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Infiltrating one of Roman Sionis' clubs is dangerous business. Tim knew that going in. A sadist basically looking for an excuse to torture information out of someone, deadly smart and suspicious, and temperamental on a good night. Nothing he thought he couldn't handle, though. After all, all he had to do was not get caught. Easy, right?
It worked for two weeks. Tim got in good with some of his lackeys, fed some information on some of the city's other crime lords that he'd gotten from weeks of surveillance. In exchange, he started getting some information back. Names. Scores. Meetings with people closer to Sionis. Money with trails he could follow. It was all going so well.
Until he slipped on a detail. Sloppy mistake. He referenced a job he wasn't supposed to be privy to, one he only knew about from a little masked surveillance. He tried to play it off as having overheard it from another guy a couple days prior when pressed for details, the tone of the room shifted to tense and uneasy. Whoops — that intel was outdated. They guy he named is in lockup, and has been for a week.
Stupid mistake.
One that's going to get him killed. He tries to stay calm as he's dragged off the club floor and up to the boss' office. It's a rare night where Sionis is in. Lucky Tim. He focuses on looking for an opening to get himself free, but there's too many guys with guns around him and he's not exactly wearing Kevlar at the moment. If he could activate his emergency beacon…
He's shoved to his knees in front of Sionis' desk. The sinister skeletal grin of his mask stares down at him. "What's this?" he demands, head cocking to the side.
"Think he's a spy, boss," one of the men behind him explains. Robbie. Wanna-be tough guy, rap sheet of petty crimes until he fell in with the Black Mask's gang. "Knows a little too much about our gun deal—"
"I told you," Tim grits out, heart pounding furiously, "I overheard someone talkin' about it."
Stars pop in his vision as he's cracked on the back of the head with the butt of a gun. "Shut up," one of the other's growls. Mark or something like that. "Says he overheard it a couple days ago from a guy who's been in lockup since Friday."
"So I forgot who told me exactly—" Another crack to the back of the head that makes his teeth rattle.
Sionis sits back in his chair, hands tented in front of him. "What's your name, kid?"
"Blake, sir," he grunts, head throbbing. "Blake Arnold."
"I don't like liars, Blake," he drawls, head cocking to the side. "You lyin' to me?"
"No, sir," he lies.
"Hmm." That blank, expressionless mask betrays nothing. "Take Mr. Arnold to the back, boys." Ice floods Tim's veins. He knows what happens in the back. "Get him nice and comfortable. I'll deal with him in a little while."
Tim's hauled up to his feet, arms wrenched painfully behind his back. "Please, sir, I swear—" Sionis just waves his hand dismissively and his thugs drag Tim out of the office. He drags his feet, thrashes in their grip. But he's still greatly outnumbered. Five to one. A gun trained on him. He rushes this, makes one miscalculation, and he's dead in the blink of an eye.
Tim's wrangled, kicking and struggling ineffectually, into the back. Sionis' makeshift torture chamber. A bare light bulb hangs from the ceiling, flickering faintly. A metal slab with handcuffs stands against the back wall. Little carts with all manner of pain-inflicting implements that Tim really doesn't want to dwell on surround the table. Racks line of the wall, hanging with even more wicked looking tools.
One of the thugs pulls a lever on the side of the table and it shifts from horizontal to vertical, the cuffs clanging against the metal. Tim tries to wrench away from the grip on his wrists, but he's socked in the stomach and he doubles over, breathless. Incapacitated long enough that they're able to shove him against the table and lock his wrists and ankles into place.
He thrashes against the restrains. This is fine. He can slip restraints, he just needs them to get distracted or bored— One of the guys turns on him with a long, wicked knife from one of the carts. Tim swallows hard.
"Boss isn't gonna be too happy if you cut me up before he's had the chance," he tries, hoping his voice doesn't sound as panicked as Tim feels.
