ‘Depends on the question.’  But his throat was dry as dust, and instead he squirmed and flexed his fingers.

              ‘Do you live in Jump City?’

              ‘Yes.’  Robin looked from Slade to the camera and back.

              ‘Did you previously live in Gotham City?’

              Robin shifted his feet.  ‘Yes.’

              ‘Did you come here hoping I would fuck you?’

              Robin jolted, and the chair jerked beneath him.  The wooden legs cracked on the cement floor, the noise echoing through the warehouse.  ‘What?’

              ‘Wrong answer.’

              Fire shot up Robin’s arm.

              He bowed over, a scream tearing up out of his throat; surprise as much as pain.  The muscles in his arm tightened, throbbing, his fingers seizing.  Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.  Robin hung his head, panting.  Electricity, he realised.  He’s electrocuting me.

              ‘Did you come here,’ Slade said again, more slowly, ‘hoping I would fuck you?’

              Robin lifted his head, eyes wide.  The little black box—it was a remote.  For a moment, a similar image flashed into his head—of Slade holding another remote, his bulk a dark shadow in front of bright orange screens—

              Slade’s thumb twitched near the button.

              ‘Yes!’  Robin gasped.  ‘Y-yes.’

              ‘Yes what, Robin?  Say it for the camera.’

              Gritting his teeth, Robin straightened.  ‘Yes,’ he forced out, barely more than a whisper, ‘I came here hoping—hoping you would fuck me.’  His face burned, and he dropped his gaze instantly, staring at his feet in mute horror.

              ‘Good boy,’ Slade purred.  ‘Let’s try some easier questions.  Are you a member of the Teen Titans?’

              A shaky breath.  ‘Yes.’

              ‘Do they know you’re here with me?’

              ‘No.’  Robin’s stomach clenched.  Stupid.  Stupid and risky, and Bruce would kick his ass if ever found out.  But how could Robin tell them?  What could he possibly say?

              ‘Did you enjoy masturbating for me?’

              Robin snapped his gaze up.  Slade was staring, finger hovering over the trigger.  Robin took a breath—

              ‘Too slow, Robin.’

              Slade hit the button.

              He let it go on for longer this time, and Robin could feel that one eye burning into his as he jolted and seized, snarling in pain.  The burn in his arm crept through his body, muscles aching as they spasmed.  When it finally stopped, Robin bowed over, gasping for air.

              ‘Well, Robin?’

              ‘Yes,’ Robin ground out, each breath coming jagged and shaky.  ‘Yes, I enjoyed—I enjoyed—masturbating for you.’  He forced himself to sit up.  His eyes burned, tears threatening as he stared at the remote in Slade’s fist.  ‘Slade … Slade, stop.  Please …’

              Slade tilted his head.  ‘Stop?’

              ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’  Robin’s throat was paper-dry.  ‘Just … just take this thing off.’  He jerked his arm; the zip-tie cut into his skin.  ‘Just take it off, please.’

              ‘Answer honestly,’ Slade said, ‘and I won’t have to shock you again.’

              Robin moaned, but Slade was already ploughing ahead, his next question cutting straight over Robin:

              ‘Do you want me to cut those cable ties?’

              ‘Yes!’

              ‘Do you want to leave?’

              Robin opened his mouth.  Hesitated a beat.  Trick.

              Slade’s thumb twitched on the trigger.

              ‘No.’  He spat the word quickly, heart jolting.  ‘No, no, I don’t want to leave.’

              Slade lifted his thumb away, and Robin sagged.  This was it.  It was a game.  A game to mess with his head, and that was fine.  He could play games.  Slade wasn’t the first to try and upset a poor, hostage little bird.  Robin gritted his teeth.

              ‘Do you want my cock in your mouth?’

              Robin flinched.  But then he looked up, fixed his eyes on Slade, and said, ‘Yes.’

              For just a moment, Slade was quiet, and Robin wasn’t sure if he was surprised, or pleased.  Or … possibly … disappointed.  Disappointed that his prey wasn’t quivering in the corner anymore.  But then—

              ‘Do you like to imagine me fucking your mouth, when you masturbate?’

              ‘Yes.’

              ‘Say it, Robin.’

