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The Irony of Life

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If Slade can help it, he avoids meeting first-time clients in person.

Oftentimes, they're nervous and twitchy, unsure how to act around a man with Slade's reputation. Also with first-time clients there's always the risk that they'll tell somebody who they're meeting with, and maybe that person shows up, or calls the police, or the client themself calls the police because they second-guess what they're doing...

Overall it's really just not worth it. Slade sticks to messages and the occasional phone call the first few times working for someone, and the more they get used to each other the more amenable he is to a face-to-face meeting. Luthor, particularly, likes handling business in person, and they've worked together enough times that Slade is mostly unbothered by that.

Well, if you ignore how pretentious and annoying he can be.

Another thing Slade avoids if he can help it is meeting clients in public. There's no point to it. It just provides complications, and lots of witnesses to place them together. Slade's a professional, and avoids unnecessary casualties if he can. It's always a hassle to track loud-mouthed witnesses down.

Now, considering both of those things he avoids, it is strange that he finds himself meeting a brand new client, not only face-to-face, but also in public. In a strip club, to be specific.

Gotham always has a way of fucking with his normal routines, though. There's just so much about this city that refuses to play by the rules, and in turn always seems to have him bending his own. So here he is, in a strip club in Crime Alley, meeting some mobster he's never worked with because the guy is offering quite a lot of money and all he really wants is an in-person meeting.

Normally, alarm bells. In Gotham? Not so much.

Slade doesn't care much for strip clubs. Not because he doesn't respect sex workers—honestly, who gives a shit if that's what they choose to do with themselves to make a living?—but because he enjoys knowing the person writhing on his lap is there for the sole reason they want to be, and not because he's paying them. Call him old fashioned, but it's not like he has any trouble getting a fuck when he wants one.

It's a Saturday night, so the place is relatively full when he enters. He scans the crowd, ignoring the girl who approaches him wearing an outfit that just barely covers her breasts and a flirtatious smile, and begins making his ways towards the back tables that are more dimly lit; without fail, that's where mobsters tend to be in places like this. Illusion of privacy, booths large enough for strippers to have room to move, poles sticking up from the tables—all of the stereotypes in one place.

He easily navigates his way through the crowds and moving bodies, but a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye draws his attention.

There's a man on the main stage twisting around a pole, his feet not even on the ground as he spins, raw strength allowing him to do his entire routine without touching down at all. The makeup around his eyes makes the blue of them pop, matching the color of his very short shorts, and his black hair is artfully styled to not look styled at all.

There's something about him Slade can't quite place, something in the curve of his body when he bends back almost in half, but Slade shakes it off—he's here for a job, not to ogle a stripper.

When he reaches the back tables he easily spots his client, Yuri Morozov. Son of the head of one of the lesser mafias in Gotham, Yuri is intelligent, going from what Slade's heard, but also a bit of a hedonist. No wonder he chose a strip club to meet in; probably spends a lot of time here.

As long as he pays Slade at the end of the job, he can be as hedonistic as he likes.

"Mr. Wilson!" Yuri calls in a thick accent, spotting him and getting to his feet with a wide grin. At six-foot-two he's probably used to towering over people, but Slade still has three inches on him and quite a bit more muscle; the younger man blinks at him for a moment, eyeing their differences, and then the easy grin is back in place, and he reaches up a little to clasp Slade on the shoulder companionably.

Slade looks down at the hand dispassionately, and then back up to Yuri's face, whose drunken expression falters a little under Slade's indifference. "Mr. Morozov. Shall we talk?"

"Of course!" Yuri agrees, nodding, and sprawls back down into his seat. "Sit, sit, let us discuss business. Would you like a drink?" He doesn't wait for Slade's response, waving over a waitress, who arrives immediately, probably familiar with how rich this patron is.

"What can I get you, Sir?" she asks, leaning against the side of the booth in a way that lowers her cleavage into Yuri's direct line of sight. The Russian is easily distracted by it, and not subtle at all in the way his eyes lock onto it. Slade suppresses the urge to roll his eye.

