Series: Nobody Calling 1/3
Title: Forever Bound
Author: Yami no Kaiba
Betas: Cosmicastaway and Katarik
Fandom: Animated Teen Titans
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Slade/Robin

Summary: He knows those marks.
Warnings: Underage "Ghost" Sex.
Disclaimers: DC Comics owns the original characters.
Notes: Begins right after "Prophecy".

*---*---*---*---*

Robin smiles at his teammates as their antics follow the regular post-battle patterns.

He's finally gotten Starfire to stop bugging him enough to start distracting Raven instead, and Beast Boy and Cyborg are, once again, trying to beat his score on the newest game. A part of his mind whispers that they should knock it off since it makes the entire system go slower (by 3.6 seconds according to the last systems check, and Slade's out there once more, and Robin needs all the head-start he can get to head off whatever new plan of destruction Slade comes up with), but it's over weighed by the growing feeling of needed isolation and the lack of need for another stress-induced headache from arguing.

So Robin says his good nights and turns to go to his room (he's retreating, he shouldn't be retreating, it's *Slade*) and punches in the security code before entering.

He lets the door slide shut behind him, blocking out the light hearted noises of celebration in the common room. Letting go of his control, he shudders out a moan and slumps against the paneling of the door, stripping the gloves off and letting them land unceremoniously with a light sound on the floor.

Slim, shaking fingers rise to his opposite arms, slowly tracing the outlines where pain flares like the flickering flames his arch nemesis now controls. They are marks, marks he knows well.

They are the marks of Slade. (God help him...)

*---*---*---*

In the dim lighted room he has... liberated from its original owners, Slade smiles like the predator he is.

He can feel the boy's spiking fear and despair, even as the light touch of the boy's questing fingers ghost over Slade's own skin, the sense of the touch transferred by the inconspicuous spells he's placed on the boy.

He owns the boy now. In body, mind, and soul. And when the time comes, he will call Robin to his side once more, and the boy will come, will come of his own freewill as the invisible ties of the spells that bind them together feed on Slade's wants and desires, transferring them to the boy.

In desperation the boy will come, to sate the fires of passion that he will feel as if they were his own.

With the Demon's daughter too busy with her own problems to notice, he will have his little bird once more.

There will be nothing the Titans will be able to do after that, as the spells become permanent, tying him and his little bird together until the end of time.

In the semi-darkness, he leans back and steeples his hands in front of him, braced against the chair arms. The video feeds of the monitors re-play his favorite Robin moments. Acrobatics, strategic and tactical thinking, excellent form in fighting, ruthlessness, determination, but best of all the scintillating re-plays of his betrayals. Robin is everything Slade could have asked for.

And now he is Slade's. All Slade needs is to break the news to the boy. This time though, there's no need to hurry. He can bring the revelation to the boy slowly.

In the semi-darkness, running an absent finger along one of the invisible marks on his arm and feeling the fear override the despair in return, Slade continues to smile.

*---*---*---*

It's been five days since the day at the old library, the fight with Slade, and learning of the prophecy. Considering the type of petty crimes they've been called upon to stop in the interim, it should have been a pretty relaxing break for the Titans.

Generally that would be true, except that the longer the time frame, the more... *tense* Robin gets. And it's gotten to the point where the others have started to worry.

When they bring it up between themselves, Raven, ever the cold logical one, simply replies: "He's always this way when Slade shows part of his hand. It's normal."

Perhaps, if they hadn't been soothed in their worries by that logical observation, Robin's friends might have stopped what was to come.

But then, that lack of *proper* observation and personal intervention is what usually happens in life, isn't it?

*---*---*---*

Robin stumbles into his room, gasping and hitting the lock a bit harder than necessary. He can feel his skin prickling and hot all over (the marks are blazing with heat), sensitized from ghostly touches that never *happen*, but leave his nerves tingling as if they *have*.