              Robin swallowed, face burning, and forced the words out.  ‘I like to image you fucking my mouth when I masturbate.’

              Something clenched, low in his belly, and a fresh wave of heat spread over Robin’s body.  He tensed, fingers tightening on the arm rests.  No … surely not.  He couldn’t—

              ‘Would you like to open your mouth and let me come on your face?’

              There was something … off about Slade’s voice.  Something sort, and clipped, and—and—breathy.  Robin straightened his back, pushing his shoulders back.

              Slade wasn’t disappointed.  Not at all.  His chest swelled with a weird sense of pride, and the muscles in his thighs tensed, and although it felt like his face must be on fire by now, he said,

              ‘I want you to come on my face.  I want you to come all over me.’

              Slade snapped up straight like a marionette on pulled strings.  His eye burned.  ‘Robin …’

              There was a note of warning in his tone, like Robin was pushing it too far.  Robin sat back.  Pressed his lips together.  Fine.  He could keep playing.

              Slade’s eye flicked down Robin’s body.  And widened.

              Instinctively, Robin pulled his knees in together.  But too late—too late to hide the very obvious result of the heat pooling low in his body.

              ‘Robin …’ Slade said again, and this time the warning was gone—replaced with a touch of laughter.  ‘Are you getting hard just answering these questions?’

              Robin set his jaw.  Took a breath.  Waited—just long enough for Slade to lift the remote again.  Then he said, ‘Yes.’

              Slade lowered the remote, and then tucked it in his belt.  ‘Do you want me to bend you over that chair and fuck you?’

              The remote was gone.  And despite the patch still resting on Robin’s arm, he sensed the game was over.  He curled his toes in his boots.  Chewed on the inside of his mouth.  Slade didn’t move; waiting patiently.

              ‘Yes.’

              He kept his eyes up, and didn’t flinch as Slade swept past the camera, and straight for him.  Robin’s breath shook, and his skin felt sunburn-hot, and he twisted his hands under the zip-ties.  Bending down, Slade rested his hands on Robin’s knees—a touch that sent jolts like more shocks of electricity shooting through Robin’s body.

              ‘Well then,’ Slade murmured.  ‘I’d better give you what you want.’

              His hands glided up Robin’s legs, and pressed into the hard lump of his cock.

              Robin cried out, heat tearing up through his body.  His head dropped back on instinct, and then Slade palmed at his cock, fingers curling and relaxing, and Robin whined.  Slade’s hands felt so different to his own.  So much bigger, and hotter, and firmer.  His legs shook as Slade reached up, unclipped Robin’s belt, and then tugged his leggings down.

              ‘I told you I would have my hands on you,’ Slade murmured.  ‘Do you like it, Robin?  Is this what you wanted?  Is this what you’ve been imagining all this time?’

              Robin opened his mouth to answer, and Slade tightened his grip around Robin’s cock.  All Robin managed was a strangled yelp, his hips bucking into the tightness of Slade’s grip.

              Slade laughed.  ‘Are you close already, Robin?  Did my home video turn you on that much?’

              The chair creaked as Robin arched his back.  Close—yes he was close—

              Slade lifted his hands away.

              ‘No!’  Robin lifted his head.  ‘Don’t stop—don’t stop—’

              ‘I’m not going to let you finish yet.  We’ve barely started.’  Slade’s face was close enough for Robin to see through the grill on his mask—to see white lips curling up in a smirk.  ‘Are you ready to take everything you asked for?’

              Robin’s eyes widened.  Everything he—oh god—

              But Slade was already stepping back, loosening his own belt, and Robin’s stomach tensed.  Was he—was Slade serious?  He was going to—

              Slade let his the belt drop.  He slipped the waistband of his uniform down, just enough to show a flash of white hair—and then—

              Robin stared, heart pounding through his chest—his ribs—all the way up in his throat.  Slade was half-hard, massaging the base of his cock in one hand.  Reaching up with his other hand, he traced Robin’s cheek.  His jaw.  Pressed the pad of his thumb against Robin’s lower lip.

              ‘Open up, Robin.  I’m going to fuck your mouth, just like you wanted.’

