Archive of Our Own

It’s funny, what Duke’s mind chooses to focus on. The little crack in the grimy window, the peeling strips of paint, bubbling and pockmarked. The spider, suspended on her dew damp web. She’s missing a leg. Duke counts them. One, two, three -

“I won’t do it,” Bruce is saying, somewhere far away and not knelt between Duke’s spread thighs, a gauntleted hand clutching at Duke’s hip.

“I’m impressed by your resistance,” their captor says. Duke imagines him twirling a big handlebar moustache menacingly. “You’ve lasted longer than any of our other subjects.”

It’s cold in the warehouse. The sort of frigid, empty chill that you only get in buildings that have been long abandoned - big empty spaces and concrete floors. They’ve stripped Duke of everything but his domino and handcuffed him to one of the support pillars. Batman is still clad in full armour, held in place only by the threat of guns.

The bastards had been expecting them, or expecting Batman at least, because they’d been ready with the knockout gas as soon as Batman and Signal had crashed in through the skylight. Duke’s never going to make fun of Jason’s stupid helmet again, because Duke’s was useless.

Duke had woken up naked and tied down. They’d jabbed Bruce with a needle, and informed him that in a matter of minutes he was going to be desperate to fuck, and unluckily for Duke it was his ass on the line. Quite literally in this case.

“I won’t,” Bruce says again, but the words are slightly slurred this time. His hand is trembling where it’s braced over Duke’s hipbone. His face, where it’s not covered by the cowl, is flushed and damp with sweat. Duke’s starting to think that despite Batman’s protests, he very much will.

“The more you resist, the worse this will be,” evil moustache guy says. “You’ll be too desperate to think straight soon. If you don’t want to hurt your little friend, you should probably prepare him.”

“Batman,” Duke squeaks out embarrassingly. The thought sends a frisson of terror through him. Batman’s a big guy. Duke’s never actually seen his dick - not the way he’s glimpsed Tim’s or even Dick’s accidentally after patrol - but he’s sure Bruce is proportional down there. There’s no way Duke can take him without copious amounts of lube and stretching.

Duke’s brain stutters, thoughts going oddly staticky. He and Bruce are - they’re gonna -

Batman makes an awful noise above him, like he’s being stabbed. His fingers spasm on Duke’s hip. He shakes his head like he can dispel the threat with sheer force of will. Maybe he can. Maybe he’ll fight against the effects of the drug. Maybe he’ll somehow take out the men and the guns and free Duke from the cuffs.

Bruce’s free hand drifts to cup over the front of his own trousers, pressing down on his crotch almost absentmindedly. It can’t provide any relief, not with the cup he’s surely wearing, but the motion has Duke’s throat going dry, cinching tight with a sick sort of fear. He can’t see Bruce’s erection in the Batman suit, but now he knows that it’s there. That Bruce is hard. That the men are right.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says on an odd, rasping gasp. Duke’s thighs are trembling where they’re spread either side of Batman’s bulk. From the cold. It’s really fucking cold.

Duke’s comm clicks in his ear. Bab’s voice is strained and tight and the best thing Duke’s ever heard in his life.

“Nightwing and Red Robin are en route to your location,” Oracle says. No nonsense. “ETA twenty-three minutes.”

Twenty-three minutes. How much can they stall in that time? How much of Duke’s dignity can they preserve? From the way Bruce’s jaw goes tight, teeth grinding together, he can hear Oracle through the cowl and he doesn’t much fancy their chances. Twenty-three minutes is a long time.

There’s no way to reply without giving themselves away. Has Oracle patched into their comms? Can she hear them now? God, Duke hopes not.

Bruce’s throat clicks as he swallows hard. He turns his face away. “Lube?” he grits out.

A little bottle is tossed onto the ground next to them. It rolls up against Duke’s leg. An innocuous little tube, cold on his skin. Bruce’s hand is shaking as he picks it up.

“B-“ Duke starts, then stops. He’s not sure what he was going to say. His mouth is so unbelievably dry.

