Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/733519.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DCU_-_Comicverse, Batman_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Tim_Drake/Damian_Wayne, Bruce_Wayne/Tim_Drake, Dick_Grayson/Tim_Drake,
      Jason_Todd/Tim_Drake
  Character:
      Tim_Drake, Bruce_Wayne, Dick_Grayson, Jason_Todd, Damian_Wayne, Thomas
      Wayne
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-24 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 9173
****** Siren ******
by Rahn_(Rahndom)
Summary
     He is a weaver of fantasies, the holder of their happiness, he
     belongs to them just as they are his. He loves them in the only way
     he knows, the way his mother taught him.
***** Siren *****
Janet Drake had always been a bad mother and she knew it. She was aloof and
cold and her words stung their poison mindless of its recipient. She hadn’t
wanted a child, and had told Timothy so repeatedly, but social norm had forced
her husband’s hand into requesting such a thing out of her, and social norm had
forced her to accept, less she lose him.
She didn’t love Jack either, or so Tim could see, but Janet was a professional
and as such she would endure.
When Timothy learnt to read by himself at age three, Jack preened with pride
and Janet raised an eyebrow, seeing the potential for greatness in her
offspring but also the frailty of his bones, the naked vulnerability in his
frame and the weakened hands that held enormous tomes.
She would give him, then, her one and only act of love, the only way her
damaged psyche - she knows she’s damaged she can be a lot of thing but a
hypocrite is not one of them - would rationalize means for his protection.
She would sit him in her lap, her slender hands curling around his small knees
to prevent him from tripping and would tell him about her life, the nights of
cold on the streets, of learning to blend with the dark, of staring at the
women of the night and wanting that same sort of comfort and warmth for
herself.
She told him of her studies in the way they walked, the way they spoke and
laughed and snared their preys. The way they would adapt in order to be most
appealing, sirens of the streets looking for a morsel of human male flesh.
Then she proceeded to tell him about the day she met Jack Drake, the man-child
with his head on the clouds, the heir that didn’t want to run his
multimillionaire company and the fool that wanted a picture perfect family
without having to work for it.
Janet told Tim of the sleepless nights learning to walk like a lady, asking the
prostitutes to teach her how to comb her long hair, how to apply subtle make up
and soft perfume, of endless hours hiding in the public library devouring books
until the was ready to play the part of Jeannette Angelique Mont Fellix and
snare Jack Drake into her web.
“People will always see you as they want to see you, Timothy,” she explained,
caring her fingers through his dark hair. “You must learn to be an actor of all
trades, to change your very posture to fit into their preconceptions and turn
them into fantasies.”
Timothy had blinked owlishly, blue eyes reflecting his curiosity.
“You don’t love father, then?” he asked, tilting his head. Janet smiled a cold,
predator smile.
“I love him in the only way I know, and therefore provide all I can to maintain
his fantasy,” she replied, nodding. “You will find people in your life you must
change around in order to craft their happiness and fit it to your own, son.”
“Why?” Tim asked with a confused frown.
Janet snorted.
“Because you are like me, child,” she said softly. “You were born a siren and
won’t be able to protect yourself from others. You will need to surround
yourself with people who will be willing to protect you in order to keep their
fantasies of you.”
“Just like Father protects us,” Tim surmised.
“Like your father and his wealth and his friends protect us,” she repeated,
nodding. “With time you will create the masks you will need and fit them
according to your needs, but for now just be the quiet genius and eager boy
your father wants. Others will be drawn later on.”
Timothy nodded then, resting his head on his mother’s chest. It would be the
first and last time Janet Francinne Ackermann revealed herself to her son.
**
True to her words, his father is pleased when he plays the eager son that loved
sports and antiques - the one that never reveals he knows more about the
ancient diaguita duck vase than Jack himself - and Tim is always awarded with
something precious when he plays that part.
Tim wants to experiment, however, because the character that his father adores
so much is a tiring one, a buffoon, a puppy and he would rather play a
character more suited to his immediate needs.
Which is why his face is a mixture of wide-eyed awe and mouse-ish nervousness
when Dick Grayson approaches him with open arms and a sunny smile. He imagines
the overtly cheerful Mr. Grayson will empathize with a shy kid, considering he
is an only child and older than himself.
