Welcome! So, it's terrible, but I had fun writing this. It's Jason's PoV, so you get to see the other side of this. Enjoy!
Warnings for: non-graphic rape.
From the very start, Jason never believes that his capture is some kind of divine plan. He can't believe that God actually wants him in the captivity of demons, wants him to suffer, wants him to hurt like he does. Believing that God would condemn him to something like this — the loss of his dignity, his strength, his voice — for no reason that he can see hurts too much for him to even consider it could be true. He's always been kind of iffy on the idea that God knows all and plans all anyway, so it isn't that big of a change for him to just consider this some random, painful twist of fate.
It's the same way that he never lets himself believe that there might be a rescue. His family loves him, he knows that they do with every fiber of his soul, but he's deep in Hell, and trying to mount a rescue would be tantamount to suicide. The number of brothers they would lose if they tried to storm Hell would be… Too many. He's not worth that many lives and he knows it. He doesn't want that kind of sacrifice laid on his shoulders.
It doesn't stop him from praying for them in his weaker moments, from screaming their names when it's all he can do not to scream for God himself, but he forgives himself that. Prayers don't make their way out of Hell; he can cry and scream for his family all he wants, but they won't hear him and that's good. He doesn't want to subject any of them to his suffering.
He lets himself wait with patient acceptance for some kind of opening, for some method of escape or even just any chance he gets to do damage. Escape is, honestly, a pipe dream, but whatever damage he can do down here, whatever attention he can keep, is something not focused on his family. That thought fuels him, keeps him defiant and resistant despite the years of agony that pass.
Every second spent hurting him is a second they're wasting, so he works to get as much of their attention as he possibly can. Makes it a challenge.
And then he meets the boy.
Young, corrupted but one look almost blinds him with the potential shining from the kid's soul. There's darkness there, inky and black like his mother, Talia, but God, the potential for good in the boy is brighter than any being he's ever seen. It shines like the sun, and he has to shutter his vision away so he can focus properly on the kid, on enduring the pain he knows is coming.
More years pass, and he hardens to the pain. It still affects him, but he learns to shut it away, to only deal with it right in that moment and to give nothing else away. If anything, the years somehow manage to make him stronger, if less capable of caring. It's a sacrifice he's willing to make; it's not as if he has any chance of ever escaping this place.
He starts to believe that they've done something to his sight too, somehow interfered with an ability they shouldn't even know exists. Because all the years he watches the half-blood boy grow, all the years Talia spends molding her son into a confident killer and torturer, training him to sadism and enforcing the belief that Jason is less than them — a beast, a creature, a thing to be owned — the boy's potential for good never diminishes. It never fades, even as the darkness grows beside it and he watches the half-blood embrace their way of thinking so completely.
It isn't until he 'belongs' to Damian, officially, that the belief that his sight is wrong wavers. It's in the careful brush of the damp cloth to his shoulders and wings, the removal of that damn muzzle and the thread binding his mouth closed, the gentle touch to almost painfully sensitive skin, and the soft reassurance when he almost panicked, when it hurt to be touched.
He takes a glance at the half-blood, sees the darkness but also the light, the good. He doesn't know what to think of that. He doesn't know how to process the idea that one of his most frequent torturers of more than a decade is so very capable of kindness, and compassion. It makes no sense to him that anyone could do so much evil, but still apparently be able to turn around and more than outweigh those bad deeds.
The idea that maybe God did put him down here for a reason, for this reason, shakes him in ways he's not sure he can deal with.
It shakes him even more that he's not sure that after all this time, after so much suffering, he's still capable of the kind of persuasive good that might coax Damian to the right path. God, what if he's not? If this even is some kind of mission, what if God chose the wrong angel for it? He's never been good at the whole charm thing; he's always just been stubborn and powerful and the person sent to track down those souls that couldn't possibly be redeemed.
How is he supposed to raise a soul from Hell when all he's ever done is send them down here?
"Are you praying?" Damian asks, and he almost flinches.
He opens his eyes and raises his head from where it's leaned against the wall, bowed down over his shackled wrists. It takes him a moment to understand why Damian would ask, and then another to decide to answer, "Questioning." Honesty; it feels right in his chest. "No point in praying," he adds, as he leans his head against the wall again.
It feels strange to talk, after so many years of being unable to. His voice is nothing like how he remembers it, and it sounds bizarre to his ears now. Rough and hoarse, grating through his throat from the depths of his chest like it never did before. He doesn't know how much is the years of enforced silence, and how much is the damage left over from Damian nearly strangling him with a chain. Doesn't care to know.