Batman ignores his half-formed attempt at speaking. He strips his gloves off with stuttering, shaking movements. It leaves him looking oddly vulnerable, his naked hands a stark contrast to the rest of the suit, as if Bruce is the one splayed open and exposed to everyone in the room, rather than Duke.

He’s purposely not thinking about his own nakedness. About the fact that Batman has seen his dick, soft between his legs. About the fact that all the other men can see him too.

Batman lays a trembling hand against Duke’s inner thigh, gently encouraging his legs open further. His palm is damp with sweat and so hot it feels like a brand on Duke’s chilled skin. Then it’s gone, and Bruce is opening the bottle of lube with an ominous click.

He’s actually going to do it. He’s going to…prepare Duke. He’s not sure if it’s the implied threat of the guns, or if Bruce is worried about succumbing to the drug, about becoming too desperate to hold himself back, Batman’s ironclad control fraying. It’s a horrifying thought.

Lube pours slick over Bruce’s fingers, too much, running down his palm and dripping onto Duke’s stomach. Duke’s breath catches oddly in his throat. His skin twitches.

Bruce brings his hand lower. “Okay?” he says, hesitating between Duke’s thighs, like Duke is a particularly nervous lover. Like he’s asking for fucking consent. Duke can’t get any words past the thick lump in his throat. He can’t reassure Bruce the way he should - it’s not his fault they’re in this position, after all - but Bruce doesn’t even seem to notice. His fingers press between Duke’s cheeks, up against his asshole, cold and slick.

Duke’s not a virgin, he’s had sex. He’s had girlfriends. But this - He’s never had sex with a man before. It’s not like he’s never thought about it - although not with Bruce. He’s fingered himself a few times. Bruce’s fingers are a lot bigger.

It hurts a little when Bruce pushes his finger in, probably because Duke is rigid with fear and a weird sense of embarrassment. Batman’s got his finger up his ass. Bruce is pushing his finger up into him, huffing like he’s just ran a marathon, sweat dripping down his jaw.

He freezes, knuckle deep. His head drops to his chest. He sucks in a heaving breath, like he’s trying to control himself. Duke’s gut twists.

“Signal,” Bruce rasps out. It sounds like he’s trying to remind himself who he’s with.

“It’s okay,” Duke says dumbly, even though nothing about this is okay. They’re being forced to - to rape each other. This is so beyond fucked up it’s not even funny.

It could be worse, Duke thinks. Bruce could have been patrolling with Tim or Dick or - god forbid - Damian. It’s fucked up sure, but at least Duke doesn’t see Bruce as his dad, at least Duke will be able to look Batman in the eye afterwards. Maybe.

“I’m sorry,” Batman says. But the words are accompanied by a second finger pushing into him. Duke’s finding it hard to care about Bruce’s apologies. He grits his teeth against the burn of thick digits inside him. Nausea turns his stomach and sits thick and acidic at the base of his throat.

Twenty-three minutes. How long has it been? It feels like hours, but also somehow just seconds. Time warps weirdly as Duke lies on the dirty concrete floor. A fat bluebottle flies lazily into the spider’s web, sticking to gossamer strands.

“I can’t -“ Bruce says, bending in half over Duke, looking like he’s in agony. “I can’t - I won’t - I’m sorry.”

His fingers jerk, twitching horribly inside Duke. They drag out of him, scraping across his insides, and Duke has a moment of terrifying relief as they’re pulled free before Bruce groans, reaching between them to draw his cock from the confines of his suit.

Holy shit. Holy shit. That’s Batman’s cock, hard and red and straining up towards his stomach, slick with precome. He’s fucking massive. There’s no way that monster is going to fit inside Duke. He needs - he needs some more damn fingers.

Bruce fists himself roughly, twisting his wrist at the head like he’s wringing some poor bird’s neck. Duke resists the urge to look away. He’s not some blushing virgin. It’s not like either of them have any dignity left to preserve.