"Oh, I'm not cutting you up," he laughs, bringing the serrated edge dangerously close to Tim's neck. "Just getting you comfortable." Shick! He slices the knife through Tim's shirt. The tip ghosts over his skin, but doesn't tear through. Bit by bit, shreds of his clothes hit the floor until he's bare against the metal table, shivering in the cold room.
One of the men whistles as his eyes rack up and down Tim's body. "Oh, the boss is gonna have a lot of fun with this one."
Tim tries his best to glare, but it's lost in the mounting panic. Without the tools hidden in his clothes, it'll be harder to slip the restraints. He'll have to dislocate at least one of his thumbs, find a tool within reach, something to pick the ankle restraints from. That will take time he might not have. Worse, it means he can't activate the distress beacon right away.
No one knows anything is wrong. No one is looking for him. And if no one is looking for him, that mean's no one is coming to rescue him for at least a few hours, when he misses his scheduled check-in time at two a.m. It's barely after ten.
He doesn't want to think about what Sionis can do to him in four hours.
Unfortunately, the guys watching him don't seem to be the slacking variety of guards. They stay in the room, posted up against the walls, occasionally throwing insults and slurs at him. If he tries slipping a cuff, they'll definitely see. So he focuses on a breathing technique and bides his time.
He's had training for surviving torture. But… he's never been tortured, so who knows how well that training is going to serve him in real-world application. He can't think about that right now. He's not sure how long Sionis keeps him waiting, but his body starts going numb with the cold.
When the door opens, the horrible masked face coming into sight, he nearly cracks. He bites his tongue and forces his lip not to quiver. Sionis stalks forward. His fine suit jacket is gone, leaving him in just a pressed black shirt with the cuffs of the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows. Tim wishes he could see any facial expression. A grin, a frown, an arch of an eyebrow. Anything. He feels like he's looking into the face of the grim reaper.
"Well, well, well," Sionis drawls, stopping in front of Tim's bound form. "What do we have here, Mr. Arnold?" A hand reaches out, thumb tracing over Tim's long-healed top surgery scars.
"Don't touch me," he growls, thrashing.
Sionis laughs. "Or what?" As if to prove his point, his hand trails down Tim's stomach and over his mound. Tim tries to squeeze his thighs together, but it's pointless with his restrained legs. Two of Sionis' fingers slip through his folds, drawing an indignant noise from Tim's lips. A noise of primal fear. The two fingers pinch painfully tight over his clit, and his hips buck unconsciously. "Just so you know, I don't have any qualms about hurting a lady."
Tim's mind objects to that comment. It's hardly the thing he should be focused on at the moment. But it hurts just the same.
"But I know you don't want to see first hand what I do in this room to the people who fuck me over, do you, sweetheart?" He leans in close, voice raspy in Tim's ear. "And I can think of a better use for this." The two fingers curl up and bury inside of him. Tim chokes out a gasp, spasming involuntarily around the intrusion.
Torture or rape. Not exactly a great set of options.
Tim clamps his lips tight to keep himself from making noises as Sionis pumps his fingers in and out of him roughly. His thumb grinds down on his clit, and his nails scrape over his sensitive inner walls.
"Mmm, nice and sensitive," he hums with mock appreciation, shoving a third finger in. "I've got a lot of fun toys in here I'd love to test out on that pretty, pink cunt."
"Go to hell," Tim grits out.
Sionis just laughs. His fingers slip out with a squelch, and he holds up his hand between them. They shine in the low light, strung with Tim's fluids. He wipes them against Tim's chest. "I don't like your attitude, bitch," he says, taking a step back and shoving his hands in his pockets. "What do you boys think?"
"You should teach her to mind her manners," Robbie agrees with a wolfish grin, the others laughing their approval.
Sionis studies Tim another moment, then gestures the men forward. "Gag the bitch and bring her to the bar." He turns on his heels without another word, walking out to let his guys do his bidding.
Tim's not sure what "the bar" is. He's never heard of Sionis telling anyone to bring someone there. One of the thugs grabs what Tim realizes is a ball gag off one of the racks on the wall. He gnashes and snaps his teeth at them when he tries to bring it to his mouth. Numbers disadvantage and guns be damned, Tim strains to dislocate his thumbs and wrench his hands free of the cuffs.