"Have you given up that completely?" It's a sharp demand, but edged with something strangely concerned.
"Given up on what?" He has to swallow, work moisture into his throat so his voice comes out as more than a whisper. "Escape was always practically impossible; rescue was never coming. Never allowed myself to believe either would happen."
He watches Damian step closer, doesn't react.
"Most would not have been able to survive so many years in my family's cells without some hope to cling to," Damian points out, and he snorts and tilts his head to look up at the half-blood more directly.
"Never said that. Every second attention was on me, it wasn't on my brothers. Every demon I hurt, every demon I killed, was one more they would never have to face." He shifts his arms, pulling lightly on the shackles binding his wrists. "Their lives are worth my suffering; I would make the same trade a thousand more times. And I will, before this is over."
"You expect me to make you suffer?" Damian asks, and he looks up again.
"Am I wrong?" he counters, bluntly.
Damian's eyes narrow, and then, carefully, the half-blood sinks down to crouch beside him, one hand bracing against the floor for balance. Close enough for him to strike, if he thought it would do any good. If he wanted to.
Is there a part of him that wants to hurt the half-blood? Absolutely. But... But he'd watched the kid grow, watched Damian's demon mother sink her claws into the half-blood's mind and twist him how she wanted him. Even if his sight is wrong, even if Damian isn't capable of the good that his sight can see, it's still not really the half-blood's fault. He knows — doesn't have to ask — that Damian has never known anything but Hell. He's the only angel that Damian has ever met, the only example of his kind — of half of Damian's soul — that the boy has, and if he's cruel, if he lets himself give into his desire for vengeance...
He can't. It isn't Damian's fault that he's never been shown any path but this one, and it's not going to help if he rejects the half-blood. If there's any chance of him converting the misguided kid to a better road, of showing him a better life, it has to be by example. He has to be as good as he's capable of, has to put the past behind him and forgive the boy for the pain he's caused.
That could take a bit of time.
Damian is studying him, and he does his best to meet the considering gaze steadily. Then the half-blood gives an irritated sounding huff and sits down on the floor, crossing his legs and letting both hands rest on his knees. Those blue eyes watch him, and it's weirdly familiar from more than just the years of torture and captivity.
He snorts at the thought.
"What?" the half-blood snaps, clearly taking it as laughter aimed at him.
He shakes his head a bit, then shrugs and says, "You have your father's eyes."
Damian's eyes widen, breath catching as he freezes up for a moment. There's a note of sharp interest when the kid breathes, "You know my father?"
He hums confirmation, letting himself lean a little more heavily against the wall. "Yeah; Bruce. He's my commander. You look a lot like him, especially—" He cuts off for a moment, and then swallows away the desire to not give Damian the information he obviously wants and continues. "You have his wings. Not the black, but the gold. His wings are the most brilliant, shining gold; when he spreads them out the light makes him look like the sun . It's blinding."
"I've heard stories," Damian murmurs. "They say he's killed hundreds of my ki— my mother's kind."
He wonders at the distinction for a moment, then shakes it off. "It's probably closer to thousands," he corrects. "He's brilliant, deadly; makes me look like a fledgling most of the time with the kind of skill he has. He can be harsh, ruthless sometimes, but he's always made sure that my brothers and I were as safe as could be, and he— He never had to treat us as family, but he always did."
Damian is silent for a moment, before he says, "He must not have been good at it, considering where you ended up."
He lashes out without thinking about it, lunging forward fast and with enough force to get Damian on his back, hands twisting into the fabric at the half-blood's shoulders.
"Don't you dare ," he snarls, as Damian's hands wrap around his wrists with enough force to bruise. "You know nothing about him or my family, half-blood. Keep your mouth shut or I'll rip your damned tongue out myself."
Damian sneers, and he can see the flicker of dark power in those eyes. "You would not dare the kind of agony I would inflict on you, angel. I will speak as I wish; you cannot—"
He jerks Damian up an inch, slams him back against the floor hard enough to cut him off and then pulls a growl from deep in his chest, ignoring the growing pressure around his wrists and the dull pain of it.
"You think you know what I'd dare , Damian? You think I'm frightened of you?"
Damian growls back, then surges up and flings him off. He hits the ground hard on his bound wings, rolling, and before he can manage to get his legs underneath him Damian is leaping, black and golden wings flaring and beating to give that extra bit of momentum. He manages to get over far enough to catch Damian as he comes in, rolling them both across the floor as they struggle. He gets a hard blow to the stomach, and gives a headbutt, before Damian gets him pinned down on his back, wrists twisted and pinned back behind his head by the shackles.