Bruce’s mouth is dark and wet in his pale face. He shudders all over, tightening his fingers around his purpling shaft. His hips jerk, thrusting between Duke’s spread thighs. He shuffles closer, free hand coming down to clutch at that same spot on Duke’s hip.

“Wait,” Duke croaks out. He wasn’t joking about needing more fingers. If Bruce fucks him now he’ll tear apart. “Wait, hold on. I’m not ready - you have to - B -“

He’s distantly aware that he’s panicking. That his voice is high and thin, his arms twisting against the handcuffs. His skin burns beneath the sharp bite of metal, but it barely registers over the gut clenching horror of Batman’s cock nudging between his asscheeks. It smears over his skin wetly, hot and hard.

“Batman don’t, please.” It’s a selfish thing to say, to want. It’s not like Bruce is doing this on purpose. It’s not like Bruce has a choice. Begging him to stop will only make him feel worse later, when this is all over.

He can’t help it. He can’t stop himself from instinctively fighting against this violation. He’s scared. He wants Batman to save him, to stop this from happening.

Bruce’s teeth clench, his lips thinning to nothing. Duke can see all the tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief where the cowl doesn’t cover them. He shifts, bending over Duke to rest a hand beside him on the concrete. “I’m sorry,” he says again, right into Duke’s ear, a desperate little plea.

“Hang on,” Nightwing’s voice comes over the comms, breathless and tight. “We’re almost there, ten - no - seven minutes. Just hold on. Seven more minutes.”

Duke sobs a helpless breath. Seven minutes. They’re going to be too late to stop this, too late for Duke. Too late for Bruce.

A strangled, choked noise slips from between Bruce’s gritted teeth. He drops down further, his weight pressing on top of Duke. The Kevlar is hard against Duke’s naked skin. Bruce grunts. Makes an odd sound low in his throat. He presses in.

Duke’s body goes rigid, clenching tight. Bruce strains against him. His cock is huge and hot, pushing against the resisting muscles. For a moment, it seems like maybe Bruce won’t be able to get it in, like maybe Duke’s body knows how fucking wrong this is, like maybe the universe has decided that this shouldn’t happen. Then Bruce groans, his hips rolling. The head of his cock breaches Duke’s rim with a burning, tearing thrust. The breath punches from Duke’s lungs on a ragged shout. He tries to suck air back in but can’t seem to get it past the tight cinch of his throat. Bruce’s cock is taking up too much space inside him, and he’s not even all the way in.

“Ah - Signal,” Bruce moans. He pushes in further, shoving up into Duke’s guts. Carving out a space inside him. It hurts, honestly more than Duke was expecting, a blunt, tearing agony that burns like fire. He feels stretched to bursting, the thin elastic of a balloon that’s been overfilled, almost see through.

“It hurts,” Duke slurs. “Please stop, it hurts.” He hates himself a little for saying it, but he can’t seem to stop the words.

Bruce moans like a sick animal. The skin beneath the dark fabric of his cowl is wet. Duke can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears.

“Batman? Signal, report.” Oracle’s voice sounds strangely far away, even though she must be speaking right into Duke’s ear through the comm. Duke sort of wants to laugh. She must be able to hear what’s happening - they must all be able to hear, and Duke prays to whatever god is listening that Damian isn’t on the comms right now - so why the fuck is she asking for a report?

What would he even say? Status report: getting fucked. Being raped by Batman. Being forced to have sex against my will with a man I respect and admire.

He sobs, the sound bubbling up his throat. His eyes burn. The men are talking somewhere above them. Duke should probably listen, try to hear what they’re saying. They could be talking about something important. But he’s distracted by the pain, by Batman’s bulk between his legs and his cock in his ass. If it were the other way around - if Duke was drugged and desperate, if Bruce was restrained helpless on his back being fucked - he has no doubt that Bruce would be listening to every word. The thought makes Duke feel strangely sick, although that could be the way Bruce’s dick is pressing up inside him, crushing his stomach and lungs to nothing.