He manages to get one free, swallowing the pain, but by this point, all of the men are swarmed around him. Two hold his head in place while their buddy shoves the ball gag between his place. He swings blindly with his free hand, making contact with the flank of one of the men holding him and earning a pained grunt. The fourth guy grabs his wrist and pins it back down the the table, cursing about how the fuck he managed to get free.
The ball gag is secured in his mouth, strap fastened around his head. He bucks and thrashes, still struggling to get the other hand free. He can feel saliva running down his chin, and his hand throbs from dislocating his thumb. A knee comes up drive into his stomach and he heaves. From there, they're pretty easily able to secure his arm behind his back.
They don't take any chances after that, cursing about how deceptively fighty he is. They hold him two-hands per arm as they uncuff him from the metal table and haul him out of the room. He's pretty well pinned between their bodies as they drag him over bare concrete floors. The pulse of the music from the club floor grows louder and louder.
Tim's confused as they pull him out onto the club floor, multicolored lights dazzling him after the dim lights in the back. Sionis is leaning against the bar—
It clicks very suddenly. The bar is literally the bar of the club. He drags his heels over the alcohol-sticky floor. People turn their heads as they pass, leering, cheering, laughing. He knows the kinds of people who frequent Sionis' clubs. There aren't a lot who would be particularly put off by a live show of Sionis' sadism.
The skeletal black mask grins at their approach. Sionis pats the bar in invitation. Tim tries once again to free himself from their grips, his grunts and shouts of protest muffled through the gag. Between the four of them, they heft Tim up onto the sticky, wooden bar and hold his body down. The bartender grabs something from under the bar.
Tim's heart pounds furiously as something is clipped around his neck. Metal bites into his skin. A collar of some sort with a short length of chain dangling off the back. It's clipped into a metal rod set into the wood that Tim's often wondered about when ordering drinks but never stopped to consider too hard. This isn't the first time they've done this to someone.
Wrists shackled by his head. Legs steepled and ankles locked in place. His chest heaves with exhausted panic. He strains against his restraints, only succeeding in arching his back and choking himself on the unforgiving collar.
Sionis wanders to his side, skimming a hand up his flank that makes Tim shudder. "Comfortable, sweetheart?" Tim stares up at him, wide-eyed. He just chuckles and turns back to the crowd. The people who'd been dancing and grinding and drinking are now curiously looking up at the bar. "Alright, friends, some of you probably already know how this goes."
Tim tries to look around, but he can't move his head very far without choking himself. The cuffs are too tight to slip. There's nothing he can grab as an improvised pick. No one is coming to help him.
He jumps as something he can't see is set with a heavy clunk down on the bar between his legs. "We're gonna show our little slut here a good night, aren't we?" The crowd roars in response. Something blunt prods against his hole. Tim yelps through the gag, trying in vain to squeeze his thighs shut. In his position, it doesn't make a difference.
Sionis slaps the top of the thing that was put there. "This baby has five speeds and twenty vibration patterns. Come up to the bar to pay to give our girl two minutes with the settings of your choice. If you're the lucky son of a bitch that gets her to cum, your drinks are on the house the rest of the night." Another round of cheers.
Tim feels sick with fear and humiliation. The bartender adjusts the device between his legs, the tip of what Tim is quickly figuring to be a dildo pushing just inside. Turning rape into a spectator sport, audience participation. He squirms again in vain, eyes blurring. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god—
The bartender flips a switch on the device and it shudders to life. Immediately, the dildo plunges inside of him, thick and long. Tim screams through the gag, back arching. The crowd cheers again. No matter how he squirms, the machine pumps steadily into him.
"This is the default setting," Sionis continues explaining. "It'll keep her nice and warmed up between requests. Don't forget to ask about the special menu if you really wanna show her a good time tonight." His hand trails almost tenderly over Tim's cheek. "You won't get drinks for making her cum, but doesn't this pretty face deserve the best?"
