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He thinks about it sometimes. Usually at night, usually when he’s alone. Sometimes, though…
Sometimes he isn’t alone. Sometimes he’s full to the brim with someone else’s dick and all he can think about is Joker raping him.
It hurt. Of course it hurt. Joker wanted it to hurt. He hadn’t prepped Jason at all—didn’t have the time, didn’t care. Somewhere between the beating and his death, Joker unzipped his stupid clown pants and fucked the life out of him, and only one of them left that warehouse changed.
So, he thinks sometimes. What’s the big deal? No one else knows. No one else has to know. Joker’s certainly kept quiet about it. Maybe he’ll hold it over Jason’s head forever, waiting to drop that bomb like the sick bastard he is, waiting to rip the scraps Bruce gives him completely to shreds.
But… it’s fine. Bruce doesn’t know, won’t ever know, and Jason can live with that. He isn’t ashamed anymore. What happened to him was… awful, but it doesn’t define him. It changed him—fuck, did it change him—but it’s over with. It’s done. He shouldn’t have to carry it around, shouldn’t have to shrug it on and wear it like an old coat. It isn’t comforting to think about. It isn’t… it isn’t anything.
So why does he keep thinking about it?
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Jason glances at Joker and wishes he didn’t. The creep’s practically eye-fucking him. In front of Bruce. Ugh.
“I’m thinking about killing you,” he says. Joker can’t see his face, but he has a feeling the fucker can tell he’s glaring at him.
That must be exactly what Joker was waiting for. He shivers head to toe, spreading his legs with a disgusting expression. Jason can hardly look at him. He doesn’t know how Bruce is, let alone how he’s touching him.
“How much longer is this shit gonna take?” he hisses at Bruce. He doesn’t know why he’s still here. Bruce said he wanted him as backup to bring Joker to Arkham for testing. Apparently, Bruce can’t get enough of the toxin samples Joker conveniently had on him. But it’s been over an hour and Bruce has yet to allow him to leave. He’d literally take another date with a crowbar over being here.
Joker hums and answers in Bruce’s stead. “As long as it’ll take, baby boy. I know you’re eager to get daddy-o alone but consider a lady’s feelings.”
“You don’t have feelings, you sick fuck.”
Said sick fuck leers at him and spreads his legs wider. If he wasn’t strapped to a chair, he’d be palming at his crotch. Jason’s on the other side of the room behind an unused desk and it still doesn’t feel far enough.
“I’m almost done,” Bruce finally says. “I just need one more syringe. Can you get me it, Hood?”
“Can you get me it, Hood?” Joker parrots in a goofy Batman impression. Jason scoffs.
While he retrieves two syringes (just in case) and gives them to Bruce, Joker doesn’t once blink. Jason doesn’t count (he does) but it feels like an absurdly long time (17 seconds). He stares at Jason with this… look. It’s eerily familiar.
Shit, why’s he sweating? Bruce is right here and Joker’s restrained. Yet he can’t shake this feeling of uneasiness, and it isn’t because of Joker’s deranged version of flirting. He pulls that shit all the time. He usually tones it down around his beloved Batman, though. Something about loyalty and a general distaste for threesomes despite being caught in several orgies by various heroes over the years. Nothing about him makes sense.
After a while of blessed silence, Joker sighs. “I wish you’d let me go at it again.”
Just like that, Jason’s on high alert. He immediately knows what he’s referencing: his death. He just can’t tell which part. The main dish or the appetizers? The first or second course?
Bruce is evidently content to stay silent while the clown spits his schtick, which Jason could normally get behind. But this feels different. This feels like—
“Have you since?” Joker smirks knowingly. “You must have. A babe like you’s gotta have a whole list. Tell me, Robin boy, how’d it feel? You know broken birdies can’t fly, kiddo.”
Broken. Broken—
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck not now not in front of him FUCK
His stomach turns itself inside out while his heart picks up speed, pumping icy blood through his veins. He wants the floor to open up and swallow him. He wants to be—be not here. Not here, not now, not ever.
Bruce still hasn’t said anything, which could be a blessing or a curse. Silent Bruce doesn’t ask questions but he notices everything. If he’s silent, he’s picking apart every word from Joker’s twisted mouth.
Maybe that’d be a good strategy for Jason. Joker hates being ignored more than anything. He likes fun and games, but it takes two to play, and Joker doesn’t have friends.
But Jason’s not thinking clearly. He can’t stop his heart from pounding or his stomach from lurching or his hands—fuck, his hands—from shaking, and he knows it shows. God, he knows it shows, and it’s only fueling Joker.
“Ah, I see. So it’s true. Bet I’m the only one who gave it to you like that, eh? Poor Robin, gone before his prime. You were a delight back then. Don’t know if I like you so much now. I’d have to get a sample! Hehehe! Nice little taste of the treat. And boy, what a treat it’d be. You’re a special little birdy, ain’t’cha? Just like your mommy.”