He thinks he might be bleeding, but he can’t really tell through the amorphous mass of agony. He feels wet and stretched wide. The parts of him that don’t hurt feel sort of numb. Duke should probably be worried about that.

Batman shifts onto one elbow, close enough that Duke can smell him, sweat and Kevlar. His free hand slides beneath Duke’s trapped arms, cupping over the back of his neck, sort of like Duke is a baby he’s cradling in his big palm. The contact is damp and hot, Bruce’s skin burning against his. His lips brush Duke’s ear.

“Eight men,” he says, low enough that Duke almost can’t hear him. “All armed. They have - ah - they have a - a gas.”

He’s speaking into the comms, angling his face so that the men won’t be able to read his lips. Even if they can hear him speaking, they won’t be able to understand the words. Even Duke, pressed so close that he can feel Bruce’s breath, can just about make them out.

“Copy that,” Red Robin says. “We’re approaching your location now.”

Batman tilts his face, pressing their cheeks together. His skin is wet where it’s touching Duke’s. He’s breathing in ragged, heaving pants. Duke stares up at the ceiling, body rocked with each desperate thrust. The fly jerks beneath the spider’s thin legs as it’s wrapped in the web.

“Here,” Nightwing says. “We’re going to drop in a smoke grenade.”

It falls through the smashed skylight. Bruce shifts over him, tucking Duke’s face against his chest. The smoke grenade goes off, filling the room with acrid, ashy grey. Duke can hear the men shouting, the sounds of a fight. It’s distant to the way Batman groans above him, a thick, pained noise. For a moment, Duke thinks that he’s been hit. Then his hips jerk, grinding them together in a way that has Duke gasping with the pain of it. Bruce’s cock throbs inside him. Wet heat.

He just came, Duke thinks distantly. Batman just came inside him. He’s - he’s still hard, his hips rolling in stuttering thrusts. He just orgasmed but he’s still going, braced over Duke, a sob strangling in his throat. Smoke burns in Duke’s lungs, stinging his eyes. Everything hurts. He’s so fucking tired. He just wants this to be over.

Bruce makes a choked, startled sound and his weight lifts away from Duke. Duke’s legs tighten instinctively around him, fear tightening his throat, because what if it’s the bad guys? What if they’re dragging Bruce away to hurt him. To kill him?

It hurts when Bruce is wrenched free. His cock slides from Duke’s ass, an agonising, aching relief that has Duke crying out. He’s splayed open, wet and sore between his legs.

The smoke is slowly clearing, thin wisps curling up towards the open skylight, light against the dark Gotham sky. When Duke looks up Batman is on his knees, cock still hard and protruding obscenely from the opening of his suit, smeared with blood and semen. Duke’s blood. Nightwing has his arms wrapped around Bruce’s broad chest, holding him up - or back, Duke isn’t sure how badly the drug is still affecting him.

Tim’s pale face blocks the two of them from sight, filling up Duke’s vision. His lenses are wide and white in his cowl, lips pressed tightly together.

“Hold on,” he says. “Let me -“

A touch to Duke’s sore wrists. He flinches, gasping, and Tim immediately draws back, hands held in front of him. Like Duke is a frightened animal that needs calming.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, Signal. It’s okay. I just want to get you out of those cuffs.”

Duke blinks. He sucks in a ragged breath. His gaze goes past Tim, drawn to Bruce like a magnet. He’s clutching at Nightwing’s wrists, jaw clenched tight as Dick murmurs into his ear. Dick’s face is almost grey in the low light, his hands trembling where he’s holding onto Bruce.

“Is he okay?” Duke asks. He feels strangely distant. Numb.

“Is…Batman?” Tim asks, looking back over his shoulder briefly. His mouth twists. “He’s fine, Signal. Let’s just worry about you right now.”

“They drugged him,” Duke slurs.

“Okay.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Duke says. Sobs. Tim leans over him, jostling the handcuffs as he picks the lock. His wrists ache.

“We know, Signal. It’s okay.”