“It inspires protectiveness in only sons,” his mother says as he relies his
experiment. “A wise hypothesis.”
He is rewarded for his observation by a squeal of delight and arms wrapping
around his waist and hoisting him in the air against a strong chest, sweet
cooing of how cute he is, how tiny and cuddly and perfect follow, and the glint
of pride in Janet’s eyes is obvious for all to see.
Sex with Dick is a game.
A tug-o-war of teasing and games that leave him gasping and moaning in delight,
toes curling against Dick’s simple cotton sheets and fingers dancing over the
other man’s muscled back. Dick is all teeth and tongue and playfulness, he
laughs and tickles and likes to listen to Tim’s laughter and coo in delight,
his cock moves eagerly, pulling even more groans.
Dick is also the consumed performer, stretching muscles and bending his back in
impossible angles that only serve to show off his perfect physique.
Were Tim a lesser man he might resent Dick’s flamboyant coupling and force the
man into a guilt trip that might lead to suicidal thoughts if left unattended -
he is good at what he does and Dick is such a self-deprecating man, despite his
stage persona - with a simple pout in the right moment or a whine of slight
pain.
But Tim is not a lover like any other, he is a siren, a fantasy enabler and he
makes his companion’s happiness his top priority, which is why he simply smiles
his mouse-ish smile and pushes Dick onto his back with careful hands before
straddling his hips and mounting him like a pony, a fierce flush of
embarrassment covering his whole body as he does so.
Dick laughs in delight, hands tight and possessive over his hipbones, his legs,
his ass, as their game continues into the night.
**
Bruce, while similar to Dick in his protective possessiveness, is a more
complicated matter altogether. His poor mind is tortured by the memory of his
parents to a point even his fantasies are shaped by them and in conflict.
Bruce wants to be both protector and provider, saint and judge, deliver the
justice his parents deserved while enslaving himself to the unreachable image
of his tender father with fierce eyes that could shape the word to his own
image with healing instead of destroying.
He will forever look for strong woman to share his bed because he remembers his
fierce mother, overpowering his famous father with logic and poise. Catwoman
would be a close approximation to what Bruce might need, but the woman used to
be a thief, and is quite capable of protecting herself, which negates Bruce’s
role as the guardian.
He wonders if Selina knows it herself and is the reason why she is keeping her
distance.
He doubts it.
While her, Diana, Barbara and the others might joke that Brucie is an issues
laden boy, none of them is willing to admit how damaged by those issues their
beloved Batman is.
And that’s perfect for Tim’s plans because he doesn’t mind playing the hero and
the victim, the warrior and the princess in need of a knight. He can look at
Bruce with doe-like eyes and report the slightest movements of the mission,
shiver under the cold of the winter night and still perform like the best of
them all.
He can achieve the perfect balance to fuel his mentor’s happiness.
Bruce is the giving lover most of his conquests still sigh over. He likes the
expression of pleasure on Tim’s face as he carefully covers the smaller body
with his own, always protecting, always guarding. His fingers dance and caress
as if the younger man is made out of the most delicate glass, created only to
be worshipped.
Tim lets out soft moans and sighs of rapture, his hands shy as he explores the
expanse of Bruce’s chest, his neck - never his back, initiative is not welcomed
under the sheets - as he slowly penetrates him, careful not to force more than
Tim can take.
Bruce, for all his brooding and poise, is a man of words. Of soft declarations
and whispered compliments.
“So soft,” he likes to say. “You are so soft, Tim.”
His kisses rain fire into Tim’s sweaty skin, his tongue trailing as he tries to
absorb everything that is given to him and more. Maybe steal a little of the
forbidden and keep it close to himself at all times - still the child
frightened of been left behind, he is - commit it to memory for the nights he
finds himself alone.
Tim allows it, hands searching for fingers to entwine his own with, voice
hoarse as he whispers the name of his lover over and over again in a
declaration of his own insecurities, his own devotion.