"I'll have another of these—" Yuri taps the table in front of his empty glass, eyes still not moving, and Slade sees the waitress' lip twitch into something of a grin before she forces it back down into a sexy smolder. "—And get my friend here whatever he wants! My tab." His hand then lifts, sliding up the woman's mostly bare leg, and then he tucks what looks like a few twenties into the waistband of her skirt.

The waitress bats her eyelashes and then looks to Slade. She doesn't tell Yuri to stop touching her, despite the general policy of strip clubs, but Slade supposes a little petting is worth the hundred dollars she made just for standing there.

"Single malt, whatever brand you have," he tells her, and turns back to Yuri, waiting. They aren't friends, he isn't here to relax. He wants to know what the job is.

Yuri watches the woman walk away for a few more seconds, bottom lip between his teeth, and then finally drags his gaze back to Slade.

"Nice place, no?" Yuri says with a wide grin, gesturing around them. "I like it here, everyone is so welcoming." Slade withholds a snort. "You should enjoy yourself after we're done. Pretty girls..." Slade just blinks dispassionately, and Yuri's smile grows. "Pretty boys..."

Christ, this is why he doesn't meet people in person.

"Mr. Morozov, if we could?"

"Right, right, of course," Yuri agrees, and even sits up a little straighter, but any progress that was made in gaining his focus vanishes as soon as the waitress returns with their drinks.

But it isn't the same waitress this time, it's a man instead, and Slade realizes it's the one who was dancing up on stage when he was coming in. He's more clothed than he was on stage, adding a sheer blue shirt to his blue and black booty shorts, and his eye makeup seems fresh, his lips shining with a thin coat of lip balm to draw attention to his mouth.

He's also much younger close up than he appeared on stage; Slade would be surprised if he's even out of his teen years.

Slade's examination apparently does not go unnoticed, because the boy's bright eyes flash up to meet Slade's gaze as he places the glass of scotch down in front of him. The boy's lips curve, something mischievous sparking in his eyes, and then he breaks the eye contact, putting down Yuri's drink and smiling at the mobster.

"Anything else I can get you and your friend, Mr. Morozov?" the boy asks, eyes lidded as he leans against the booth much like the waitress before had, this time curving to show off his impressive abs.

Yuri is grinning at Slade like a conspirator, and Slade chastises himself for getting distracted; there's just something about the boy that makes him think of...Well, nothing that should allow him to be so obvious about the stripper grabbing his attention, that's for sure. He's a professional.

"Ты говоришь по-русски?" Yuri asks him. You speak Russian? Slade nods cautiously. Yuri looks to the boy then, and a bad feeling settles in Slade's gut.

He repeats the question, and the boy's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding genuinely apologetic, trying to hide his worry that the very rich patron is going to be upset with him, "I don't speak Russian. Is there...anything I can get you?"

Yuri's smile grows, and Slade withholds a sigh. "You should stay, pretty thing!" he announces. "Keep us company while we discuss boring things."

Slade feels a headache coming on. "Mr. Morozov—"

"Ah, come now, Mr. Wilson, live a little!" Yuri urges, and then switches to Russian to say, "He will not know what we're saying, so this will not disrupt anything. And it is always a pleasure to have something nice to look at while doing business, wouldn't you agree?"

No, Slade wouldn't agree. He prefers to handle his business in brief coded messages and wire transfers, not with half-naked boys dancing on a table in front of him. It's not an unpleasant way to spend an afternoon, he supposes, but he's here for a job, and this is just a distraction.

Part of Slade—the paranoid part, the tactician part—wonders if all of this really is a distraction, if Yuri is being paid by someone to keep him occupied for whatever reason, but he pushes it to the back of his mind; it's very unlikely, and if by chance it does end up being true, he'll remain ready for any potential ambush.

He sighs and nods. "Fine," he says tightly. He glances at the boy, who meets his gaze with an amused, knowing look in his eyes, there one moment and gone the next as he looks to Yuri for instruction.

"Why don't you dance for us, pretty thing?" Yuri encourages, eyes dragging up and down the boy's body, and raps his knuckle on the table to indicate where he means.

"Of course," the boy purrs, batting his eyes, and climbs up onto the table gracefully, doing one simple twirl around the pole before he starts dancing. Slade tunes it out, looking once more to Yuri. If the other man doesn't start talking soon, Slade's going to call this a waste of his time and leave.

