Stone On Steel

by Lara Wilson

The sound of stone on steel brings him back, and he groans at the sharp influx of pain in his body. For a moment the sound stops, then resumes, and he tries not to think of the implications.

He tries not to remember what happened to him.

But memories are determined things and force their way into his mind.


As efficient yet hard hands cut away and stripped him of his uniform, his mask, Tim struggled, but the ropes tying him to the bed were as tight as those that had been holding him to the pillars. It would have been so easy to give in to the terror screaming for attention at the edge of his mind, but he wouldn't. He was stronger than that.

He'd survive whatever came.

He was Robin and Robins didn't break.

A hand ghosted over his chest, pushing lightly at bruises and making him involuntarily hiss.

"You're too pale. Bruises show too clearly. A creature of the night still needs some sun." The voice was almost amused, and Tim slowly turned his head to look at the man straddling his hips, still fully clothed.

Slade Wilson.


"What do you want with me?"

The hand went lower, over his flat stomach, fingers combing through sparse hair, stopping at his pubic bone.

Tim refused to color, refused to pale, simply waited for an answer he didn't really want.

"I want to see how you'll react. If you're anything like him." Hips shifted and Deathstroke moved down his legs, and Tim wanted to bite his lip, force himself not to react.

But, he was a young and healthy man, and despite his fear and complete lack of desire, when a hand wrapped around his cock, it was going to harden.

"I'm not."


The hand tightened as it slowly pumped, constricting sensitive flesh. "Not willing," Tim hissed, head arching, revealing his throat and its taut tendons.

"He was."

That smirk made Tim want to scream, because he knew it was not an expression of deceit. He knew the man was speaking the truth. He'd known for years, but simply ignored it as best he could.

The fact that his brother, his mentor, his idol, had willingly given himself to this murderer was something Tim had never wanted to acknowledge.

"But, he isn't now," he said with some satisfaction, noting how the one eye hardened, how the hand turned to steel around him.

"So, you'll be a substitute." A shrug of massive shoulders, and the hand loosened and resumed its caresses. "You're pretty enough."

"Just do it and stop talking," Tim ground out, because if Deathstroke continued to taunt him about Dick, he wasn't certain what he'd do or say.

"No, I don't think so. We have time, and I am very interested in seeing if there are any similarities past the obvious physical ones. I want to see if you'll cry out at a certain moment. If you'll writhe. If you'll beg."

Tim glared furiously up at his captor and shook his head. "Any response will still be unwilling."

"I don't care."

He was hard now, aching as the knowing hand continued to stroke him from root to tip and back again. It was a hard fight to keep from lifting into that touch, but Tim won that battle. Keeping his eyes on the older man's face, he refused to see if he was becoming aroused as well. The only sign that he might be was a glimmer of perspiration at the neckline of his shirt.

It was a shock when the hand left him, and Tim gasped, struggling for control, watching as clothes were efficiently removed and tossed aside, along with weapons--well out of his reach even if he could free a hand. An unwilling glimpse showed him that his captor was aroused, his cock hard and thick.

It was going to hurt him.

That thought was almost embarrassing and Tim shoved it aside for the clinical. Yes, it would hurt. It wouldn't kill him, and he wouldn't cry over it. If he could, he'd relax the muscles and allow it to happen, but he wasn't sure he was mentally at that place of surrender yet. As he watched with some detachment as a condom and lubricant were applied, he ran over various scenarios in his mind, immediately discarding any that included begging or getting the other man to stop.

Deathstroke wasn't going to stop, no matter what Tim did or said, and rescue wasn't coming.

This was going to happen. Better to accept it and survive it.

Another involuntary gasp broke from him as his legs were untied and shoved apart, and for a split second he thought about kicking, but then they were quickly retied to the bedposts with no slack. A pillow was pushed beneath his hips and he fought the heat in his cheeks, concentrating on tugging at the bonds around his wrists until a light slap across one thigh drew his attention.

A lubricated finger pushed into him and Tim bit back a groan, then tried to relax, but the invasion was unwanted and just the first, and despite his rational desire to remain calm and accepting, his emotions were clamoring again, demanding he do something.

But, there was nothing to do, and as a second finger joined the first, spreading him with a sudden burning pain, brushing against something inside him that made his toes clench, he relaxed.

"Does that feel good?"

Tim refused to answer the crooned question, his teeth tightly clenched, his breath flaring his nostrils.

The smirk returned and then a third finger entered him, bringing with it even more pain and yet...pleasure as well. The prostate, that's what was being touched, what was making his cock ache and his toes curl and his hips want to twitch.

He'd read about it but never expected it to be a source of such physical delight.

Deathstroke's free hand slid back up his stomach, his ribs, his chest, fingers lightly pinching his nipples before tracing patterns around his neck to one ear. "He's especially sensitive here." One finger caressed the spot behind his ear. "Are you?" Tim shivered, and earned a smile. "Yes, you are."