Tim's legs are shaking already. He tries to breathe, closing his eyes and running through the breathing techniques Bruce taught him for panic and mental distress. He can block this out. He can—
Without warning, the machine starts drilling into him at a brutal pace that makes him writhe. A second later, the dildo buzzes to life inside of him, an electric drone that makes him clench down reflexively. A cracked little moan slips free before he can stop it, toes curling against the wooden bar top. Everything else falls away from Tim's mind. Sionis, the crowd, the music. There's just the buzzing, pounding vibrator inside of him, the choking pressure of the collar, and the scrape of wood against his back as he thrashes.
After what feels like forever, the furious thrusts slow back to the default setting. Logically, he knows it's been two minutes. His brain isn't doing logic right now, though. And if that was two minutes… He stares up at the ceiling, swirling with rainbow lights, the crushing weight of enduring this for hours settling over him like a blanket of cold snow.
Almost immediately, it jumps back up to a faster setting. Not as furious, but pretty close. The vibration pattern isn't just a constant buzz, but a slow build up from almost nothing to a deep thrum that makes his thighs quake, then an abrupt drop back to the start. Tim's chest wracks with a sob of some mix of despair and frustration.
Over Tim, business at the bar continues like normal. The bartender pours drinks and hands them over Tim's naked body. Sometimes they slop over the edges of the glasses, spilling over his skin. Every now and then, a guy with a leer pours a little of whatever he ordered over the ball gag in Tim's mouth. Burning liquor drips through his lips and trickles down his throat. But no one touches him, Sionis hovering like a vulture around him to make sure of that.
He loses track if it's the fourth or fifth setting combination. Steady thrusting that ruts in Tim's sensitive cunt, a low, pulsing vibration. He moans low and half-delirious, tears running down his cheeks. His back twists off the bar, collar restricting his airway as the first orgasm shudders through him.
Cheering and clapping barely register of the rush of blood ringing in his ears. A name is called, the first winner of the night to get free drinks. He squeezes his eyes shut. What before was coils of unwanted pleasure is now too much. His pussy spasms around the vibrator that just doesn't stop. Oversensitive. Skin too hot, sticky with sweat and spilled alcohol. Liquid arousal dripping from his abused hole down to the wooden bar top. He just wants it to stop.
"Oh, lookie, lookie," Sionis drawls. "Our bitch gets her first upgrade." Tim blinks up with blurry eyes as something is held above his face. A shiny metal anal plug. He whimpers, trying to shake his head. It disappears from sight. The metal is cold as it presses against his pucker. Tim clenches down against the intrusion, but it's forced through, dry and burning, regardless. Between the plug and the ceaseless vibrator, Tim feels too full. The vibrations reverberate through his delicate walls against hard, unyielding metal.
Tim loses track of everything but the unwanted, overwhelming sensations assaulting his body pretty quickly after that. Somewhere after orgasm three? Four? The machine is turned off and he sobs in relief as the vibrator is pulled free. The relief is short-lived, though, when the bartender pulls out an even larger one.
All he can do is stare numbly up at the ceiling as it's attached to the machine and lined up at his hole. He groans as it comes to life, stretching his abused pussy even wider than before with the most lewd sounds. "Upgrade" number two.
Orgasm five? Six? They stop being pleasurable. A stimulus response his body is unable to reject. His walls flutter and clamp with painful spasms that feel more like cramps than climaxes. Each one punches through his chest with a low groan and a fresh wave of tears, even as his body bucks and writhes. More and more people cash in on their free drinks at his expense, liquor that his body bought them dripping over his skin as it's passed from the bartender's hand.
Upgrade number three is a pair of clamps that bite down on his nipples, sharp and stinging. People flick and tug them with cruel laughs as they wait for their drinks. His chest burns.
