Welcome! Chapter 2 of 3, assuming that Lit doesn't talk me into writing more past that third chapter. For those of you wondering, this is the chapter that has the sex. You got build up, sex, wrap things up. Enjoy!
Warnings for this chapter are: non-consensual marriage, rape, drugging, and something like consent under those drugs (so consent that should not at all be considered consent).
It feels like the shock doesn't even have time to slip away before there are two anonymous League members in the room, handing a set of very fancy black, green, and gold robes to Damian and then wrestling him into a second set. He gets a few hard punches in, and briefly manages to grab a blade, but that gets twisted out of his hand a few seconds later before he can do anything with it.
They tie his hands again — in front of him, this time — hobble his ankles enough he can take some small steps, and then very carefully pat him down to make sure he hasn't taken any more of their weapons, which is overkill but makes enough sense. The gag, annoyingly enough, stays in. And when he does reach up to tear it off Damian is there to grab his arm and pull his hands away with a smirk. He glares back.
The room empties again, but it's not even a minute later before Talia is sweeping back in, with a man at her heels with a book in his hands and a distinctly priestly vibe. Damian pulls him over to the man, being almost careful about his reduced steps, until they're standing in front of him. Damian keeps the tight grip on his arm, holding him pretty much still.
"As we discussed," Talia says to the priest, standing just a couple feet off of his left shoulder. "Just the essentials; no ceremony needed."
"As you wish, Mistress al Ghul. You have what is required?"
Talia smiles, retrieving a pair of silver rings, which she hands to Damian, and a small, glass bottle of something, dark and ornate looking. The priest takes that, storing it away in some inner pocket before clasping the book in both hands and turning towards them.
He jerks a little bit when the man starts speaking in Arabic, a lilting cadence to his words that suggests some kind of ritualistic, practiced speech but he can't even come close to understanding it. He knows a little bit of Arabic — not as much as he should, frankly — but these are mostly more complicated words, and they're in what he has to assume is League dialect because he's not catching anything more than the occasional filler word.
Damian leans in, lips almost brushing his ear — he really debates a headbutt — as the younger man murmurs, "When the time comes, you will do what is expected of you. By now, you have no doubt guessed the identity of my father, so know that while killing you is not my desired outcome, it is not entirely off the table. If I must, I would rather eliminate you entirely and then seek sanctuary with him, then allow you to remain my rival for this position. Do what is asked, or I will cut your throat here and now."
He can't answer, so he settles for glaring and pulling against Damian's grip on his arm, even though it doesn't even come close to working.
The priest stops speaking, words ending in the rise of a question, and Damian dips his head, answers in the same foreign language. The priest doesn't seem to need any answer from him because he moves on, speaking as he opens the book and then turns it, holding it open to them with one hand as he retrieves what looks like a very old calligraphy pen with the other. Like, the kind that you'd need an actual bottle of ink — which seems to be missing — to use.
The book itself looks like some kind of legal document, in old paper with even older writing and — damnit — in Arabic letters that he can read just a little bit of. Enough to understand it as a very binding, very official marriage contract, with two obvious places to sign at the bottom.
Damian releases his arm, taking the offered pen and he sucks in a sharp breath through the gag when the younger man wordlessly drags the tip of the pen over the back of his left hand. It's sharp enough that it splits the skin easily enough, and blood wells almost immediately. There's not hesitation or even a hint of pain as Damian draws the pen through the drops of blood and then lowers it to the book, signing his name in the same Arabic letters as the rest of it. The priest produces a dark cloth, which Damian uses to wipe the pen free of the remnants of his blood and then presses briefly to the back of his hand.
He jerks into action, raising his hands and jerking the gag down before anyone can stop him, not that Damian even tries. "Okay, there is no way I am signing anything in my own blood. Just as a rule; no. That's 'summon demon' levels of bad idea right there."
Damian's mouth curls into a small grin, and Talia gives a soft laugh. "These days," Damian explains, quietly, "the only reason it is still signed in blood is so that if issues of legitimacy occur, the DNA can be tested to ensure that both the signature and the blood matches the one who supposedly signed. There is no summoning or magic involved, Drake; sign it."