“Bruce,” he whimpers. “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce…”
Bruce smiles, kisses his forehead, then his eyelids and finally his mouth,
tongue slowly delving between his lips to explore and memorize and steal.
He allows it.
He will always allow it.
It makes Bruce happy and he is the guardian of Bruce’s happiness.
His love and his fantasies are his realm now.
**
Damian is a different matter altogether and it takes most of Tim’s years of
training to get a comprehensive reading of the boy and prepare a mask, a
character accordingly. His mother would have been ashamed of the years it took
him to mold this new persona for the youngest member of his new-found family
while juggling the playful-but-shy little brother he gives Dick and the self-
sufficient-but-insecure equal he created for Bruce.
Damian wants a challenge.
His whole upbringing was not about the dubious morality of the Al Ghul family,
but of the black and white of the real underworld, where black was the people
opposing to his goals and white were the ones he could work around to achieve
said goals.
Tim instantly knew he was going to be an enemy for Damian, especially when he
managed to get his emancipation and almost 78% of his inheritance in one go.
But the real challenge, the real titillating issue was to turn such perception
of himself and lure the child into his web of fantasies, to finally become one
with him.
He finds it after Damian’s fifteenth birthday, when the boy eagerly awaits
contact with his estranged mother and refuses to acknowledge her lack of
interest or effort to communicate during the celebration. The struggle within
Damian is that he wants a family that loves him, a pillar of love and
understanding that his emotionally stumped father will never be for him, and
yet, he needs to have an enemy, a rival for him to defeat and then prove to the
world he is superior.
Tim can become that for him.
He starts sitting by Damian’s side in the Manor’s study, reading a book or
writing something on the computer, fingers dancing silently over the keyboard,
his pose relaxed and stoic and still oven for Damian’s interruption should he
need anything.
It’s like approaching a small, feral animal. One needs to approach with caution
and yet provide the invitation, patiently waiting for the little wild-cat to
take it.
Three months of constant non-interaction is what it takes for the younger teen
to break.
“Father is an idiot,” Damian huffs, his arms crossing over his chest as he
stares into the Gotham sky.
“Of course he is,” Tim agrees softly, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop.
“He is trying to keep you safe and away from the press but makes you think he’s
embarrassed of you instead.”
“How could you know?!” Damian hisses, his lips revealing his teeth with a
snarl. Tim rolls his eyes, finally locking eyes with the boy.
“I won’t say I know your father better than you do, Damian,” he says with a
whisper. “I have known him longer. Plus my family had similar views and it…
wasn’t a pleasant experience.”
“What should I care about the press?” the boy growls, diminutively shifting
closer to Tim’s seated form – he counts that as a small victory –, never
breaking eye contact.
“You shouldn’t, but the constant scrutiny will get to you eventually,
especially now that you are old enough to form a romantic attachment to
someone,” Tim explains. “You did see how I got engaged to Tam Fox, Steph and
Cass over the course of a single year. It is draining.”
“I am stronger,” Damian protests.
“Of course you are,” Tim agrees, a small smile curling his lips.
Damian lets out a huff – more like a content sigh – before his eyes are lost in
the sky once more, his thigh barely touching Tim’s.
It will take them a year to fall into bed together.
Damian, for all his bravado, is as gentle as he is possessive. He is not the
kind to rain kisses like Bruce or playful licks like Dick. He is all teeth and
sucks and marks of ownership, his fingernails leaving lightly pink trails over
his thighs, his chest, his arms.
Once every few minutes, however, he will pause and stare at Tim, making sure
his partner is enjoying the experience as much as he is, making sure Tim will
feel pleasure out of the experience.
Tim simply smirks his superiorly cocky Robin-smirk – the one that used to drive
Kon mad when they were children themselves – and wrap his legs tightly around
the younger boy’s hips, pushing urgently until their genitals are grinding
together, forcing gasps and growls out of their throats in a disgruntled
harmony of passion.
Both of them know they are competing against eachother to bring the other to
orgasm first, to milk out every moan, every shudder and each and every
pleasured gasp until the other is spent and limbless on the bed.