              Eyes flicking up, Robin clenched his jaw on automatic.  Slade’s eye was hooded, and that smirk behind the mask was smug, as if to say, ‘Coward.  I knew you wouldn’t do it.’

              Robin opened his mouth.

              Slade’s cock slipped in slow and easy.  The skin was soft and tasteless, and Robin closed his eyes and focused on breathing through his nose as Slade rolled his hips—once, twice, unhurried, like he was savouring every moment.  And gradually, Robin could feel it against his lips as Slade grew harder, the skin firmer, silk-smooth.  The blunt head of Slade’s cock glided over his tongue, and Robin shivered.

                I want you to fuck my mouth …

              An unexpected throb shot through his cock, and Robin groaned.

              ‘That’s it, Robin.’  Slade’s hand curled in his hair.  ‘Open wide for me.’

              Robin stretched his jaw, forcing his mouth open wider.  Taking a deep, trembling breath, he bobbed his head, letting Slade push in deeper.  He could do this.  It didn’t hurt.  It didn’t even taste bad—not really.  He felt full, and used, and somehow that sent wave after wave of warmth through his skin, pounding in his cock.  Moaning again, he slipped his tongue out, leaning his head in further, inviting Slade in deeper.

              ‘You want more, Robin?’  Each word came out short and sharp, Slade almost breathless as he thrust into Robin’s mouth.  ‘Do you want me to fuck you harder?’

              He couldn’t speak—couldn’t even nod his head—so Robin simply moaned in response, trying to make it long and loud and hungry. Slade’s fingers tightened in his hair, and suddenly Robin couldn’t move his head.  But it didn’t matter, because Slade bucked forward, and his cock brushed the back of Robin’s tongue, and then he was pounding into Robin’s mouth, sharp and fast, and tears burned Robin’s eyes.  He tried to moan again and couldn’t—the sound came out wet and garbled, choked off by the smack of Slade’s cock at the back of his mouth.

              ‘Good boy, Robin.  I’m going to fuck you.  I’m going to make you say my name, just like you said it for me in our videos.  I’m going to make you scream it for me.’  Slade tugged Robin’s hair, sharp enough to draw a sharp, high sound out of his throat—immediately silenced by Slade’s cock.  ‘Just like you’ve always wanted.’

              He stepped back, and Robin spluttered at the sudden emptiness in his mouth.  His longed to wipe his wet lips, and the fact he couldn’t sent a strange, cold thrill up his spine.

              Slade bent, reaching for his belt.  Remote.  Robin tensed, but when Slade came up, the little black box was nowhere in sight.  Instead, a Swiss army knife flashed in his hand.  He flicked out a short, sharp blade, and slipped it under the zip tie on Robin’s left hand.

              The breath huffed out of Robin’s body as the first zip tie snapped loose.  He stretched out his arm, flexing his fingers.  Then he sat back, giving Slade access to his right arm—and the second zip-tie.

              But Slade closed the blade with a soft snap, and crouched to tuck it back in his belt.  Straightening, he slid his hands up the outside of Robin’s thighs.  Robin let out a slow, shaky breath.  His cock throbbed, and he twitched, longing to arch into the friction of Slade’s hands once more.

              Slade’s fingers closed instead on Robin’s hips, achingly tight.  He lifted, and Robin grunted as he was forced to stand awkwardly, right hand still strapped to the chair leg.  Slade dragged him, stumbling, around the left side of the chair.

                Do you want me to bend you over that chair—

              Robin realised what Slade was doing a fraction before he felt the solid hand between his shoulder blades, shoving him down.  He flailed with his left hand—managed to plant it on the arm rest, and then his chest dropped.  Slade held him for a moment, pinned in place, bent awkwardly with his right hand stuck underneath him.  He tried to tug it back, but the zip tie wouldn’t budge, cutting into his skin.

              And then Slade curled his fingers into the waistband of Robin’s leggings, and Robin forgot about his arm, and his awkward position, because,

                —and fuck you?

              ‘Wait.’  He tensed.  ‘Slade, wait.  I haven’t—Slade—I haven’t done this before.’  No response—Slade drew his leggings down, and cold air hit Robin’s skin.  Robin pushed himself halfway up.  ‘Slade!’