There’s a cut on Tim’s cheek, bleeding sluggishly, bright red against pale skin. The handcuffs come loose with a quiet click. Duke trembles as they pull away from his wrists. His shoulders burn when he brings his arms down, cradling his bloody wrists to his chest.

“Here.” Tim’s voice is quiet, strained. He unclasps his cape and lays it over Duke, covering his still spread legs and the mess between them.

“We’ve got them,” Nightwing says over the comms. “We’ll take the Batmobile. Get them back to the cave. Have medical ready.”

Tim lays a gentle hand on Duke’s shoulder. “Can you stand? I’ll help you.”

Duke winces as he gets to his feet, slowly and leaning on Red Robin for support. He feels stupid - stupid and weak - in the grand scheme of things, this injury is relatively minor. Duke’s had far worse.

Still, he appreciates the arm Tim wraps around his waist. The way he grips the cloak with his other hand, holding it closed for him. He lets himself lean on his shoulder. He carefully doesn’t think about the way the new position has wet liquid trickling down his leg.

Dick has one of Bruce’s arms slung over his own shoulders, half carrying him. Batman looks terrible, flushed and sweating, curled over like he’s in pain, like Dick is the only thing holding him up. He’s tucked his cock back into the suit, and Duke is stupidly grateful that he doesn’t have to see it, or his own blood, smeared over Bruce’s skin.

“I’m sorry,” Batman rasps. “I’m sorry.”

Duke’s stomach twists, acrid bile surging up his throat. He pulls away from Tim, lurching like a drunk, staggering to his knees as he throws up over the concrete. Red Robin crouches beside him, gently tucking the cape back into place. His hand is warm on Duke’s back.

“N, maybe you should take Batman to the car first. Get him situated.”

“No,” Duke says, the word fraying at the edges. “No, it’s okay. I’m okay. You don’t need -”

He gags again. Glances up at them. Dick’s expression is awful, twisted with horror and grief. He’s clutching Bruce against his side, bowing a little beneath his weight. Bruce clings to him, mouth a dark, wet slash in his pale face.

“It’s fine,” Duke says again. He’s not - he’s not afraid of Bruce. It wasn’t his fault.

“It’ll be easier if we get him in first anyway,” Tim says. “Here, let me get your suit.”

Duke misses the warmth of his hand as he gets up, the way he’d acted as a barrier between Duke and the others. He feels exposed beneath their combined gazes, naked and pathetic. He should get up, walk it off. There’s no reason for him to be kneeling on the floor, shaking and nauseous, hot tears stinging his eyes.

“C’mon B,” Nightwing says. His voice is tight, the words rasping from his throat. “You two will be alright?”

“It’s not far,” Tim says, crouching in front of Duke this time. Carefully avoiding the mess on the concrete. “We’ll be fine. Here, Signal. Do you think you can get it back on by yourself?”

Duke would rather not put the suit back on if he’s honest. Just the thought of pulling the skin tight undersuit and thick Kevlar up over his blood-stained thighs makes him feel sick. But the thought of getting into the Batmobile like this, naked apart from Tim’s cape, is far worse.

“Yeah. I can do it. Just - just give me a second.”

He’s not sure how long he stays kneeling on the hard, concrete floor, Tim silent and still beside him. It can’t have been long - the cops have no doubt been called, and Dick is waiting for them, Bruce is waiting for them - but it’s long enough that his knees ache. Although perhaps it’s just that Duke’s whole lower body aches. It’s hard to distinguish one pain from another.

He’s gone stiff by the time he levers himself painfully to his feet again, without Tim’s help this time. Pulling his suit on is just as bad as he’d imagined. The blood has mostly dried already, tacky and sticking to the fabric. Tim takes his cape back, wadding it up to tuck beneath his arm.

“Okay?” Tim asks.

“I’m fine,” Duke says, although he’s definitely not fine. His legs are shaking. His back and wrists hurt. And his…ass. Tim doesn’t say anything about the obvious lie. He hovers close by Duke’s shoulder as he starts limping towards the exit, but he doesn’t try to help. Duke’s stupidly grateful.