Damian is really Bruce’s and Dick’s child, when aroused, with his eager hands
and mouth – Dick’s advice, most likely – and his careful limbs and thrusts, the
way he worships Tim’s body and drinks him in – Bruce’s desperation to consume
and to own at the same time, but never to hurt – mark each and every movement
with that same brilliance and determination that is solely Damian, enveloping
them in the heat of a supernova that erases time and place until there is only
the explosion.
It is Tim’s favorite moment of the game and the look of delight in Damian’s
eyes when Tim falls dead to the world under him is reward enough for his
efforts. The way Damian will carefully lay by his side, cheeks flushed, chest
heaving, his wet fingers combing his sweaty hair.
The domesticity of it all bringing balance to their earlier rivalry.
Perfection between them.
**
Tim lays the flowers on his mother’s grave, Canterbury Bells, forced to out of
social norm - Obligation and Gratitude at the same time, his mother would have
appreciated the honesty – his impeccable black suit ruined at the knees as he
rests his tired legs on the ground.
He has come alone, as it is his custom, knowing Bruce and Dick and sometimes
even Damian wonder what he does when he sits in front of the graves of the
parents he has openly admitted never loved him in the way parents should love
their children – not that he minds, really, his parents didn’t know how to love
in the conventional way – and yet allow him his little corner of solitude and
silence.
They all have their dead to mourn, after all.
“This family of mine is not so different from what you would have imagined for
me, mother,” he comments after a few hours of silent contemplation. “They all
fear the same in different ways, and fight it also differently.”
His fingers play with a blade of grass, his back completely turned to his
Father’s and Dana’s graves. This moment is for his mother and him alone.
“Dick flamboyantly faces the world because he fears he will be forgotten,” he
counts, closing his eyes. “Bruce fights against the world in order to make his
dead proud and Damian snarls and howls, struggling to prove himself worthy, so
no one will leave him behind.”
A butterfly lands on his mother’s socially acceptable yet ironic flowers, Tim
rolls his eyes and ushers it away with his fingers. No butterflies for his
mother. She would have hated it anyways.
“They all fear loneliness more than anything, the loneliness of been left
behind, forgotten, forsaken,” he surmises. “Just as I fear the loneliness of
been unwanted.”
The wind starts dancing around him, playing with his hair and caressing his
skin with its chill. He wants to imagine it’s his mother’s fingers still
carding trough his hair, holding onto his knees so he doesn’t fall from her
lap.
He can’t.
“I am the holder of their happiness, the weaver of their fantasies, just like
you taught me,” he says with a sigh. “They belong to me now and I will not let
them go. They need me and I need them. Was this why you chose father? Because
you wanted him to be yours? Because you needed him to need you? Because you
didn’t want to be alone either?”
A sad smile adorns his face as he closes his eyes, remembering the way his
mother’s red lips curled elegantly around each word, forming it perfectly
before letting it escape with sound.
‘Do you love them?’ she would have asked, her eyebrow raised, her pale blue
eyes cold.
“I think I do,” he replies to the imaginary question, shaking his head. “I love
them in the only way I know. The only way you taught me.”
He stands when the rain starts falling, his hair plastering to his face as he
walks.
Dick and Bruce and Damian are waiting for him by the car a few feet away,
holding an umbrella ready for his use.
He smiles.
He is not an angel.
He is not a demon.
He is not a damsel in distress.
He is not a shy little brother.
Nor is he a loving mother-figure.
He is not an incestuous lover.
He is not the perfect soldier for the mission.
He is not blind to his issues, his brokenness.
He can be all of that.
He is all.
For them.
He is the siren weaving fantasies and happiness to those he loves, in order to
make them his.
Forever.
***** The Court of Owls *****
The night is young and Red Robin is flying through the roofs of Gotham with a
small smile on his face and the wind beating against his skin in a soothing
caress. For once he decided to go with Dick’s idea of a domino mask instead of
a cowl, just because he needs to be recognizable once more as a member of the
teen titans, and maybe because he has missed the night air playing with his
hair.
The feeling of freedom that is to fly home.
Of course he is not telling his older brother that, or he won’t hear the end of
it any time near this century.
A buzzing in his hear makes him stop for a moment, his smile widening lightly.