              A hand planted in his back, pushing him back down.  ‘Relax, Robin.  I’m not going to hurt you.’

              Robin drew half a ragged breath, and then—

              A hand traced between his legs, and curled loosely around his balls.

              All the tension melted out of Robin’s body.  He sagged into the chair.  Slade tightened his hold, just reaching the edge of painful, and then loosened it.

              ‘I said relax, Robin.’

              Robin tried to summon a pithy response, and managed, ‘Hnnnmmugh.’

              Another hand traced down Robin’s lower spine—between his ass cheeks—and then one finger rubbed slow, gentle circles around his ass.  Robin’s eyes drooped and he felt so tense and yet so heavy.  He barely noticed when the finger withdrew—or when it came back cool and wet.

              And pressed, slowly, achingly, into him.

              He shifted, the sensation—alien—but not bad.  No, not bad at all.  Slade pumped his finger, slow, and his other hand reached lower, tracing the underside of Robin’s cock.  Robin moaned and arched his hips, trying to give Slade a better angle.

              As Slade closed his hand around Robin’s cock, he pressed a second finger into Robin’s ass.  This one felt hotter than the first—more tense—and for a moment, Robin gritted his teeth, aching.  But Slade dragged him through the discomfort with soft, easy strokes around his cock, and gradually Robin sank into the warmth and the fullness, and when Slade pressed in a third finger, he moaned.  Pushed up onto his toes.  Sank his chest lower, and his hips higher.

              Slade worked his fingers faster and faster, and Robin was moaning on every breath, his skin boiling, and he was closing in again—this time—this time—

              Slade stopped, and Robin almost screamed.

              He heard the tear of a wrapper; the soft sound of a condom rolling out.  And then—

              Blunt pressure.  Stretching.  Heat.

              He didn’t need Slade’s hand around his cock.  Slade rolled his hips, and Robin came apart with a scream.  He stretched across the chair, gasping, face flushed, and remembered too late,

              ‘Slade,’ he breathed.  And then, again, as Slade continued to fuck him, each thrust pounding into his body, and again, on every exhale, trying to make up for not saying it as he came: ‘Slade, Slade, Slade—’

              Slade’s fingers traced down his back, and if not for the gloves, Robin knew he would have felt the sharp scrape of fingernails digging into his skin.  He sobbed, Slade’s fucking suddenly too much, the sensation trying to drag him back into an orgasm when he was already dry.  His legs shook and his trapped arm burned, and Slade fucked and fucked and fucked.

              When he finally drew back, and out, Robin’s knees buckled.  He didn’t resisted when Slade hauled him up, and slammed him back in the chair.  He blinked as Slade rolled the condom off.  His cock was hard, and scarlet, and Slade curled a fist around it and pumped, and Robin realised he wasn’t done.  Not until—

              ‘Open—’ Slade gasped.

              Robin opened his mouth—opened it wide, like he meant to swallow Slade’s cock a second time.  Instead, Slade snarled, and Robin jolted at the sudden, hot spray across his tongue—his cheek—his jaw—

              He choked.  Now it tasted bad.  Now it tasted like drinking a gallon of saltwater and washing it down with bitter syrup.  Bowing his head, Robin spluttered, then closed his lips and tried and tried to swallow.  His face was sticky; a white trail dripped off his chin and landed in his lap, wet and lewd.

              Slade’s black-gloved hand tapped Robin’s chin, and Robin lifted his head.

              ‘Good boy.’  Slade’s voice was soft and hoarse, and filled Robin with a strange, unbelievable warmth.

              The Swiss army knife flashed again, and as the second zip-tie snapped, Robin groaned and sank back in the chair.  He swiped an arm over his face, and only half succeeded in clearing it off.  A sticky smear remained, tickling on his skin as it dried.

              ‘Next time,’ Slade said simply.

              Robin nodded.  His voice barely came above a whisper.  ‘Next time.’

[everydarkcorner]

Are you still doing the bad things happen bingo? If so could I request Poison/Venom?

I am, and you certainly can!

Read it on AO3!

Poison/Venom

He shouldn’t chase Slade alone.