There's always something going on in Gotham; he won't have any trouble finding some, well, trouble. Maybe he'll even run into his favorite bird along the way.

The thought of Robin makes his eyes flick briefly up towards the boy dancing—the muscled but not bulky form, the easy grace to his every movement—and then back to Yuri, making himself keep his eyes on his client.

"Well?" Slade prompts in Russian, cocking an eyebrow. "Are you going to tell me what you want now?"

Yuri takes a drag from his glass, unabashedly watching the boy on the table, and then nods, humming. "Yes, apologies." He looks at Slade, grinning a little. "So many beautiful distractions in a place like this—hard to focus on occasion."

Slade resists the urge to ask why he chose this place in the first place then.

"Of course," Slade agrees. "And yet you did call me here for an actual purpose, correct?"

Yuri nods, his expression turning into something slightly more serious. "Yes, yes of course. There is a man I would like you to kill."

Well color Slade shocked, there's a man a mobster would like him to kill. How surprising, especially when he's the one hired.

"Alright," Slade says, trying to keep his exasperation out of his voice. "And who might that be?"

"His name is Ivan Oblonsky, and he has been stealing from my father. He is also going to act as a witness in a case against my family; he has been placed in witness protection until his testimony, and thus we have not been able to find him."

Slade hums, nodding. "Hence why you need me. Okay, I'll find him and kill him. Any particular way you would prefer?" These mafia types always have a theme, and tend to pay him more if he goes along with it.

Yuri grins, wide and shark-like.

"Something painful and slow, otherwise I do not much care." He shrugs a shoulder carelessly, and goes back to watching the boy dance for a few seconds before fixing his attention back on the conversation at hand. "The Batman and his allies were the ones to bring Ivan to the authorities, and have been quite vigilant in making sure he stays safe and hidden until he can testify; I would not be surprised if one of them is guarding him. If you come across them, well—" The grin returns. "We would happily pay extra if you brought us the broken body of one of his ilk."

It's a small motion, which explains why Yuri doesn't notice it. But with Slade's enhanced senses, he sees the momentary hitch in the boy's dancing, the infinitesimal stutter in the movement of his hips. He covers it well, continuing on like nothing's changed, but Slade saw it. The boy had a reaction to the comment about killing the Bat's allies. A reaction to the comment said in Russian, which he said he doesn't speak.

He looks up and the boy looks down, and Slade's lips part as their gazes meet because that's—recognition. Some irritation. A small amount of pleading.

And Slade starts to grin.

"I'll find your man and kill him," Slade tells Yuri, not taking his eyes off of the young stripper. "You'll receive a picture confirmation, and a number that you owe me. If I kill a Bat—" the boy's eyes spark angrily, and Slade's smile just grows, "—that price will be higher. We'll see what happens."

"I can live with that," Yuri agrees, and out of the corner of his eye Slade sees the other man smirking at the way Slade's focus has clearly shifted. He doesn't bother to hide it; letting the boy know that he knows is worth it. "We are done here, yes? I'm going to leave you to it." He gets to his feet, and winks exaggeratedly. "Enjoy yourself!"

And then he's gone, and it's just Slade and the boy.

Slade gets slowly to his feet, and the boy's movements stutter again—far more noticeable this time—before stopping completely. He looks at Slade, gaze steady and unafraid, a challenge in the jut of his chin, and Slade's lips curl up into a smirk.

"I'm assuming there are private rooms in this establishment?"

The boy's eyes narrow, and he nods shortly. "Yes."

"Good. You're going to follow me to one of them for a little chat, or I'm going to out who you are." He doesn't need to expand on the threat, doesn't need to explain just how bad it would be for the criminals in this room to know who the boy is; it's obvious.

The boy's jaw clenches, looking like he wants to argue, and his eyes flick around the room like he's calculating his odds if things get messy very quickly. He seems to come to the—correct—conclusion that it's not worth it at the moment, because he slides off the table and smiles sweetly at Slade.

"This way," he tells him, and leads him through the club, towards a pair of double doors. There's a bouncer standing in front of them but he steps aside to let the boy and Slade through, offering Slade a smirk as he does.