“Yes, O?” he answers, shaking his hands lightly to protect them against the
cold. Winter is coming earlier this year, apparently.
“Red, I have a robbery in progress in the antique store two blocks up north
from your current position,” Barbara’s disembodied voice says gently.
Tim laughs.
“Say no more,” he shrugs, cracking his knuckles. “On my way, Red out.”
He guesses he has missed Gotham, the thrill of the ultimate mission more than
he could care to admit, more than he could possibly say, really. Because he is
eagerly scanning his surroundings, looking for the would-be robbers and
preparing a strategy, his mischievous robin-smirk curling his lips instead of
the serious frown of the Red Robin.
Old habits die hard, he could say.
He is so consumed in his exhilaration that h will miss the blue eyes following
his every move, the way his cape flares behind him and the soft sound of his
boots against the concrete. The way full lips curl into a hopeful smile that
shows white teeth menacingly.
“Timothy,” the shadows whisper, and he will miss the sound as well.
His only warning of the dangers approaching.
——
The first time they lock eyes, Thomas is holding the boy, such a sweet little
boy, barely 12, judging by his side, by the neck. Those dainty little feet
cannot touch the floor and it shows in the way the small toes seem to swing
back and forth, brushing the carpet lightly. Tiny hands are sized around
Thomas’ massive one, occasionally tugging at the man’s grip but not fighting
it, never fighting it.
What draws Richard the most, however, is the steel calm in those powerfully
veiled blue eyes, the way those eyelashes flutter against the air without any
hint of panic.
“Don’t you fear your death, kid?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
Thomas snorts, eyes narrowed, but the boy simply swings a little, movement
enough to make him shrug his slender shoulders.
“If I was to die today, Mr. Wayne would have killed me already,” he replies,
his voice a soft whisper of rebellion against the tight grip on his throat.
“The kid is right, boss,” Richard says, shaking his head.
“I don’t think little monsters sneaking into my home have a right to look so
smug, Richard,” Thomas growls, eyes narrowed to near slits. “Do you?”
 “And the boss has a point as well, kid,” Richard shrugs, crossing his arms
over his chest. “Anything to say In your defense?”
The child nods slowly, his eyes going from Richard’s sadistically amused ones
to Thomas’ cold blue oceans.
“I come with a proposition, Mr. Wayne,” he says softly, pink lips pouting.
Richard feels like cooing.
“Ten seconds, kid,” Thomas says, releasing his hold lightly. Just enough to let
the child breath.
“I am a weaver,” the child says without losing a second, not even to take the
grateful gulp of air his lungs must be demanding from him, his eyes piercing in
their intensity. “And I am offering my services.”
“And in exchange?” Thomas asks, making Richard roll his eyes. Trust the stoic
Thomas Wayne Jr. to ask all the questions pertaining to his personal safety
before the ones that any person with common sense would ask. Then again,
Richard has to admit, this is the guy who fucks Super Woman for sport, so
common sense is not his forte.
“Protection from my previous… owner,” the child replies, tilting his head. “I
will weave for you and those you order me to, no one else.”
“And what do you weave, kid?” Richard asks, seeing Thomas is not inclined to do
so. His curiosity will be his undoing, his comrades use to say. He doesn’t care
much.
The boy’s cold blue eyes study him for a moment, assessing him with the
precision of a professional, before his face seems to relax and bleed into a
thing of utter beauty, the companion he always has wanted, the doll of his
dreams.
“I weave fantasies, of course,” he says, his voice growing childish, impossibly
sweet. “I am the holder of human happiness.”
Richard turns to Thomas, eyes wide.
The older man scowls.
“Why would I want your fantasies? What can I possibly gain from your.. talent,”
he asks, tightening his grip once more. The boy raises an eyebrow, eyes growing
fierce for a second before closing.
“A safe haven for your indulgence,” he says with honesty. “A place where you
will unwind your passion before it leads you to perilous adventures, Mr.
Owlman.”
“Until another offers you a better deal?” Thomas snaps.
“As is the nature of all tradesmen, of course,” the kid smiles, his lips
forming every word with reverence. “And I know what you want already, therefore
you don’t have to train me into your games as you have done with all those that
came before me. No need to expose the weaknesses that are obvious to my eyes
already.”