              Robin knew that.  He knew it was dangerous, and stupid, and that chasing Slade alone before had ended with him in a black-and-copper uniform, listening to Slade whisper in his ear.  He knew it was a bad idea.

              So when he saw Slade—just a glimpse of him, at the corner of that alley on High West—Robin hesitated for just a second.  Just long enough for Slade to melt into the shadows.

              And Robin pelted down the alley.

              Slade raced ahead, slipping around a corner.  It wasn’t far.  Robin put on a burst of speed.  He could catch him.  He could catch Slade.  The Titans were just behind him.  They’d catch up—of course they’d catch up.  He’d hear them, any second now, charging into the alley.

              He didn’t hear any footsteps behind him.  Just Slade’s steady pace up ahead.

              Didn’t matter.  Gasping a breath, Robin forced his legs to pump faster.  If he let Slade get away, Slade would do … whatever it was he was planning, and whatever he was planning would be horrifying, and Robin would be up all night, pacing and grinding his teeth and hating himself for letting Slade get away right now, right this second, when he was so close …

              Slade whipped around so fast Robin almost careened into him, his boots skidding on the concrete.  He ducked as Slade punched; then as Robin straightened, he snapped a kick into Slade’s ribs.  Slade grunted, but didn’t go down.  Robin tried to slip past him—to get a shot into Slade’s back—but something tightened around his throat and he choked.

              Cape.

              Slade tightened his fist in the fabric, and yanked it back hard enough for Robin to splutter—and topple backwards.

              His back thudded on the ground, and it felt like a mallet to the ribs.  Robin wheezed, knives tearing into his lungs.

Slade’s shadow fell over him.  He scrambled back.  Flipping onto his front, lungs burning, Robin got his feet under him—

              Slade’s foot slammed between his shoulders, and Robin crumpled.  His head smacked into the ground, and his vision exploded into stars and crackles.  The ground tipped, one way then another, like the boats in Jump harbour rolling on choppy waves.  He scraped his hands over the gritty concrete.  Get up.  Get up!

              Weight settled on his lower back.  Robin snarled, head pounding, and reached back to beat his fists against Slade’s legs. Slade shifted, and suddenly Robin’s cloak tightened around his neck again—choking—

              He heard a click above him, and then the heavy thud of Slade setting his mask on the ground by Robin’s shoulder.  Robin tried to twist—to reach out and grab that heavy mask.  It was heavy.  Hard.  He could swing it back.  Crack it into Slade’s exposed face.  His fingers scrabbled on the ground.  Closer—just a little closer—

              Teeth clamped on his throat.

              Robin screamed, his hand falling limp.  The pain was crushing; he couldn’t breathe; couldn’t think. Slade caught Robin’s wrists and drew his arms back, and bit down harder.  Robin thrashed, snarling.  His skin was tearing.  Bruising.  Ripping.  It had to be.  How else could it hurt like this?  Heat and wet trickled over his collar.  Saliva?  Blood?

              He bucked his hips.  He had to get him off.  Throw him off.  Somehow.   ‘Slade, stop, stop!’  His voice cracked, and he hated it, but it hurt and he couldn’t stop.  ‘I’m already down, stop!’

              Slade’s response was a low, rumbling sound like the growl of a wild animal.  It vibrated into Robin’s throat, burning through the bite like pouring saltwater into an open wound.  Robin kicked, but that only jostled Slade’s mouth and his teeth cut in deeper, sinking into already-torn flesh.  Robin sobbed, and fell still.

              Finally, finally, Slade loosened his jaw.

              Robin whimpered, tears burning his eyes as his collar fell back into place, and a fresh, sharp sting bit into his skin.  Slade’s weight lifted off his back.

              Gasping, Robin shot to his feet.  He turned to face Slade, hands already curled into fists.  He backed up until he hit a wall.

              But Slade didn’t approach again.  Leaving his mask on the ground, he pushed a hand back through the white hair now tumbling loose over his forehead.  His face was flushed, and his single eye gleamed as it fixed on Robin.

              Robin’s heart clenched.  Gingerly, he brought a hand up to his throbbing neck.  The collar of his cloak now covered the bite, but wetness was spreading through the fabric, leaving a darker stain on the black.  He curled his lip, and let his hand fall away.