Upgrade number four has the bartender laying a small device over his mound and securing it in place with a strip of duct tape. He presses a button and Tim jerks as the little toy starts mercilessly sucking his clit. Yet another painful, blinding orgasm crashes through him, hips thrashing and legs trembling like jello. The suction doesn't stop, just endless sensation that makes him keen in pleasure-pain until his clit goes numb.
Each new orgasm is more painful than the last. Tim thinks he might puke. Blacking out is definitely on the table, vision going a little gray around the edges. He can't help the pathetic moans and whines and whimpers he makes, even if he wanted to. His body feels too hot and close to the point of physical exhaustion. Legs that he tried in the beginning to clamp shut now lay lax, spread open like a whore as his hole is filled and filled and filled and filled—
He barely hears the bartender announce last call. The machine falls to its default setting and stays there. Tim pants and groans. He barely feels the slow, steady thrusts anymore. The music dies, the multicolor lights cut off, the crowd filters out.
The machine is switched off and pulled out of his aching hole. He shudders, not daring to believe it's over, even as the clips on his nipples and the plug in his ass and the suction toy on his clit are removed.
He's left bound on the bar, though, exhausted and sore and trembling. The bartender starts counting out cash somewhere over Tim's head.
"What're you gonna do with the slut?" he wonders. Tim can't see Sionis, but guesses he's somewhere further down the bar.
"Have some fun with her tomorrow," he grunts. "Work her over to find out what she knows, then get rid of her." Tim's body can't even muster a fear response.
Shattering glass. Crashing. Shouts of surprise. Gunshots. Tim just stares numbly up. The cavalry has arrived. Too late.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim sees the familiar flash of Robin red mow through Sionis' thugs, dropping them with precise efficiency. The immediate vicinity cleared of threats, Batman busy with the rest, Damian stops at Tim's side.
He can't stand to look at his face, to see the expression he's trying to cover behind stoicism. Without a word, Damian starts picking open the collar around Tim's neck, then the shackles on his wrists, then ankles.
With a gut-wrenching sound, Tim rolls off the bar. Damian catches him, lowering to the floor with him to slow his momentum. He's silent as Tim sobs against him. He just unclips his cape and drapes it over Tim's bare shoulders.
"Robin," Batman growls, finished with the thugs and trailing after where Sionis presumably disappeared, "get him out of here. Take the Batmobile and have Agent A meet you in the Cave." Then he's gone.
Damian supports Tim as they shuffle out a rear exit. Tim's core pulses and throbs with every step. In the alley behind the club, Tim stumbles against the wall, leans forward, and vomits. Damian rubs his back until the retching and dry-heaving pass.
In the passenger seat of the Batmobile, he waits while Damian digs out an emergency blanket and drapes it over him. They give these to civilians in shock.
Oh.
The drive back to the Cave is quiet. He can feel anger and helplessness radiating off of Damian. Tim leans his head against the cold window and watches the city blur past.
Alfred is waiting for them when the Batmobile screeches to a stop. Between the two of them, they dress Tim in warm, comfortable clothes and tuck him under a thick blanket in a bed in the med bay. He curls around himself and tries to will the memories away.
Damian stays with him after changing back into civvies. Silent, watchful. Alfred brings him warm tea he can't muster the strength to drink. He almost asks him to give him a strong sedative and let his brain just… stop for a little while. But the effort of speaking feels too heavy.
When Bruce arrives, he has the cowl pulled down, face grim. Tim barely looks up at him. "What happened?" he asks softly, sitting in a chair beside the bed.
Tim's lip quivers. "Slipped," he croaks, voice hoarse and scratchy. "Messed up my story."
"What did Sionis do?"
Fresh tears well in his eyes, and he screws them shut. "Strapped me down to the bar. H-had this… machine… r-rape me."
With the words, Tim breaks apart. Shuddering and sobbing. An arm drapes over his shoulders, unexpectedly tender, soft fingers carding through his hair. Another hand clasps his own, warm and calloused. No one says anything. They just let Tim cry it out, helpless but there. There to hold him through the pain and the early dregs of the morning.