“What could you possibly know…” Thomas growls, but stops when the boy’s slender
fingers release his hand and start to caress slow circles over his wrist.
“I am, after all, a professional, Mr. Wayne,” he says gently, his eyes finally
opening to reveal pale moonlit jewels. “Or should I say, brother?”
Thomas releases the boy with a gasp, his eyes wide as the small body falls to
the floor, his knees supporting his slight frame as those pale fingers stroking
his bruising neck.
“What kind of magic,” he growls. “Bruce?”
“None, really,” the boy replies, staring into Owlman’s eyes boldly. “I know
what you want, what you have always longed for. And I am giving it to you.”
Richard stares at the two for a while, feeling his blood chill at the display.
The kid did not change any feature in his face, not even the color of his eyes
to match Thomas’ but his whole body language, the way his mouth curled, seemed
to reflect a completely different person altogether.
This kid is really a thing born out of their fantasies.
Idly he notices the way Owlman’s usually strong shoulders seem to shake, how
his wide eyes are rising to the portrait of his beloved mother and brother,
before they lower to regard the child still on his knees.
The resemblance is uncanny.
“Who do I have to kill to keep you, child?” the man asks finally, earning
himself a childishly sweet smile from his new little weaver.
“My father, of course,” he replies, and Richard knows the deal has been struck.
—-
With a sigh, Richard grabs his own communicator, eyes still set on the figure
currently preventing the robbery.
“Found him,” he says, smirking.
“Is it really him?” Talon asks from the other end, his young voice eager.
“Yup,” Deathwing replies. “Same eyes, same face, even the same cocky smirk.”
“Father…” Talon whimpers, longing clear.
“Keep him busy, Richard,” Owlman snaps, his own voice no less eager than his
sons. “We are on our way.”
Richard closes communication with a laugh, knowing his eager comrades will do
all in their power to reach them as fast as inhumanly possible.
It is, after all, their little fantasy weaver.
—-
Richard watches the weaver at work as he always does.
This time, he is energetically bouncing over Thomas’ cock, his pale cheeks
flushed with passion, his eyes misty and glistering like diamonds. His slender
arms wrap themselves tightly around the older man’s neck while his pale lips
seek his for a hungry kiss and lets his tongue playfully battle against his
owner’s.
Thomas’ enormous hands grab the back of the boy’s ass, fingers digging tightly
into the supple flesh and pulling the child’s body closer to his own, forcing
the weaver to rest his whole weight on the man’s powerful chest and making
their sweaty skin rub together. Thomas groans, thrusting up into Timothy with
relentless abandon, his mouth smirking with every cry of passion he is forcing
from those pink, bruised lips.
“Bruce,” Thomas growls, his hands roaming over the arched back. “Baby Bruce.”
“Tom…my,” Tim moans, eyes locked onto Thomas’.
“You’ll never go away, won’t you, Bruce?”
“Never…” the boy promises, his smaller face snuggling into the crook of the
man’s muscled shoulder. “I love you, Tommy.”
“I love you too, little brother.”
Richard shakes his head, eyes narrowed.
Apparently the little pervert is good at what he does, or the most paranoid man
in the world wouldn’t be cradling him against his chest as if he was the most
precious thing in the world.
He might have to try the ride himself, just to be sure.
—-
“Red to cave,” Tim says, eyeing the frustrated criminals squirming under his
boot.
“Cave here,” Robin replies, his voice huffing softly. “Why are you out alone,
Red? Batman would not approve.”
Tim laughs, shaking his head.
“I just wanted to stretch my legs,” he argues, staring into the cloudy night
sky. “Don’t you worry about me.”
“I do worry,” Robin admits with reluctance. “Come home.”
Tim’s smile turns melancholic.
“On my way.”
Childish blue eyes lock onto the red and black figure, small hands clenching
and unclenching as lips curl upwards.
“Father,” the boy whispers excitedly. “It IS him!”
—-
“Say it,” Richard hisses, his hands tight around Tim’s waist. “Say it, you
whore!”
“I…” Tim gasps, his eyes clenched shut. “I love you!”