Past the double doors, the music and chatter of the main club is dampened, and the boy leads Slade down a short hallway before stopping in front of a door and pushing it open. Slade takes note of the bed, the couch, the platform with the pole, the stereo system, and then pays it no mind at the moment, turning his attention towards the boy.

The boy has barely begun to turn around to face him when he gets a grip on his shoulders and slams him against the wall, twisting one arm up tightly against his back and using his own considerable weight to keep the boy pinned to the wall.

The boy thrashes instinctively, trying to use his free arm to hit, but Slade catches him by the wrist and pins it right next to his head, putting slightly more pressure on the other arm to make the boy wince as his shoulder protests the positioning.

"Let me go!" the boy shouts, raising up slightly on his toes to attempt to relieve the pressure on his arm, but Slade just keeps it up, not letting the boy escape the feeling.

"No, I don't think I will," Slade murmurs in his ear. "Not when it's always such a pleasure to have you this close, Robin."

The young hero pants, face turned to the side with his cheek pressed against the wall, watching Slade as much as he can from the position. From this close together Slade can really see the shades of blue in the boy's eyes, and has to admit they're quite nice. Going by the way his eye makeup is designed to draw attention to them, the boy obviously knows that too.

"Slade," Robin grits out in acknowledgment. "Such a pleasant surprise."

Slade scoffs. "You knew who I was before you even approached the table, so don't pretend this was completely accidental. Tell me; why didn't the original waitress bring our drinks over? It's so strange that she'd give up the potential for more large tips, considering how generous Morozov tends to be with the people here."

Robin's cheeks redden slightly, and Slade likes to believe that it's from embarrassment rather than continued exertion at holding their current position.

"I just wanted to listen in on your conversation," the boy snaps back. "Nothing good comes from an assassin meeting with someone like Yuri Morozov."

"I'm a mercenary, kid; at least get it right if you're going to spit the word out with such venom," Slade says, chuckling. He presses closer, ducking his head to let his lips brush the young hero's neck, and is rewarded with a small shiver that makes Slade grin and Robin get even redder.

"Now what are you doing working in a place like this?" Slade asks. "Is Daddy Bats not giving you enough attention, you had to come get it from all these fine folks instead?"

Robin's lips curl into a snarl, eyes cutting over to Slade angrily. He's so gorgeous when he's angry, a force to be reckoned with. Slade's always thought so. It's one of the aspects that would make him excellent on Slade's side of the law—all that fire is absolutely wasted as a sidekick.

"I'm here for a case," Robin grits out, and shifts in Slade's hold, looking for a weak point and finding none. His breathing and heart rate have elevated ever so slightly. "Not because—"

"Not because you like having all these eyes on you?" Slade goads against the shell of the boy's ear. "Not because it gets you all hot and bothered to have everyone watch you, desire you, want to have you in their bed? Not because you get a rush knowing that at least for a little while you have power over all these powerful men?"

The boy's eyes have dilated a little, even as he shakes his head.

"You know nothing about me, Deathstroke," he snarls, and Slade laughs.

"I know you've been running around in a pantless costume since before double digits and still wear it to this day. I know you bow sometimes after a particularly flashy flip, and use said flips far more often than you need to. I know that you're being honest about why you started working here but you are lying to yourself about why you're putting so much effort into this job."

Robin opens his mouth, probably to put forth some further argument, but Slade is uninterested. He scrapes his teeth down the length of the boy's neck, and the boy squeaks in surprise, jerking in his grip. But Slade holds him steady, and this time he drags his tongue along his neck. He tastes like sweat and some form of body spray, so not the best, but it's worth it for the full-bodied shudder Robin gives in response.

"What are you doing?" Robin asks a tad breathlessly, twisting in the hold, and Slade's eye goes half-lidded at the way his wiggling is rubbing him against Slade's crotch. He can't resist the urge to roll his hips forward, grinding against the hero's ass, and Robin goes rigid for a moment before he thrashes again, this time trying to kick at Slade.

"Get off of me!" the boy shouts. "Get off!"

Slade chuckles and takes Robin's earlobe between his teeth, tugging at it, before releasing and saying, "Relax, Robin. Just relax."

"You're insane," Robin bites out, panting heavily now.