He shuffles/stumbles across the floor towards his bed, whimpering as another of those not-touches brushes along his inner thigh. He scrabbles at his gloves, needing the pressure they set on his skin to be gone, for the pressure of his whole damn *uniform* to be gone. The familiar tangled feelings of desire/want/need surges higher (and damn it, he's going to have to apologize to Starfire after this, when the feelings are sated until the next time this... *thing* hits) making him lose his grip, and screw it, he brings the gauntlets up to his mouth and *bites* them off.

He hasn't made it half-way across the floor before he's *keening* (he keens a lot, these days) and his knees buckle under him, and he has to twist in order to prop himself against the work table, scattering a few of the items (a recovered laser blaster from one of Slade's robots and a couple of broken bird-a-rangs he's been attempting to fix without having to send them back to Bruce) to the floor.

The not-brushes have stopped their teasing and now there is steady pressure against the back of his neck and *something* (air, there's nothing but air) is brushing, stroking his cock. He closes his eyes tightly, feeling a small pang of familiar guilt and confusion as his hips thrust forward of their own volition.

Or maybe they *aren't* done teasing him, as the pressure along the back of his neck slides forward, over his collarbone and farther down to rub circles around his left nipple, causing him to twitch and jerk back, as if that could let him get *away*. And just like so many times since that damned trip to the old city library, the pressure just follows him--

And he's suddenly keening *again* because the other hard pressure trapping his cock *tightens* and *twists* and goes *faster* (and there's pressure everywhere, he's still in the damn *uniform* and it's trapping his cock, it's trapping *him*).

He has to stop, someone's going to hear him (metas, he's alone in a team of metas), but he can't, so he shifts more of his weight against the edge of the table and claps one of his hands over his mouth.

Than he's *biting* the meat of his index finger (why did he drop the gloves?) and he's standing straighter now, left hand gripping viciously at the edge of the table, spine arcing forward as the hard pressure circling his left nipple zeros in and *twists* at the same time the other does-

and-

and-

The desire/want/need melts away to blissful, overwhelming completion.

And there's a tickle at his mind, as if something (some*one*) is speaking lightly, softly in his ear.

He has the sudden, overwhelming urge to cling to something (some*one*).

When he finally comes to from the heady feeling, he's splayed out across the table, kneeling on the floor, a small trickle of blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth to stain his lips and hand.

Removing his hand (superficial injury, pierced the skin, still needs a band-aid and disinfectant), he opens his eyes.

And stares across the room into the empty eye socket of a cracked piece of a mask.

*---*---*---*

Robin can only control the rising panic and the need to get *away* long enough to clean up and change his boxers before he's out the door, running for the garage and the R-cycle. Amazingly, blessingly he doesn't run into anyone in the corridors (it's night, and they're in bed, or heading that way). Runs past Raven's room, turning the corner to the sound of a door sliding open, to hear Raven call out after him, but he's already firmly on his way.

He's marked, he knows he's marked, and he's been foolishly thinking he could ignore it. Could ignore it, and that it would go away. He's a danger with this thing in him, on him, *filling* him, and he can't, shouldn't be around the others while tainted this way.

*---*---*---*

Slade smirks, hand caressing, rubbing against his thigh. He can feel the fright, the need to run, to find solitude and absolution from his boy.

Only when the boy is finally with him, will Robin find peace now.

It's time to bring the boy to him. But-- perhaps he should let Robin calm down, first.

Yes, he'll let the boy calm down. But he'll also bring him closer, planting a subconscious need to find something and the general area of his lair in the boy.

After all. Slade's waited this long. He can wait another few hours.

*---*---*---*

Straddling the bike, helmet tightly clasped in his hands and hovering over his hair, Robin shudders at the feel of another phantom touch on his thigh, pressure that doesn't indent his skin but tingles along his nerves as if it does.

It is beyond time he left.

Shoving the helmet down, hands shaking as they click the catches into their slots, Robin rev's his bike. Tires squeal as rubber burns and skids against the concrete, as he peals out of the garage.

In the relative darkness of the night, the single beam of light from the R-cycle's headlights are like a sword cutting through black fabric.

Robin heads to the relative safety of Jump City, following a pull and longing he barely understands.

Through it all, the marks burn.

-- To be continued in Your Ex-Lover is Dead by Cosmicastaway a.k.a. Greysnyper.