He struggles, but Damian is solid and the flared wings give the balance needed to make it hard to destabilize the half-blood. If he just had his hands, or his wings, it would be a different story. He's still weak, he knows that, but he's got more skill than Damian does, and he knows how to fight someone with wings. Knows it arguably better than he knows how to fight someone without them.
Damian snarls down at him, voice low and breath hot against his face as the half-blood spits, "You will not harm me without repercussion, angel. I am your owner , your master , and if you were to ever dare attempt what you speak of I would make sure you scream until you have no voice left to beg for my mercy. Is that clear?"
He jerks against the shackles, turns his head to meet Damian's gaze directly and bares his teeth. "You have nothing to threaten me with, boy. Anything you can dream, your mother put me through years before you even met me. Weren't you warned that I had a nasty habit of biting? " He snaps his teeth to make the point.
There's a sort of frustrated anger to Damian's expression, and the half-blood makes a sound that matches and presses his free hand down into the center of his chest, compressing his lungs somewhat. "Do not make this harder than it needs to be. Whatever you believe, I do not wish to torture you, Jason. I have no interest in harming you; do not fight ."
He can't help the burst of breathless laughter that rushes up his throat, even though there's only a crazed kind of amusement to it, and it comes out through a snarl. "You took a hunter of damned souls and tortured him for years. Took my life and my voice, made me suffer , and then you call yourself my owner and expect me to submit?!"
The sound that comes up out of his throat is some kind of furious, pained, shriek , and it actually seems to startle Damian somewhat. Those wings flare bigger, feathers puffing up as the half-blood flinches back, but the hands holding him down only tighten, and the weight pressed down between his legs and over his torso doesn't ease enough for him to really struggle.
He tries, but Damian is stronger than him, has him at a disadvantage, and he hurts. He aches and he trembles and he feels so weak that the half-blood above him feels impossibly, immovably powerful. There's pain in his chest, and he drags at what power is left inside him and brings it up inside his skin, where the wards carved into his shackles and the leather straps holding his wings burn against it, holding him contained and all but helpless as he tries to fight.
The bright, shining light of Damian's potential for good nearly blinds him as his careful restraint of his sight slips, and he shakes, fights harder for the few moments he can manage the extra energy. It has to be a lie, it has to be false. He can't be here to try and save this corrupted half-blood because that means God condemned him to years and years of suffering and he just can't— He can't.
A second shriek bursts from his chest, more pained and less furious, as his strength fades. He breathes hard, through his teeth, and has to stop struggling. It doesn't stop him from trembling, from more than just the ache of his injuries and the weakness in his muscles. God, he hurts.
His eyes squeeze shut, blocking out the world as best he can as he tries to push away the pain welling in his chest. It doesn't work. It only grows, sinking into his bones until he has to grit his teeth together and twist his head to the side, away from the length of Damian's arm where it's pressed past his head and holding the chain between his shackles to the ground. His breath comes faster, and he tries to hold it, tries to force himself to be still.
"You are in pain."
He jerks at the quiet voice, eyes snapping open.
Damian is watching him, too close and too intently, but there's a strange edge to that blue gaze, almost unnerved. "I did not think— You did not seem affected."
The laugh comes out bitter, and a harder shudder shakes him, makes him twist his wrists against the shackles until it hurts just to feel grounded for a moment. "How can you—? God, you think that I'm some beast, that I'm just a creature and a thing to be owned, weak and lesser. But then somehow you have it in your head that I can just— I can just take over a decade of torture and not even care? What do you think I am? What do you want from me?"
"I—" Damian swallows, staring down at him. "I want to possess you," the half-blood breathes, body shifting over his and he doesn't have the energy to react to the predatory movement. "I want your pain and your pleasure to belong to me, to keep you locked up in this room so no one ever has the chance to admire you again. I want you to be mine, Jason, body and soul and mind." A slight pause, before Damian shifts above him and murmurs, "I want to be inside you, angel. As the first to ever breach and truly take you."
He shivers, pain sinking down into his gut as he tries not to be too hyper-aware of the body between his thighs.
"You don't know what that will do to me," he whispers, voice shaking a bit. "Don't. Whatever good is left in your heart; don't."
Damian pauses, and then gives a small shake of his head. "In this, I do not have a choice either. It is expected; I must perform."
