From the doorway, he watched as the two young men struggled on the bed— if it could indeed be called a struggle, seeing as one of them was tied down, secured to the bed by leather straps. But, he surmised that even if the restraints were removed, the struggling would be just as weak, and he found that the whimpers of pleasure corroborated and complemented the hypothesis nicely.

Normally, Slade was not one for voyeurism. Watching two other people fuck from a concealed standpoint struck him as base, idiotic, pathetic, and rather ludicrous. He considered himself a very "hands-on" kind of person— the need to be intricately involved in such acts of carnality was generally overwhelming; it would most definitely consume him if it weren't for his hard-won, unshakable self-control. To stand by and merely observe was either disgusting or excruciating, depending on the subject.

What he was doing now, though, this intimate act of just watching— this he felt to be quite different from typical voyeurism. For one, he wasn't bothering to hide himself in any way; he was leaning casually in the doorway, comfortably naked, arms crossed over his broad chest. If either one of those young men were interested in looking elsewhere, the one who wasn't blindfolded, at least, would have seen him easily. (As such, neither of them paid him any notice.) Furthermore, the desire to "dive right in", so to speak, was virtually nonexistent; it was not courting him the way it did ordinarily. Incredibly, he felt rather calm, and perhaps more than content to observe them from a distance.

Still, even if the desire were there, he knew he would find it difficult to interrupt the sight before him. It was almost like surveying a great work of art; one admired it, but was not incensed to take one's own paints to the same canvas. The two on the bed were oblivious to their lazily rapt audience. They were both pale, so very pale, sunless milky skin tones almost perfectly matched, differing by a minute shades. They were both marked up with various scars and wounds, some inflicted during battle, some during malicious foreplay. The submissive partner was splayed on his stomach arms and legs stretched apart, sweat glistening on his skin; his eyes were covered by a black blindfold and there was a pecker-gag in his mouth. His unruly black hair flopped over his forehead, matted and slick. What parts of his face were visible were contorted with pseudo-dysphoria but very real humiliation.


Slade curled a lip. The little bird that almost go away, the one that never learned his lesson. It was almost heartening the way he fought continuously and with such strength, despite his repeated failure to escape; he fought so desperately, so hopefully, as though he didn't know that he had no chance of freedom. Like a frantic bird who hasn't realized its eradicated wings, he assiduously tried to reach for liberation, though in his darkest of hearts he knew that he had no horizon to set his sights on and emancipation was nothing more than a pipedream. It was pitiful, his outrage, his overt protest, his screams of defiance; but it was also what made him desirable. He was beautiful and proud, a black-hair Ganymede, a delicate and delicious feast for a sadist.

Robin shuddered, sweat-slicked body shivering as he tried to scream around the gag. His hands, estranged by the straps, spasmed, curling and uncurling as his ash-blonde counterpart above thrust into him, and Slade's thought immediately shifted to the latter figure.

RedX. That had been a particularly fortuitous catch on his part. He was entirely different, yet exactly the same. He was Robin, but a darker Robin, the doppleganger, the devious alter-ego. He was the Robin that Slade had attempted to mold in the first place: underhanded, unapologetically deceitful, ruthless, callous, and cruel. He was a younger version of Slade— a Slade with all the willful cockiness and zeal that adolescence harbored. Robin was crystalline, whereas RedX was smokey. And, unlike Robin, unlike Slade even, he had no identity. No name. No history. Who this man-child was, Slade did not know— but nor did he press, for that matter. RedX was a mystery, one better left unsolved.

They were both his apprentices, one to the delights of pain, the other to all the rest. One was confined to his own tortured mind; the other moved about freely. Watching the two of them together on the bed was like watching a snake crush a bird in its coils, the one trying even with its dying breaths to escape, the snake slowly, gleefully constricting, enjoying the kill with a cruelty that was savory and leisurely. Helplessly, Robin cringed, arched, choking himself on his pain and his screams; and RedX above him, back arched as well, hips thrusting, shoulder blades churning under taught flesh as he growled and groaned deliciously.

And there was Slade, watching from the doorway.

As, with a muffled groan, RedX came, Slade felt within himself a twitch of excitement. He watched RedX smooth a hand over his short hair, angular face relaxing. He pulled out, and Slade allowed himself a small tremor of pleasure upon fixating on the tiny rivers of sweat trailing down the young man's back.

And suddenly, Slade was right there, kneeling behind his ashy-haired apprentice, one strong hand squeezing his damp shoulder, deep, grey voice by his ear:—

"My turn."

RedX nodded slowly with hard-learned obedience. He slipped from underneath Slade's grip, rising from the bed. For a moment, Slade ignored the trembling boy still bound to the bed, following RedX's lithe form hungrily as the latter picked up a towel from the floor.

Slade let his eyes rove the young thief's body as he dried himself. It would be wonderful of X to stay, but Slade knew well that he wouldn't; the thief was very one-on-one, not capable of distributing attention fairly in a menage de trois. One-track minds have limited modes of affection. This was a pity, as there were many things that Slade might teach him, if only he were a willing pupil.

No matter. That time would come later.

As soon as he heard the door close, Slade parted Robin's damp raven hair, finding and undoing the buckle that held the gag in place. Already, he found his mind skipping forward to a few hours later, RedX and himself in the master bedroom, satisfying each other while Robin wept angrily in the next room.

Roughly, Slade grabbed a handful of Robin's black mane and bit into his shoulder, soliciting forth a ragged scream. Perhaps instead of letting Robin wallow in his loneliness and despair he should be tied to a chair, tied down and made to watch as Slade and RedX fucked greedily.

Perhaps he would enjoy a little taste of voyeurism.

A/N: This is the first in the MK (Murderous Kisses) series. I'm gonna be doing a few of my most favorite, sick pairings-- but I can't say that I'll be uploading regularly. I think the next one is gonna be RedX/Batman/Robin, kind of mirroring this one. Ciao