His stomach clenches, pulse pounding at the base of his throat as they near the car. It’s stupid. There’s no reason for Duke to be nervous - he’s not scared - not now that Nightwing and Red Robin are here.

Nightwing is leaning against the door of the Batmobile. Even with his domino on, Duke can tell that Dick’s giving him a once-over. Assessing him. He straightens, trying not to limp so obviously as he makes his way over.

“I’ve given him a sedative,” Dick says by way of greeting. “Strapped him into the back seat.”

Duke’s stomach churns, sudden horror making his throat tight. A sedative? Why would he need to knock Bruce unconscious? Unless the drug is still affecting him. He gives Dick a more critical assessment. He looks fine, if a little tense. His uniform looks just as neat and tidy as always.

“Did he - are you alright?” Duke asks anyway. He has to be sure.

Dick’s eyebrows raise quizzically, then flatten out in grim understanding. He glances at the tinted window, like he can see Bruce straight through the inky black surface. “I think the drugs have mostly worked their way out of his system. He just -“

He stops. Looks back at Duke. Works his tongue round his mouth like he’s feeling out the weight of his next words.

“It was for him. The sedative. He was - uh - distressed.”

Oh. Duke swallows around the painful lump in his throat. He can’t stop himself from thinking about the way Bruce had trembled, the awful, agonised noises he’d made. Of course Bruce was distressed. Duke would have been pretty fucking upset if he’d been forced to… He cuts that thought off hard, feeling slightly sick at just the idea of it, of hurting someone else like that.

It’s not that Duke is surprised that Bruce is upset. He just…feels a little wrongfooted by it, by Bruce being so visibly distressed, being so out of control that Dick felt the need to sedate him. Batman is usually so unshakeable.

“Hey,” Dick says gently, and Duke realises that he’s just been standing there for too long, staring at the slick, black window. “I can take Batman to the cave first and come back for you guys, if you want.”

“No,” Duke says, humiliation burning hot in his cheeks. Dick probably thinks he’s freaking out. “No, it's fine. Let’s just go.”

He limps forward stubbornly, nudging Dick out of the way so he can pull the passenger door open and slide into the seat. It hurts a little, to be sitting, his ass and lower back aching. At least Dick and Tim are too distracted to see him wincing, talking in low voices outside.

“-alright in the back with him?” Dick is saying. “You can drive if you-“

Duke doesn’t hear the rest, distracted suddenly by the sight of Bruce in the rear view mirror. His throat tightens, pulse thudding beneath his jaw. Bruce looks terrible, face pale, mouth slack and open where his head has lolled back against the seat. He’s been strapped in tight, belts around his chest and hips and waist. He’ll struggle to get out of it if he wakes up. Duke will have time to -

No. Dick said that the pollen has run its course, that Bruce isn’t affected. Duke doesn’t need to be scared. He isn’t scared.

The door opens and Tim slides into the seat next to Bruce, lips pressed into a grim line. He catches Duke’s eye in the mirror, blank white lenses wide in his mask.

His lips quirk upwards, sickly and forced looking. Duke can’t quite bring himself to smile back. He looks away, trying to ignore the prickling at the nape of his neck, the sick pulse in his stomach telling him he shouldn’t turn his back on the threat.

“Alright,” Dick says, strained cheer in his voice as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “You good back there Timmy?”

Duke watches the way his eyes meet Tim’s in the mirror, then flicker over to Bruce. The way his jaw flexes. The bob of his throat as he swallows.

“We’re fine,” Tim says.

“Duke? Still doing…okay?”

Duke almost laughs at that, at the haltering way Dick says okay. As if he hadn’t heard just how not okay Duke was over the comms. The thought has his throat tightening. He shrugs instead of answering, one shouldered. His stomach feels hollow and painful.

“Alright,” Dick says after a painfully long moment of silence. “Let’s go home.”