Jason’s going to kill him.
“Shut the fuck up. Don’t say shit like that.”
Wait. Fuck. There’s that glint in his eye; Joker’s picked his player and trapped them in his game. Jason can’t escape now.
“Tell me, baby. You been raped since?”
Jason feels his stomach hit the floor under his feet. Or maybe that’s him actually falling to the floor, he can’t tell. His hands tremble under him but he can’t sense them past the crushing weight on his chest. He looks at Bruce and Bruce looks at him, and Jason can’t move. There’s something gluing him to the spot—like an invisible weighted blanket three times the recommended weight. Like the one he has in his apartment. It’s fuzzy and grey. He likes that blanket. It makes him feel safe and warm, like being held again. He wants that blanket. He wants it. Fuck, he wants it.
He doesn’t want to throw up but does anyway. He tastes the bile before it happens but it’s too sudden; he just barely manages to rip his helmet over his head. The vomit hits his lap, his hands, maybe his feet, who knows. He can barely feel it. It’s warm and squishy and smells pukey. Well, no shit. It’s puke, Jason! Haha!
He wobbles until there’s a dull ache in his forehead. He lies in his vomit and floats. His chin, cheek, and neck are wet with it. It’s in his nostrils too. It’s all over him.
He hates puke. He threw up as Joker raped him till he died.
“I kept going,” Joker said the first time he saw Jason again. “I came inside you again while your body lost all its warmth. Nothing compares to violating someone in their last moments. You died with my dick up your ass and you loved it. You stayed hard the whole time. Heh! You even came! If you wanted me to fuck you, you shoulda just said so.”
Jason hates himself for considering it.
He whimpers, fingers desperately grasping for something, anything, to ground himself. But all he finds is cooling lumps of his dinner. He wants something solid. He wants to climb to his feet and get away, but he doesn’t have the energy. He can’t keep his eyes open. They’re so heavy. He wants to sleep.
Why didn’t he learn? If only he’d done better, been better. He wants to be better, but he doesn’t know how. How can he be better? When will he get over it? Does he not deserve to get better? Does he deserve to react like this? Barely anything happened. He can barely remember what happened right now. It’s over and done with. There’s nothing he can do, nothing he can say. Joker was right. He was right. Jason’s messed up and doesn’t deserve to feel bad. Others have had it worse than him. Look at any other hero! They’ve all been through shit. Nobody has time for Jason. Jason doesn’t even have time for himself. Bruce doesn’t love him.
Bruce…
Through the fog in his brain, white noise buzzes in his ears. His face isn’t only wet with vomit. He tastes salty tears over the puke. It soothes his throat some but—but he’s sobbing? Since when? He’s been just lying here the whole time. He’s been quiet, hasn’t he? Has he been—?
Bruce. Oh no. Bruce… Bruce knows. He knows. He knows he knows he knows oh no please no he knows now he knows how gross Jason is he won’t want to look at him he won’t love him he’s tainted he’s
He’s embarrassed. Through the fog, his skin prickles. It’s heat. Shame. Through the fog, he feels hands.
NO.
Pain in his throat. He’s screaming. What’s he even saying? Is that Joker? Where’s mom? He coulda sworn she was around here somewhere. Wasn’t she—?
Oh. No, she isn’t here now. She left. It’s just Joker. Just Joker and Jason. They’re going to play.
Robin, your wings are all broken! Don’t ’cha know? Broken birdies can’t fly, kiddo.
Broken. Broken. I’m broken, Bruce. I’m sorry, Bruce. I don’t want this, Bruce. I don’t want to die. I can’t breathe, Bruce. I’m sorry.
The hands rove over his body roughly. He thrashes with all his strength. He can’t let Joker get him again.
Wait.
Again?
Yes.
Yes, it’s different now. It’s going to happen again. Joker will rape him again. Joker will rape him and he’ll make Jason like it. Isn’t that it?
You like it. HA! You LIKE it! What a fuckin’ joke. Hey, kid. Can’t you tell? You’re bleeding down in your princess parts. You ain’t supposed to be hard. Poor thing. Batman never touch you like this? Shame. You’re a catch. So small, practically a cocksleeve. Too bad Imma kill ya. I’d add you to my collection.
The pain in Jason’s throat only worsens as he’s touched over and over. He can’t understand what’s happening. It doesn’t feel like a crowbar. He’s being lifted. Someone is carrying him? Where? Where’s he being taken? Is it Bruce? Did Bruce find him this time?
No, it can’t be. Bruce is… Bruce can’t find him like this. Is Jason naked? Is he hard? Is he bleeding? Did Joker come in him? Has—has Jason already came? Can Bruce see it? Why does nothing make sense!? Make it make sense! He can’t see anything! He can’t hear! Why is he being carried!?