The pen is offered to him, and he balks a bit, but takes it with a glare. "Then why the old, creepy book?"
A lazy shrug. "Simple ritual. It contains hundreds of years of my family's contracts, but any paper with the same agreement would do. Drake, must I repeat my words?"
"No," he spits, then sighs. "Alright, prince of creepy." He winces, but does the same slice along the back of his left hand that Damian did, dips the pen — which stings — then shifts forward a bit to sign his name on the second spot. "There, you happy? Can I go now?"
The pen is reclaimed from him, and the press of the cloth down over the back of his hand is almost gentle. "Not yet," Damian says. "This part you may be more familiar with."
The priest hands the open book to Talia, and then starts off in Arabic again. Shorter this time, and the words have a definite marriage sort of feel to them, in the 'have and hold' sense of the word. All of which is confirmed when Damian dips his head again and says something he's pretty sure translates out to 'I swear.' Jeez, he should have put a little more effort into learning Arabic.
"I don't suppose I get to know what I'm agreeing to," he gripes, as the priest starts a similar but also noticeably different speech aimed at him. "Am I repeating your Arabic words, or what?"
"English is acceptable," Damian corrects, dabbing once more at the back of his hand before letting the cloth fall. "A simple 'I do' will suffice."
"I figured." He sighs when the priest reaches the end of the speech, watching him expectantly. "I do," he says, lamenting the fact he can't cross his arms and look suitably unhappy with all of this. Because he is. He really is.
That glass bottle reappears, and the priest uncorks it and then offers it to Damian first. Damian takes it, tipping it up to take what looks like a small sip. He watches the younger man swallow, and eyes the bottle distrustfully when Damian holds it out to him.
"It is completely harmless and symbolic," Damian reassures him, with a raised eyebrow. "Swallow, Drake; I am not above pouring it down your throat if I must."
He takes the bottle, sniffs it briefly — it smells a bit like chai; spice and faint sweetness — and then raises it to take a drink. He keeps his lips firmly pressed together, faking the swallow, and then hands it back to the priest. He's definitely not taking a drink of something he doesn't know the contents of, even if it is supposedly harmless. Oh yeah, because he's going to trust the word of Ra's' grandson, sure.
Suddenly one of Damian's hands is at his jaw, fingers digging into the hinges of it and he gasps at the sharp, painful pressure before there's a mouth against his and a tongue slipping between his teeth. He jerks, trying to pull away and almost tripping over his own feet, Damian's other hand grabbing his arm to hold both his hands down and out of the way. It only lasts for a moment, before Damian lets go of his jaw and pulls away a bit with one raised eyebrow.
"A real drink this time, Drake." Damian reclaims the bottle, still holding his arms lowered as the bottle is raised to rest against his lips. "Lips around it, not against."
He glares, but he's really sure that Damian's threats aren't bluffs and this is probably a little better than dying, so he parts his mouth and lets Damian push the head of the bottle between his teeth. One finger presses to the underside of his jaw, tilting his head back a bit so the liquid within the bottle empties into his mouth. He really considers just keeping it there for a second, and spitting it out — right in Damian's face — before logic takes hold again. Living is good.
The bottle is removed, handed off, and then Damian's hand presses his mouth closed and unceremoniously clasps over both his mouth and nose. "Swallow," is the low order. "All of it, Drake."
He does, after a couple seconds of glaring, just to be contrary. Damian's hand lets go, and then presses to those pressure points in his jaw again to make him open his mouth. Presumably to make sure he did actually swallow, but he rolls his eyes and only barely resists the urge to bite Damian's fingers when they slip away.
The taste of whatever it was is heavy on his tongue, just as spicy-sweet as it smelled but with enough flavor to feel cloying and like honey in his mouth. It feels like it settles heavy in his stomach, warm and spreading even though it was cool when he swallowed it. He's just a little grossed out, honestly.