"And you chose to approach my table," Slade points out. "You knew what you were doing, boy," he rumbles, and Robin shudders again, making Slade grin. "Tell me—were you hoping I would figure you out, or was it the thrill of me being unaware that got you excited?"

Robin laughs incredulously. "Not everything is about you, you egotistical dickwad."

Slade barks a laugh. "No, you're right, this is about you. So why don't you tell me what you want, little bird?" He rolls his hips again, pressing a kiss to the fluttering pulse point on the boy's neck as he does it. Robin makes a little choked noise and his hips jerk. Slade hums, pleased.

"I want you to let me go," Robin pants. "Like I just said."

Slade tuts, shaking his head. "No, I don't think you do. So I'm going to point something out to you—right now, right here, no one but you and me know who you are, and who you're here with. None of your little hero friends ever need to find out, nor the Big Man. Right here, right now, it's just us in a private room. Nobody's here to judge what you do. And no one has to know what you choose."

Robin swallows, and Slade can see him considering the words. What he knows he should do versus what he wants. He probably can't make that final leap, that final submission to doing something that would get him condemned. But that's okay; Slade can push him along.

He releases Robin's wrist and, before the boy can respond to the sudden small freedom, grips the boy's chin and tilts his face up, ducking down to kiss him. He licks into his mouth, taking control and kissing him deeply. Robin jolts, eyes wide, and then moans, going slack against the wall, unconsciously tilting his face up to give Slade easier access.

Slade makes a pleased noise and lets go of the boy's other arm, but doesn't move away, keeping the smaller body pinned between himself and the wall.

Robin doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, clenching them and relaxing them over and over again down at his sides, and his neck must ache from the angle it's twisted at for the kiss, but he doesn't complain. And when Slade grinds forward again, Robin pushes back against him.

Slade grins against his mouth and then disconnects the kiss. While the boy gasps for air, Slade leans down to press his mouth to his neck, biting and sucking at the golden skin. Robin whimpers, one of his hands flying up to grip at Slade's shirt, and tilts his head further to give Slade more access.

"You were a sight up on that stage," Slade growls against his neck. "Gorgeous. Everyone thought so, all eyes locked on you." Robin bites his lip, eyelids fluttering. Slade smirks. "Mm, yes, absolutely gorgeous. You know what else would be a good look on you?" Slade pauses, just long enough to make it seem like a real question but not long enough to give Robin time to think of an answer, and then says, "You on your knees."

Robin blinks up at him, his brain taking a moment to catch up, and Slade rolls his hips pointedly; those shorts of his aren't exactly thick—he can definitely feel how hard Slade is, and the boy sucks in a sharp breath. The moment seems to freeze in time, and then Robin is nodding quickly, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

Slade takes a few steps back, giving the boy space. Robin doesn't move for a second, leaning heavily against the wall and panting, and then he turns around, looking at Slade. His eyes slide down and back up, scanning the man, and then he steps forward, folding gracefully to his knees in front of Slade.

"Gorgeous," Slade repeats, and he's not lying. The kid's always been pretty, even more so in that ridiculous outfit, and he's on his knees to suck Slade's cock. There's a power in that, a hero willingly putting himself in this position. Slade can't say he's unaffected by it.

With deft fingers, Slade undoes his belt, button, and zipper, and pulls out his cock. Robin's eyes go immediately to it and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, hands gripping tightly at his knees.

Slade smirks. "Ever done this before, boy?"

Robin's eyes flick up to him, just as striking as the first time he saw them, and he nods. His cheeks are bright red with embarrassment, but he doesn't flinch away from Slade's intense gaze.

"I—yeah," he says. "I have. Just no one who's..." His eyes flick downward briefly, and Slade's smirk broadens. He's very aware of his size, and it's doubtful that whoever the boy's hooked up with before—Slade's money is on one of his little hero friends, most likely the speedster—was this big.

"We'll go slow," Slade promises, and then cants his hips forward, guiding his cock towards Robin's face. The boy dutifully opens his mouth, tilting his face up, and lets Slade feed him his cock without complaint.

Slade lets out a breath, the sight of someone who's been a pain in his side for years with his cock in their mouth getting to him, and pushes a bit further. He feels himself brush the back of the boy's throat but doesn't push—not yet—letting the kid set his own pace for now.