              Where were the Titans?  Where were his friends?

              His head felt swollen and soft.  The ground wobbled underneath him.  He tried to push off the wall and couldn’t.  Too heavy.  Too weak.

              What the hell?

              The bite hurt, but pain was nothing.  Push it away.  Focus.  He fumbled at his belt.  Bo staff.  Where was his bo staff?

              ‘Put your hand down, Robin.’

              Robin lowered his hand.

              His heart thumped.

              He tried to lift his hand.  His arm trembled—and didn’t rise.  He stared down at it.  Move.  Come on, move!  Nothing.  His eyes flicked up to meet Slade’s gaze, and his mouth went dry.  Slade was … smiling.

              ‘Come here, Robin.’  Slade lifted one hand, beckoning lazily.

              Robin’s legs jerked into life.  He gritted his teeth, tensing his muscles, aching to stop.  But his feet propelled him forward, only coming to a halt when he stood close enough to smell Slade’s sweat.

              ‘What the hell is going on?’  He ground the words out between gritted teeth.

              Slade’s smile spread into a grin as sharp as the cut of his teeth.  His lips were wet and red.  Lifting one hand, he wiped his lips.  Blood smeared through his beard.  ‘Are you familiar with Poison Ivy’s venom?’

              Robin’s heart dropped like a lead ball.  As if Slade didn’t know.  As if he hadn’t read through the old newspaper articles, archived online for everyone to see.  BOY WONDER PUTS FLORAL FEMME FATALE BEHIND BARS AGAIN!

              Slade knew.  Slade always knew.

              Giving a one-shouldered shrug, Slade reached out and traced his fingers down the side of Robin’s face.  ‘Ivy owed me a favour.’  He tapped his own lips with one finger.  ‘A weaker dose, of course—I’m not immune—but it still works, as long as it gets straight into your bloodstream.’  He let his hand trace lower, slipping over Robin’s neck and pressing into the bite.  Robin flinched back with a hiss, unable to move his feet, and Slade snatched a fistful of Robin’s cloak.  ‘Don’t pull away from me, Robin.’

              The demand settled somewhere in Robin’s chest, heavy as stone.  ‘Let me go.’

              ‘Oh no.’  Slade’s eye narrowed.  ‘You’re going to do what I want.  Whatever I want.  For a start—’ his smile twitched, ‘—get on your knees.’

              Robin hissed.  ‘No—’

              But he was already down.  His knees thudded on the concrete, and no matter how he strained he couldn’t get up.  His legs shook and he bared his teeth and snarled, but—nothing.  His breathing shallowed as Slade took a half-step back.  Robin snarled.  Of course.  Of course Slade would want him to kneel.  Sadistic bastard—

              Slade reached for his belt.

              Robin’s heart thundered and his throat tightened like his was being strangled again.

                No.  No, no, no.

              He wouldn’t.  He wouldn’t.  This wasn’t—it couldn’t be—it wasn’t what it looked like—

              Slade’s belt loosened with a click, and dropped to the ground.  ‘I’m going to enjoy this, Robin.’

              ‘Don’t,’ Robin breathed.  ‘Slade, don’t, please.  I’ll do whatever you want.  I won’t even fight you.  Please, please don’t—don’t make me—’  He couldn’t talk.  His throat was too tight.  But Slade paused, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his uniform, and Robin gulped and forced the words out—barely a croak.  ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’

              Slade tilted his head, the smirk now lifting only one side of his mouth.  ‘This is what I want.  Open your mouth.’

              Robin’s lips parted before he could think to resist.  He tried to pull back, and couldn’t.  Slade already told him not to.  His stomach tightened, limbs trembling.  Slade slipped his trousers down, just enough to draw his cock out—and no, god, fuck, no.

              He was half-hard already; curling one hand at the base of his cock, Slade tugged slowly, as if savouring it.  With his other hand, he reached down and slipped his thumb into Robin’s mouth.

              ‘Tongue out, Robin.’

              Robin shuddered, and his tongue slipped out over his lips.