Damian retrieves the rings from whatever small pocket he stored them away in, and then pulls his arms up, taking his left hand. He lets Damian slip one of the silver rings — white gold, maybe? — onto his ring finger, and yeah, it's a little creepy that it actually fits him just about perfectly, settling snugly past the last knuckle. He's a little glad that Damian doesn't hand him the other ring, just casually slips it on his own hand. He's pretty sure he would have flung it across the room for them to have to find, threats or not.
"It is done," the priest says, this time at least in English, so he can understand. "By the ancient laws you are partners; bound until the grave takes one of you for the final time. My lord Damian, do you require witnesses?"
Damian shakes his head. "There will be other proof. Thank you for your silence on this matter, priest."
"As is my duty. I shall leave you both to the consummation of your contract."
"The what?" he hisses, as the priest claims the book and turns to leave, Talia just behind him after a small smile and a wink. The door shuts, and he turns on Damian. "What did you not tell me?"
"Quite a few things," Damian answers easily, facing him without even a hint of wariness. "Even your marriage rituals involve consummation of the relationship, do they not? Did you not expect this, husband?"
"Oh hell no. This is not happening; you stay away from me!"
Then Damian is moving, grabbing his arm and dragging him across the room, this time with no care for his bound ankles. He yelps, almost falling over until Damian winds up at his back, all but lifting him by his upper arms until they're in front of the bed. Then one heavy arm wraps around his chest, pinning his arms down, and the other rises to grip his jaw, the heel of Damian's hand pressing hard against his throat and breath rushing hot and heavy over his ear.
He shivers as teeth trace over the shell of his ear, then down to his neck. That's actually, not all that bad. His breath comes a little harder, a little more like gasps against the pressure of Damian's hand, his fingers curling into the ornamental robe he's been dressed in. The arm around his chest eases, slides down and holy shit 'easy access' was not what he'd been thinking when they wrestled him into these things but just like that Damian's hand is inside his robe and curling around his cock, which is not entirely soft. That's… That can't be right.
"You drugged me," he breathes, against Damian's hand and as he squeezes his eyes shut. "The— The bottle. Drugged."
Damian rumbles something like a confirmation against his throat, teeth scraping with a little more purpose and the sensation is a whole lot better than he thinks it should be. Being bitten has never been his thing. "If you had taken just a small swallow when offered, I would not have had to force the rest of the bottle on you, Drake."
"You told me it was harmless," he protests, but his breath is catching and he's hardening in Damian's hand, none of which is making him sound all that angry. He's not totally sure he is angry.
"It is harmless," Damian murmurs. "It is a simple blend built to excite the participants, to ensure that there are no failures to perform. A smaller swallow — like mine — would simply have ensured you were—" a twist of his cock that makes his back arch a little bit, a moan catching in his throat "—at attention, so to speak. How much you took will keep you calm, and aroused. There are no other side effects, nor any long term consequences. Relax and enjoy, Drake."
"You—" That little moan escapes him, and then a second when Damian bites down against the side of his neck, sucking against his skin. "So it's what, basically Viagra and a sedative?"
Damian laughs against his throat, letting go of his cock to slide those calloused fingers lower and explore first his balls, then the stretch of his perineum. "In essence, I suppose."
He gasps, pressing forward into the touch of Damian's wrist and palm. "This is totally unfair," he breathes. "You could have warned me that this would involve sex."
"Would you still have agreed?" Damian asks, removing his hand and stepping back from him. He hears the rustle of robes, but it doesn't quite click in his head over the sudden little rush of sadness that there's no more touch.
He tilts his head back, breathes through his teeth and tries to control this at least a little as he balls his hands to fists. "I didn't agree to begin with," he points out. "Think I would have at least liked dinner before getting married. Court me or— or something."
Damian's hands slide around his waist, deft fingers undoing the knots of the bonds around his wrists, freeing his hands. "You are viewing this as far more constricting than it is, Drake. Despite the ritual, this is no more important than any single night between temporary lovers. Do not think of it in terms of marriage, simply think of it in terms of pleasure. I do not expect oaths of undying love, or promises of devotion. Let me lie with you like any of your other lovers. Imagine another, if you wish, I will not take offense."