He gets dragged to his feet when Damian moves off of him, still holding his shackles behind his head. His legs aren't as shaky as the rest of him, but they pretty quickly get there when their destination becomes clear, and he's dragged up onto the bed that dominates the room. He fights, but his struggles are hardly even worth mentioning, and Damian is completely unaffected by them. His shackles get hooked to a chain at the top of the headboard, into a metal loop in the wall that he's pretty positive won't break. Then, Damian swings a leg in to press down over his, pinning them semi-securely to the bed as deft fingers undo the strings holding the cheap linen pants on and then drag them down his thighs. It's almost a relief to have his ankles strapped to the corners of the bed as well, leaving him spread wide and at the half-blood's mercy, more or less.
If he's bound down, that means it's not his fault. It means that no matter how he struggles, he won't get loose, and he can't be blamed for the actions that are about to happen. He can't be condemned just for not having the strength to break free from a more well-rested and physically powerful opponent. He can't be condemned for not stopping this.
He shudders at the feeling of fingers against his inner thighs, tilts his head back and tries not to look.
"Don't," he tries again, as Damian's hands brush higher, pushing his legs further apart with easy strength. "If you— You don't know. Just don't."
The hands pause, lingering on his thighs but not traveling up, and then Damian shifts forward to kneel higher over him. "If I had the choice," Damian tells him, gaze completely clear of any sign of deception, "I would leave you your purity, Jason. From what has been explained to me, I may take you nearly as much as I wish to, and it is bringing you to your own pleasure that causes the loss. Given that, I would gladly fulfill my own desire without taking this from you."
"It's not—" he cuts himself off from explaining, from trying to correct the idea that it's just the physical act that corrupts. If that were true, the first priority of any demon army would be to set the creatures of lust and desire loose on his kind. It's not that simple, but…
He's already lost too much of himself down here. He's already starting to be corrupted and he doesn't have the strength or the solitude required to fix it. He needs time to recover and guard himself against any more attacks before he truly starts to fall, especially against attacks like these.
He's been humiliated before; Damian wasn't the first to paint his skin with seed, but things have never pushed further than that. He was always being saved for the half-blood on top of him now. Sex also isn't the anathema to him that Damian likely believes, because he's shared pleasure with his brothers before, but always with consent. Always with acceptance and joy. Not once has it ever been less than a comfort and shared love. There was no harm in pleasure so long as it was wanted and did not detract from his duties. But this? This is wrong.
"Why?" he almost begs, as Damian watches him.
Damian actually hesitates, and then one hand rises and touches his jaw, traces a thumb to his lips to linger for just half a moment before pulling away. "Because I wish to, because I think you will be utterly beautiful in the depths of pleasure, and because…" Damian trails off, and then those blue eyes harden, hand pressing down in the center of his chest. "Because believe me or not, this protects us both from far worse scenarios. I am expected to hurt you, to enjoy you, to take you. If we are seen again and I have not, what do you believe will happen? My grandfather already wished for me to claim your purity in front of an audience; if I disappoint him that will be demanded, and I will not be able to be anything but cruel to you.
"I do wish to possess you, and I cannot pretend dissatisfaction over the fact that I am about to fulfill that desire, however I am protecting us both, Jason. If my grandfather believes anything but that I am using you, and hurting you, I have no doubt he will take you from me." He opens his mouth, a biting insult on the tip of his tongue, before Damian points out, "Imagine for just a moment that my mother had ownership of you instead, now that your purity is no longer something to be protected. I do not expect you to surrender to this fate, Jason, but believe me when I say that as it stands I am your best outcome."
He chokes a little bit on the swell of a hopeless laugh, and whispers, "That's not a comfort ."
"You—" Damian swallows, and then dips his head a touch. "You have my— my understanding. How would you prefer this to happen?"
"Don't—" He grits his teeth, glares for the moment he can manage it and then hisses, "Don't you dare make me choose this. You're going to use me then use me , but I will not help you in my own violation."
What hurts, past the knowledge of what he's about to have to endure, is that he knows that Damian isn't exactly wrong and he can't— he can't blame the half-blood for not knowing a better way. He can't blame Damian for not understanding how absolutely, irreparably wrong it is to force yourself on someone else, not with Hell being the only place he's ever known. No one's ever taught the half-blood anything but violence and cruelty, never taught him any other way to have things than to just take them, and it's— it's a good thing that even with all of that conditioning, Damian doesn't want to hurt him. It's a good thing that Damian at least recognizes that this is wrong, on some level.