The fingers inside him continued to pump, preparing him, and he fought to keep from squirming, but when the older man moved like a cheetah and buzzed his lips over that place behind his ear, Tim lost control and bucked onto the hand, making the fingers curl and drum.

"Yes," Deathstroke whispered, then licked that spot until Tim couldn't hold in his moan. As his thoughts began to lose coherence, the tongue trailed down his body, finding places he'd never known would be so responsive. Male nipples were supposed to be useless, yet when warm lips fastened around his, they hardened and ached, sending sensation to his groin where the hand continued to pump.

The calloused fingers were as familiar as his own and their scrape over glans and balls and slit kept him on edge, each stroke slowly shattering what little control he had left.


The murmur against his throat made Tim start and stare down into the eye gleaming up at him with dark amusement.

"Go to hell."

Deathstroke laughed and jerked his fingers free, making Tim cry out at the sudden pain, then bite his lip to smother the sound.

Before his muscles could close, the fingers were replaced by a slick, latex wrapped cock, and Tim labored to take an even breath and try to relax. The pain forced that breath from him and sent his hips shrinking down into the pillow. The hand around his cock stilled, clamping down at the base, and then a hard pelvis met his and he was impaled.

"Relax," came the soft breath of sound in his ear, sending a shiver through him.

Tim tried, but it hurt. It hurt in a way he'd never felt before. Much deeper and even wider than the fingers, and his body--bruised, scarred, even broken at times--didn't understand that pain.

Not yet.

Those warm lips found that spot behind his ear again, the free hand stroked down his side and hip, and Tim realized he was being soothed.

Incredulity filled him and he tugged hard on the ropes around his wrists, abrading the skin there, that pain driving away thought of the other.

Teeth nipped his earlobe and he hissed, and pleasure joined pain.

And there was a slow drawing back of hips before a return thrust and this time the cock buried in him nudged his prostate and Tim saw stars behind his now tightly closed eyes.

"My good boy."


That annoying chuckle sounded again, accompanied by another thrust and this time there was more pleasure than pain and Tim silently cursed his body. He'd known it would be futile to expect no reaction, but it was still disappointing.

He'd thought his discipline much more sound than this.

As the lips continued to nuzzle his neck and ear, the hand began to pump his cock again, and before he could stop himself Tim had lifted his hips, driving the cock deeper with his own movement.

Deathstroke drew back and thrust again, not taking his time any longer, causing burning and rubbing inside him that both pleased and pained him, and Tim felt bitterness join the disappointment and frustration and need all mingling in his fuzzy brain. Fingers wrapped around the ropes holding him down, he strained and didn't know what he was reaching for.



His own?

Or the other man's so this would end?

The sound of panting filled Tim's ears and he was shamed to realize it was his own, but he couldn't stop it, just like he couldn't stop any of this. His cock ached so much and with each thrust the other cock rubbed against that exquisite bundle of nerves, making his own throb even more, a vicious circle of pleasure and pain and he was so close. The fingers were moving smoothly, wet with his secretions, pumping with a twisting action that was guaranteed to bring him off.

The teeth in that warm, moist mouth bit behind his ear and Tim couldn't stop it, couldn't prevent the cry of such intense ecstasy.

And he was coming, heaving upwards, spilling over those calloused fingers, writhing on the cock thrusting harder and faster into him, pulling on the ropes and curling his toes, and yelling, blind to everything but the stars exploding in his head.

A grunt sounded loud in his ear already ringing with the sound of his own cries, and he felt the pulsing deep inside his burning passage, felt something liquid soothe abraded flesh, felt that hardness begin to shrink, and fell limp and gasping for air.

Deathstroke's mouth left his flesh first, then his caressing hand, then his cock, and Tim opened his eyes to see the mercenary rising from the bed, barely breathing hard, his discipline intact.

And Tim closed his eyes again and curled his hands into fists, fighting despair with anger and hatred so sharp they stung.


The stone continues to scrape against steel, and Tim knows a blade is being sharpened. He can feel the ropes still pinning him to the bed, feel the wetness of sweat and semen and probably blood beneath his hips.

Feel a cold eye appraising him.

Tim opens his own eyes and finds Deathstroke dressed again, save for mask and gauntlets. Seated on a stool next to the bed, he's sharpening a Bowie knife with smooth, even strokes of blade against whetstone.

For the first time, he allows fear to trickle into his mind, and his body tenses, preparing for a blow he knows is coming.

When the older man rises to place one knee on the bed, and one hand cups Tim's cheek almost gently, the only thing the younger man can think to ask is, "Why?"

"You're not him," is the simple, almost sorrowful answer, and then the razor sharp blade is slicing through his throat and Tim hears nothing more.


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