The robes are drawn off his shoulders, leaving them bare and he shivers until hot skin presses to his, chasing away the faint chill of the air. "Really? You seem like the type to take offense."
Damian's hands draw the robe off his arms, then release it so it falls in a puddle at his feet, baring him to the hand that slides down his abs to curl lightly, possessively, in the pubic hair just above his cock. He tilts his head back against Damian's chest, grips that muscled forearm and feels the hot, hard press of Damian against his low back.
"It is my hands on your skin, Drake, my lips and teeth, my length that will be inside you. Perhaps it will be my name you scream, when I am through with you. Why should I care what you imagine behind your eyes, when I will be the one to own you this night?"
Damian lets go, then grips him by either side of his waist and lifts him off the ground, turning him to toss him back into the bed. He bounces a bit, squirms and then just stares as Damian steps up to the foot of the bed. He barely even registers the undoing of the knot hobbling his ankles, or the freeing of his feet from the robe; he's too caught up in staring at the copper skin bared to the world, traced by scars and the definition of muscle. The heat in his stomach isn't natural, and he knows that, but he will absolutely not deny that Damian is very, very attractive.
Damian crawls onto the bed, one thigh sliding between his legs and pressing in as a hand curls in his hair and drags him into a kiss. The tongue sliding between his teeth is confident, and he knows — he knows — that he can match this kind of skill but the technicalities are escaping him. He feels slow, clumsy, already overwhelmed by the desire in his veins and he can't quite focus.
"Next time," Damian whispers against his mouth, intense jade eyes catching his gaze, "I will earn the right to bed you, Drake. If you choose my company again, it will be my name you scream, and I will accept none other. But for now, I will not begrudge you an escape from this situation, if you wish to close your eyes and imagine one of your other lovers behind my touch."
"You—" He has to pause to gasp again, rocking up into the thigh pressed between his. "You make it sound like I have some kind of harem." Somehow, one of his hands winds up in Damian's hair, and Damian's teeth are against his throat, scraping against his skin.
"Do you not?" Damian teases, and then his legs are being pushed wide to accommodate Damian's body and there's a hand shifting down between them, slick fingers massaging and then one sliding inside of him without ceremony. "I have studied you, Drake; you sleep with most of your team, on and off. The boy of steel, your speedster, the wonder-girl… It is rather impressive to have so many enhanced individuals wound so firmly about your fingers. My grandfather favors you for a reason."
He groans, shakes his head and tugs a little at the hair in his grip. "No, no. No talking about Ra's; not like this."
"As you wish, lover." A second finger slides inside of him and he moans, arching his back and rocking down into the penetration. Damian presses closer to him, fingers picking up a wicked twist at the end of their slide that rubs against his prostate. "I should send thanks to the boy of steel." Damian murmurs, watching him without apparent shame. "He seems rather large based on my surveillance; I imagine your fairly regular bedding of him is why you grow accustomed to my fingers so easily."
If it's possible for his cheeks to get any more flushed, they do. "That's not— How did you even—?"
Damian smirks, fingers stretching apart every time they pull nearly all the way out. "Your Titans' security is adequate, but not impressive."
"Oh god," he breathes, and whether it's from the thought of Damian spying on his sex life or the heat building in the pit of his stomach he has no idea.
He tightens his grip in Damian's hair, gets his other hand up to clutch at one muscled shoulder as he arches, eyes fluttering shut. A third finger pushes into him, and he moans again, rocks into it and silently, in the back of his head, he adds 'muscle relaxant' to the list of drugs in that spice. He should not be able to take three fingers so quickly, even if he is 'calm' and unnaturally aroused. If anything, that should make him more tense and harder to prepare.
"I suppose now that I am no longer invested in killing you, I can see why they consider you appealing. You are quite beautiful, when control is taken from you."
Even past the haze, those words manage to irritate him just a little bit. He keeps it off his face, gets a better grip on Damian's hair and shoulder, raises his legs to press against Damian's hips, and then twists. Damian gives a shocked gasp at being slammed onto his back, and he tugs hard at the black hair between his fingers and gives just as sharp a smirk as the ones that Damian's been aiming at him all night.
