Fetter
Title: Fetter
Author: Wisia
Disclaimer: Own nothing from DC.
Rating: T (for this chapter)
Verse: Metamorphosis
Characters: Tim Drake, Ra’s al Ghul
Summary: It was just one kiss.
Warnings: Ra’s being touchy feely, creepy old pedophile.
Author’s Note: Well, I don’t know if anyone is nitpicky or will notice it but just in case…so far I’ve been writing in third person. For this one, it’s in present tense. It sounded weird when I tried in past tense. And it just didn’t work. It sounded better/I need it in present tense. Or maybe it’s just bad writing abilities on my part. Not to mention, I wrote this a bit differently compared to the other pieces… So, if you noticed that this is in present tense instead of past tense-yeah. There’s your warning.
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“Come. Warm my bed for me,” and Tim would be willing, ready to obey. Because the weeks were long, the days longer and even though it has been barely half a year at most he finds himself weakening. Wanting to be drawn in, cocooned in that ill stoked warmth. He’s nestled against Ra’s whose fingers tangled in his hair. Always rhythmic, steady, stroking and sliding, combing and grooming and prepared. Always prepared for the moment Tim hesitates just enough to turn fingers running through hair to the orchestrating of marionette’s strings. Tim’s strings.
He thinks Ra’s is already there.
“Read to me, Timothy. I wish to hear your voice.”
And he does after a grumble, coaxing characters to life to the point he forgets he’s reading to Ra’s. Ra’s listens appreciatively, all the while teasing Tim’s hair between his fingertips.
Tim’s hair isn’t fake. Not anymore. Not when the passage of time has turned it long past shoulders a few inches, turned it silky and soft, and captivity has only nourished the richness of color, the smoothness of strands and the gleam that loudly proclaims him a songbird.
Ra’s songbird. Carefully tended to by Ra’s every word, the crease in lip corners, the taste of Lazarus laced tea and above all touch. He was never touched enough before.
“They do not care for you. Look-see how they smile without your presence?”
“Videos can be edited, Ra’s.”
“And love can be falsified as well, Detective.”
Ra’s fingers never cease, a nightly ritual petting, devoted to his hair of clipped wings, locks forever infused, drenched, soaked and seeped in Ra’s essence, scent and Jasmine.
“Warm your own bed.”
“You need not sleep with me,” Ra’s says and Tim sighs, ignoring the fact he was still at Ra’s’ side.
“You do not need me to bear your child. You have heard of clones, yes?”
“You are special,” Ra’s purrs,” and you must be treated as such. I will not have mistakes and negligence where you are concerned.”
He is deposited on the bed like a child, and Tim doesn’t dare shut his eyes. It would be too much to bear.
Ra’s draws the covers up, arm curling around Tim’s waist.
To have the magnification of all the emotions Ra’s weaves to entice and fetter him. He hears sharply the soft fall and rise of Ra’s’ slumber. Smells keenly the Jasmine, the sandalwood and sand, the ancient aroma of Ra’s’ being. Feels the weight of lace on his skin, the fragility of silk-Ra’s turns-and the scratch of beard.
Tim didn’t need to close his eyes. There in the dark, while Ra’s sleeps, he is besieged from all sides, things already magnified and too acute. To be Ra’s songbird and to sing a tune so sweet and clear for its master.
So, he leans down his head, compelled, and presses shy innocent lips to Ra’s’ temple. The man stays asleep.
“You will come to me willingly one day.”
Tim doesn’t sleep. He stays awake still. He realizes his action, eyes blown wide open.
And Tim runs. Runs with his clumsy, too awkward, too strange limbs. Not thinking.
He vaults over the wall and takes three men down. Flying.
“I admire your grace,” Ra’s says. “You are lovely, so very lovely.”
Tim glares, blood on split lips, and aching. He failed to escape. Six months lost to heal, to know his body, and he failed.
Ra’s strokes his hair fondly, and Tim isn’t sure if he could still whisper, still cry and call for Kon. For Bruce. For Dick or anyone.
“And you still remain, my dear Timothy, always mine. I will not let you go.”
That one kiss out of weakness costs him.
“Come. Warm my bed for me,” and Tim shakes and trembles. He just might accept his fettered chains.
Want Songbird