It's clear that Robin wasn't lying at least; he is practiced at this, swirling his tongue around the head of Slade's cock, hand on Slade's balls. He licks up, pressing a light kiss to the base, and then drags his tongue back down along the vein on the underside of Slade's cock. The boy takes him back in his mouth then, cheeks hollowing as he sucks, and Slade lets out a pleased hum.

Robin's eyes flick up to him, and Slade's breath catches for a moment, taking in the sight. His lips wrapped around his cock, hand stroking at the base, eyes wide and dilated, and then his thin little shorts, barely concealing his obvious erection.

Slade grunts and his hips jerk forward, pushing himself deeper into the boy's mouth. Robin chokes for a moment, surprised, but instead of trying to jerk back like Slade expects him to, he relaxes, his hand falling back to his knees, and strokes his tongue very deliberately along Slade cock, not looking away.

Slade takes that as all the permission he needs.

He grabs onto either side of Robin's head and fucks forward. The boy chokes again but adjusts quickly, and this time when Slade thrusts he doesn't complain at all, his throat ready and waiting. Slade gives a quiet groan and thrusts again and again, panting a little at the way the hero's throat grips at his cock, the sucking sound as he pulls in and out, the flutter of Robin's tongue against him, the bright blue eyes glistening with tears.

"Look at you," Slade coos, and lets himself go, fucking forcefully into the boy's throat, his grip on his head keeping him easily in place. "Such a good little whore, aren't you?"

Robin's hand fumbles towards the band of his shorts, pulling his own cock out, but freezes when Slade orders, "No touching yourself yet." Something defiant sparks in the boy's eyes, and he swallows around Slade, making the man groan and yank at his hair. Robin yelps around his cock, and the vibration draws another grunt out of Slade.

When he pulls himself out of Robin's throat, the unconscious way the boy chases after him for a moment is almost enough to make him come, but he has bigger plans.

"Get on the bed," he instructs. Robin's eyes widen but he does as he's told, crawling onto the bed and settling on his back, propped up by his forearms.

Slade strips, quick and efficient, and has to smirk at the breath Robin draws in, the way the boy's hips press up into the air before settling again.

The mercenary stalks towards the bed and climbs on top of the boy, easily dwarfing the teen. Robin's gaze drags over his body, eyes tracing old scars and defined muscles before locking back onto Slade's face.

"These need to come off," Slade tells him, nodding towards the pieces of fabric that can barely be considered clothing. Robin shifts like he's going to remove them, but Slade doesn't wait for that. He grabs onto the waistband of the booty shorts on each hip and tears, pulling the thin material apart. He repeats the process with the boy's sheer shirt, and then tosses all of the cloth off somewhere.

Robin gapes at him for a moment, seemingly speechless, and the state of his erection clearly shows what he thinks of that show of strength.

Slade smirks and takes the moment to look the boy over. Tan skin, lithe figure, a spattering of subtle scars. Slade spots the one on Robin's right side, right between his fifth and sixth ribs, and can't resist the urge to lean in and lick it, suck on it, bite it, kiss it.

He gave Robin that scar.

The boy gasps, arching up into his mouth, one hand flying up to tangle in Slade's hair. That's a delightful response, so Slade moves to the next scar he sees and repeats the process, and then again, and again.

By the time Robin's covered in marks, the boy's shaking, pulling in little gasps, hips jerking. Slade drags himself away for a moment, yanking open the drawer of the small table sitting next to the bed. Sure enough, there's a bottle of lube and a box of condoms. Slade considers them both, and then grabs the lube and shuts the drawer, climbing back on top of Robin.

The boy looks up at him, eyes glazed, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. Slade doesn't say anything, just wraps his hand around Robin's calf and begins to push it up, and up, and up.

"Christ," Slade mutters as the boy's ankle touches the bed just above his head. "How are you this flexible?"

Robin grins at him, and then—without any apparent effort—lifts his other leg, pulling it up to mirror the first, completely bending himself in half.

"Christ," Slade says again. "How long can you hold that?"

The boy tilts his head back and forth. "Never done it in a situation like this before—" he says, glancing pointedly at Slade's dick, "—but I can hold it quite a while."