"You think I'm not in control?" he murmurs, pushing against that crest of desire to keep his mind, to enjoy the slight wariness and the fascination in Damian's eyes. "You haven't been paying attention when you spy on me, have you? Lesson one; I get exactly what I want from my partners, and they take exactly how much I give them. You don't take me, lover. I take you."
He reaches back, finds Damian's cock and lines it up, rolling his hips and trusting the mix of drugs in his systems as he sinks down onto it. Sure enough, he feels filled and stretched when he reaches the base, but there's no pain, no burn. He rocks his hips a bit, bites his lip at the feeling and gives a muffled moan, bracing his hands against the solidity of Damian's chest.
Hands touch his hips, and he bares his teeth and smacks them away, glaring down at Damian as he hisses, "No. You don't get to touch; not tonight."
Damian's teeth bare right back, shoulders curling up off of the bed. "You are not the dominant one here, Drake." The tone of voice comes out a little breathless, but insistent. "If you think I—"
He strikes, wrapping the fingers of one hand around Damian's throat and squeezing tight enough to cut the younger man off. "You have no right," he spits, as Damian grabs his wrist. "You drugged me, and you're using me against Ra's, so I'm damn well going to use you right back. I dictate what happens here and you do not touch me. Put your hands down and shut your mouth, or I will make sure that you walk out of here mauled, if you can even walk at all."
Damian glares for several long moments, and then makes a sharply irritated noise and lets go of his wrist. Both hands curl into the blankets spread beneath them, and Damian presses his lips together and tilts his chin up as if it's a dare.
He lets go of Damian's throat in turn, braces his hand back on that muscled chest and rocks his hips. Damian gives a little gasp, but doesn't speak. He starts to move more purposely, tilting his head back and setting up the rise and fall to fuck himself. It takes about a minute to get the angle just right, and then he moans and swaps his braced hand to just one, reaching the other down to get a grip on himself. Damian is twisting the blankets in his hands, breath coming in sharp bursts and the occasional strangled noise breaking free. He's more vocal about it, but unsure whether that's the drugs or just because he tends to be noisy.
Honestly, with the sensation overload and the ripe satisfaction of taking back the situation in at least this way, he doesn't have the mind or focus to spare to figure that question out. He's more preoccupied with driving himself towards release, and he knows it's not going to take all that long. That has to be the drugs, because usually the only people that can get him off this fast are the people that really know him.
Damian shifts beneath him, head tossing to one side and teeth baring, stomach clenched tight. He curls his hand, digs his nails into Damian's chest and gets a small yelp and a twitch he can actually feel inside him. He gasps, picks up the pace so he can slam down onto Damian's hips, matching it with the twist of his own hand around him.
Not long after, Damian arches a little, bucks up into him, and gives a broken sounding moan. He can feel the throb, and then the wet warmth spreading inside him, and it knocks him harder towards that edge. He pushes down, twists his hand just right, and cries out, tilting his head back as he comes.
He can feel Damian jerk a bit, but ignores it to rock his hips and chase the last rise of the feeling before it starts to fall. Then he lets go of himself, bringing his head back down to look at Damian. He feels pleasantly fuzzy, but there's a lingering heat in his gut that's unfamiliar, and when he starts to shift away Damian jerks and shudders.
"You're— You're still hard," he manages to string together out of his thoughts. Then he glances down, identifies the heat in his gut and spits out, "I'm still hard."
Damian's eyes pry open, looking up at him as the younger man arches just a little bit. "Once will— will not be enough. The drink has roots in ensuring conception for a traditional pairing; rituals have not changed to fit other gender combinations." Damian takes a deeper breath, rocking upwards just a bit and they both shiver almost in tandem. "Twice more should drain it from our systems. It can also be waited out, but it will pass much slower without exertion. Hours."
"How many hours?"
"More than we have before we are discovered," is the answer. "If my grandfather finds us like this, I doubt either of us could stay his hand."
"Great." Before he can think about it too much, he shoves his way off of Damian. He gets a sharp cry from Damian, and stifles his own by biting down into his own lip. "Turn over, lover. Fair's fair."