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.