Slade hums and nods, taking a moment to admire, and then uncaps the bottle of lube, squirting some out onto his fingers. Robin's eyes flick over to see what he's doing, and he bites his lip, looking hesitant.

Has he...?

"Have you ever done this before?" Slade asks, and rubs his slick fingers around the boy's hole, not pushing in yet.

Robin shifts, breath catching, and his eyes dart away for a moment before locking resolutely back onto Slade's. "I—no, not...I've had sex, just not—ah."

The boy's head tips back as Slade pushes his finger in, probably more roughly than is necessary. He can't help it; something strangely possessive has risen in him, knowing no one's been inside the boy before, knowing he is Robin's first.

"Don't worry, boy," Slade rumbles, smirking when the kid shivers, "I've got you."

He puts a second finger in maybe sooner than he should, and Robin's face scrunches up with discomfort, but he makes up for it by working to locate the boy's prostate and—

"Oh," Robin gasps, eyelids fluttering, and doesn't seem to notice his legs slipping out of their straightened position. They begin to fall and instead catch on Slade's shoulders, keeping the boy open for him.

"That's right," Slade purrs, curling his fingers against it again and again. Robin moans, hands twisting in the sheets, precum dripping from his dick. "I've got you, little bird."

He drinks in all the noises the boy makes as he stretches him, avidly watches each twitch of the boy's expression, and thinks about how no one else has ever seen Robin like this, and—if he has his way—no one else ever will.

Slade removes his hand and pulls back, letting Robin's legs fall from his shoulders. The boy blinks up at him, dazed with pleasure, and yelps in surprise when Slade picks him up in one quick movement, stepping off the bed and then slamming the boy's back against the wall.

"Slade," Robin pants, blinking rapidly. "What—?"

The mercenary just smirks at him, hungry and pleased, and holds the boy in place with one hand while using the other to guide himself towards Robin's entrance. The boy pants heavily, eyes half-lidded, and then groans as Slade loosens his grip to allow gravity to do most of the work, Robin sliding down around Slade's cock. The boy gasps, tossing his head, and grips Slade's shoulder for purchase as Slade fills him in one solid movement.

"Ah," Robin breathes as Slade starts fucking into him, the sound punched out of him. "Ah, ah, ah."

Slade uses his free hand to grab both of Robin's wrists, pinning them to the wall above his head. The boy looks up and tugs against the grip, and, when they don't move at all, moans, hips bucking.

"Fuck," Robin pants. "Fuck. Shit. You—" He doesn't finish whatever he was going to say, groaning and starting to move with Slade, pushing him deeper inside of him each time. The boy leans in and kisses him, hands twisting and yanking in the grip. He doesn't seem to be actually trying to get away, just likes the fact that he can't get away, that Slade could hold him here forever if he wanted to.

Slade definitely wants to.

Something for next time.

Slade shifts his angle, pounding up into Robin's ass, and the boy moans. Slade smirks and keeps hitting that spot, enjoying the way he writhes against him, the way his eyes roll back. He's close, Slade can see it. So fucking close, and going to come untouched.

"Come on, pretty bird," Slade growls in his ear, and Robin gasps. "Come for me."

The boy mewls, twisting in his grip, and then does, coming over both of their chests.

Slade snarls, memorizing the look on the boy's face, and fucks up more roughly. He releases his grip on Robin's wrists to grab his hip instead, making it easier to hold him in place and fuck up into him. The boy's head falls to Slade's shoulder, panting hot breaths against his neck, and doesn't complain as Slade roughly pulls him down again and again until he reaches his own end, coming inside of Robin.

They stay like that for a little while longer, coming down, and then Slade pulls them away from the wall. He places Robin back on the bed, who collapses there, boneless. Slade takes a moment to admire him; the bruises caused by Slade, the red flush to his skin, the hazy, blissed-out look on his face. Gorgeous.

Slade leans over him, grabbing the boy's attention, and kisses him deeply. Robin presses up into him, returning the kiss, and then smiles a little dopily when Slade pulls away.

"We should do this again sometime," Robin says, giggling.

Slade smirks, already picturing what he's going to do to the boy the next time he has him. "You read my mind."