He has to remember that.
He closes his eyes, twists his head to hide his face against his arm and holds as still as he can manage. If he can just take it, just endure like he's managed everything else, he might be able to keep himself from any further corruption. He might be able to manage this. It's not a very good option, but it's the best hope he has. If he gives in, he might fall farther than he can manage to reverse.
There's a moment of silence, before Damian murmurs, "Very well."
He doesn't look up as the bed shifts, holds back any reaction but a small flinch when fingers slide up his thigh and further. He doesn't — can't — relax, and doesn't want to, so the first press of a slick finger doesn't get far inside him. Damian draws the hand away, and he can't decide if it's better or worse when those fingers wrap around him instead. He grits his teeth, clenches his hands to fists, but refuses to look. Refuses to bear witness to the slow, inevitable betrayal of his body's nerves.
Faced with that coil of heat in his gut, the second time that finger pushes it slides inside him. He shudders, nearly bites his own arm but holds the urge back, at the first soul-deep feeling of violation. Not for the first time, he wishes that he was better at distancing himself from the physical world. He had brothers that could slip inside their minds and cut themselves off from the pain of their body until it was repaired, with stunning ease, but he's never been good at that. He can do it, with enough time and focus, but he's never managed to cut off from torture while it was still happening. He's only ever managed to minimize the pain afterwards, and only until his captors came back.
If he could just distance himself from this, it would be easier to take. He could stay neutral to it, to all the implications, and not have to deal with any of this until it was over and done with. He wouldn't have to deal with the pleasure rising in his veins, with the feeling of the fingers working him slowly, intimately open against his will.
It's just another form of torture; he has to remember that. It's just a more physical form of torture, with a different weapon than usual, and just because it's sexual shouldn't give it more power over him. His body's responses have been used against him before; this isn't any different.
But it is.
Damian withdraws, and he can hear the rustle of clothing before there's heat, pressure, and a push. His back arches as the half-blood slides inside him, limbs straining tight against the chains binding them as he strangles a cry, keeping his eyes closed through pure force of will, against the instinct to open them. Hands close on his hips, thumbs rubbing small circles into the muscle as Damian exhales with obvious pleasure.
He wishes it hurt.
For a moment, he wishes that Damian didn't have the good in him, had taken him rough and painfully, so it could be more clear cut in his mind. Then the shame takes his breath, that he would actually wish that a being had no good in them, just for his own comfort. That he would wish that someone with as much good in them as his sight says Damian has would lose it and be as much of a monster as the people around him, just because of his own pain.
He shudders and Damian moves, taking him with too much care, with too much thought for his own pleasure and he— he just wants it to stop. He can feel the corruption circling up his chest, sinking into his soul and he doesn't know how much he can take, how much he can lose before it becomes permanent.
Fingers curl around him and he chokes, hips lifting without his consent and that makes Damian's angle better, makes the pleasure sharper. He doesn't know how to fight the heat in his veins, doesn't know how to shut down the coil winding tight in his gut. He's never needed to before, never had to stop himself from enjoying the touch of another, when all of his past encounters have been born of love.
He can't do this.
He trembles, jerking against the chain holding his arms and twisting his head to the other side, baring his teeth and biting back a helpless cry. His power bursts free from his control, screaming beneath his skin and his eyes snap open underneath it, gaze rising to the ceiling as he shakes.
Please , he begs in his own mind, power behind the words and God help him it's a prayer no one will ever hear. Please, I can't do this. Help me. Make this stop! Please!
The coil in his gut snaps and he arches, crying out in pain and loss and pleasure towards the ceiling as he falls apart. Damian is only a breath behind him, and he can feel the pleasure of the half-blood, feel the heat in him, hear the shout above him that's so different from his; untainted by any of the pain of this. He can feel the enjoyment .
For one bright, burning moment, he hates .
Then he's shaking, feeling the black of that hate spread into his soul even as he pushes it away. Even as he reminds himself that this is not Damian's fault . He may be the physical hand but the half-blood doesn't know better, even thinks he's doing the right thing to keep him safe . Misguided and raised wrong, but not evil . He can see that.
Damian is careful when pulling away from him, hands gentle on his thighs as the half-blood slips out of him and shifts away. He closes his eyes again, squeezes them shut so he can only hear the pad of footsteps and doesn't have to watch. He listens to them slip away, then return, and ends up flinching when a cool, damp cloth wipes across his stomach. He tries to jerk away when it dips lower, but there's nowhere to go.
Nowhere for him to hide.