              Letting out a low, soft noise of approval, Slade stroked the pad of his thumb over Robin’s tongue.  His leather glove tasted bitter, and smelled of gun smoke.  ‘Don’t bite,’ Slade said softly, and the command went down Robin’s spine like an iron rod.  ‘And keep your hands by your sides.’

              He stepped in close, and Robin’s stomach somersaulted.  Slade’s cock brushed over his tongue, and then his lips, and then it was in his mouth and—

              Robin closed his eyes and clenched his fists and tried and tried not to sob.

              Slade pressed in deeper and deeper, and just as he brushed the back of Robin’s tongue he slowed, and murmured, ‘Suck, Robin.’

              Nononononono—

              Robin’s lips closed and he sucked.

              It’s not real.  It’s not happening.  It’s not it’s not it’s not—

              ‘Mouth open, Robin … that’s it … good boy …’

              He tried to block Slade’s voice out.  To ignore it.  But each word thudded into him like a bullet hitting home, and he couldn’t. When Robin dared open his eyes all he saw was the black of Slade’s uniform and a white patch of hair, and he slammed them closed again and just tried to breathe, breathe, breathe—

              Slade rocked his hips faster.  His balls slapped into Robin’s chin, and Robin’s stomach heaved but he couldn’t pull away and couldn’t stop, and now his mouth seemed to be working even without Slade’s direction, opening and sucking in rhythm.  Wetness gathered at the corners of his eyes, and Robin couldn’t reach up to brush it away.  The tears ran, sticky, down his face.

              ‘Move your head, Robin … suck hard now …’  Slade grunted, his fingers sliding through Robin’s hair.  His cock slid deeper into Robin’s mouth, brushing the back of his throat, and Robin stiffened.  ‘Relax, Robin, that’s it … let me in …’

              Robin sucked in a breath just before Slade’s dick slipped past the back of his tongue and down.

              His hands shook, nails digging into his palms even through his gloves.  Tears filled his eyes, and as Slade rocked his hips Robin’s chest ached.  Can’t breathe.  But Slade didn’t stop.  Robin’s head spun.  He blinked, and sparks crackled in eyes.  Can’t breathe.  Can’t breathe.  He was trembling.  He was going to pass out.

              ‘Do you want me to come on your face, Robin?’

              Robin tried to respond—tried to scream, ‘NO!’—and couldn’t.  He couldn’t pull back.  Couldn’t breathe.  He tried to force out a sound, and spluttered.  Finally desperately, he managed to shake his head—a movement so minute he doubted Slade could read it

              Slade finally pulled back, and his cock slipped out of Robin’s mouth.  Robin bent double, choking and gasping.  Hooking a hand under Robin’s chin, Slade lifted his face.  His other hand was curled around his cock again, stroking fast now.  His single eye was dark; hooded.  ‘Tell me you do.’

              Stomach tightening, Robin bit down on his tongue.  No.  No, he wouldn’t.  He wouldn’t—

              ‘I want you to come on my face.’

              The words came out as a croak, low and pained and stomach-turning.  Stop, stop,  he just wanted to stop—

              Slade let out a tiny, choked sigh, and Robin barely closed his eyes before wet heat sprayed over his face.  He waited, trembling, trying to breathe and not to sob, because if he sobbed he’d open his mouth and if he opened his mouth—

              The moment Slade released his chin, Robin dropped his face, wiping his hands frantically over his mouth and eyes.  He scooped up great handfuls of his cloak and buried his face in it.  Get it off, get it OFF!

              ‘Stand up, Robin.’

              He didn’t bother trying to resist.  Just rocked to his feet, head bowed, hands still fisted in his cloak.  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ Robin growled.  He forced himself to look up—to ignore the stickiness in his eyelashes; the wetness drying on his cheeks.  ‘The venom will wear off, and when it does—’

              ‘I’ll give you another dose,’ Slade said levelly, re-buckling his belt.  ‘And another, and another.’  Reaching out, he traced again over the bite on Robin’s neck.  Robin hissed—but couldn’t pull away.  ‘Just imagine your skin, scarred all over from my teeth …’

              Robin shuddered.  His stomach somersaulted—his was going to be sick—

              Slade cupped his cheek, almost comforting.  ‘Don’t worry, Robin.  You’ll be doing whatever I want for a long, long time.’