“Br… uce?” he whimpers pathetically, and he can hear that, at least. It comes out raw after all the screaming. His ears pop. Sound filters in gradually like he’s coming up from underwater. It isn’t the pit. He isn’t wet. He’s being wrapped in something. Vomit. Puke. It smells awful.
“Jason, Jay, can you hear me?” says a voice that sounds suspiciously like Bruce. It only spikes his panic.
“N-no,” he croaks. He tries to say more, but it won’t come out. Everything’s so blurry. His eyes hurt. They’re so heavy. He wants to sleep.
“Hey,” murmurs Bruce gently, and no way that’s Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne doesn’t sound like that. He doesn’t touch Jason like this. “I want you to try to stay awake for me, okay? Can you do that, Jay?”
“Bruce?” he says again.
“Yeah, it’s me, Jay. It’s Bruce.”
“It is?”
“Yes, baby, I’m here.”
“Where… am I?”
Nothing makes sense. He should be on fire. His skin burns so hot it’s cold.
He’s set somewhere before Bruce speaks again, so gentle it makes Jason’s head throb. “You’re at home. In the manor. Alfred is here—he’s getting you some water. I got a blanket for you, do you feel that?”
Oh, that’s what that is. That makes sense.
A hand settles on his head. He jolts away instinctively and it doesn’t return. But it wasn’t bad. That was Bruce, not Joker. He whines.
“C-come back. Bruce.”
And Bruce does. The couch—they’re on a couch, they’re in the manor—dips next to him. He leans a little to the side and is righted. But Jason’s tired, so he leans more and meets an arm. Smells like Bruce.
The hand returns and ruffles his hair. It’s all gross and pukey, but Bruce doesn’t seem to mind. Bruce must’ve killed Joker this time. He saved Jason. Jason can sleep.
Bruce says something to someone else—Alfred, yes, that’s Alfred—and presses a cold something—cloth, washcloth, detergent, home—onto his forehead. It feels so good he presses into it, moaning softly. He wants water now, but he’ll settle for Bruce wiping the puke from his face and cleaning him up. He’s so gentle. Jason wants to cry again.
It’s then that Jason realizes he’s shaking. He’s shaking so much his muscles ache, every part of him sore. He tries cracking his eyes open but winces at the light and the crusties in his eyes. Bruce shushes him and says it’s okay to keep them closed if he stays awake. Jason grips Bruce’s hand. Even now it’s so big in his own.
He sits and thinks of Joker. With panic, he realizes he’s hard.
He pushes Bruce away again, bending forward to hide the tent in his pants. He swallows more bile. He doesn’t understand. What’s wrong with him?
“Where’s… Joker…?” he rasps.
“Arkham,” Bruce says gently. Too gently. “He’s locked up. You’re safe.”
Is he? Is he truly safe when he’s the real monster?
He’s been raped several times since the incident. But… is it really rape if he wants it? Is it rape if he purposely seeks to replicate it over and over again like some fucked up creep?
His head aches. He shakes with the urge to seek Joker and scream until he loses his voice. How dare he irreparably hurt Jason like this?
As though possessed, he turns his head, looks at Bruce, and says, “Please. Please hold me. I don’t know what’s happening. Please hold me.”
Bruce is surprised but hides it fairly well. “Come here, then.”
Jason presses against Bruce, head tucked under his chin with a leg over his lap. He squeezes him hard. Bruce is the only real thing here. He’s warm but he’s solid. Bruce can breathe and hold Jason.
“Bruce,” he says quietly, voice scratchy with overuse. “Bruce…”
“What is it, baby?”
“Do you love me?”
He expects silence. He expects Bruce to wait till Jason forgets. But Jason never forgets. He thinks sometimes. About Bruce raping him too.
“I do,” Bruce says. His arms tighten around Jason.
Jason sighs in relief but the shaking doesn’t stop. “I love you, Bruce. Don’t leave me. Now a-and f-forever.” He shakes and shakes and shakes and it takes a long while for it to stop, for him to fall asleep on Bruce’s lap like he’s wanted to for years.
Later, Bruce takes him into the master bathroom and runs a bath. He helps him in the tub and washes his hair. Jason’s hard the whole time. He whines until Bruce climbs in with him. He does his best to finish up but there’s puke all over him and he can’t reach it all. He’s so tired. Bruce says to stay awake, but he doesn’t want to. He kisses Bruce’s neck and tells him he loves him, and Bruce smiles, but it’s funky. He seems sad.
Bruce helps him into some pj’s and sets him up in Bruce’s bed. Jason makes him stay. Bruce does, but he seems far away. Jason wants to kiss him. He wants Bruce to use him and make him bleed, but Bruce won’t like that. He won’t rape Jason like Jason wants him to.
“Just sleep, love,” Bruce murmurs. He cuddles Jason and Jason feels warm.
“I love you,” Jason says a third and final time. “Thank you for saving me.”