“Yeah,” the older man groans, his hips thrusting harshly into the younger teen,
such a little thing, their little weaver is. “You little slut, you love the way
I make you feel.”
“I.. yes, more…”
Richard doesn’t want to admit it, but he loves the feeling of owning something
Thomas has touched before, of having the same child that his mentor adores
against him, forcing delicious moans out of that pouty mouth and passionate
shudders from his small frame.
It’s a thrill.
“One day, Timmy,” he snaps, his fingers sinking into the milky shoulder. “One
day you will be mine alone!”
“Rick,” Tim groans, hands playing with his dark hair.
Richard grins, knowing his is the only one in the house that calls the boy by
his own name. Knowing Timothy feels so vulnerable under his hands, under his
mouth.
Thomas will punish them later on, he is sure, when he comes to spend some time
with his little brother and the pretense that the child is still alive and sees
the teeth marks on that pale skin, but for now…
For now, he is the owner, the one in charge.
And he loves it.
“You are such a sick fuck, Timmy, such a wanton bitch,” he moans, tongue
soothing the reddening mark he has made. “Did your daddy teach you this? Did he
fuck you like I do?”
Tim moans a little louder, his own head shaking back and forth. The passion
between then, the chemistry of their bodies, is so powerful that the kid is
unable to form a coherent sentence, his little feet can’t hold him upright.
He is Richard’s to toy with.
Just his.
“Who’s your daddy now, Timmy, say it!” he demands, his hands sneaking from the
slender waist to claw at the boy’s thighs, forcing him around his own hips,
closer, so much closer.
“You are!” Tim yelps, his feet crossing over against eachother and hitting him
in the ass, clinging to him in desperate passion. “You are!”
“Yes,” he laughs madly, eyes clenching shut as he finally comes inside the kid,
coating his insides with his seed and marking him once more as his own. “Yes, I
am!”
—-
Tim is startled when Red Hood lands in front of him, his eyes wide behind his
mask as the other young man stalks towards him, hands tense and shoulders set.
“Red,” he says awkwardly. “Red, you…”
“Hood?” Red Robin asks, his arms crossing over his chest to hide the tensing of
his own muscles. Jason never approaches him. Not like this.
The tense set of his muscles, the hesitance in his voice.
Something is definitely wrong.
“Red, you… I thought you weren’t patrolling today,” Jason says, looking away
for a second.
“And I thought you were with your team somewhere in New York,” Tim replies,
lips pursing.
“The Boss is going to go mad if he finds out you snaked out,” Red hood
continues, not bothering to justify his own presence in Gotham. Tim feels a
chill run down his spine, but finds himself unable to place the sudden
discomfort freezing his insides.
“He has to understand I am part of the team,” he huffs, following Jason’s line
of sight curiously. Something inside his head is screaming warning signs at
him, little alarm bells that make him want to bolt.
But Jason has been approaching him lately, if only forced by Alfred or Dick,
and just to mock his now well-known position in the household as Bruce’s
current lover. He guesses he can’t refuse his estranged brother’s attempt at a
truce, not while he knows what it would mean to Bruce and Dick if they know the
two of them made up.
“Red,” Jason begins. “Tim… You have to go back.”
“What?”
“Batman needs you.”
The discomfort, the nagging feeling in the back of his head suddenly come to a
close as a single fact of their whole conversation clicks inside Tim’s head.
His face loses all color and his eyes widen for a moment, his lips growing
tight.
“Did… did you take your meds today, Jay?” he asks faintly, his feet slowly
moving his whole body backwards.
Red Hood’s head tilts for a second, two, before he nods.
“I did,” he replies.
Tim shakes his head.
“Jason calls me Replacement when he hasn’t taken his medication,” he whispers,
hands reaching for his Bo. “He calls me Baby Bird when he has. You called me
Red, you called me Tim.”
“Wha-“ Jason stammers.
“Who are you?”
“Not your Jason, little one,” a voice hisses from behind him. “That’s for
sure.”
Tim would have turned, he is sure, but a powerful hand in closing around his
neck and a blunt object is hitting the back of his head. He only has enough
consciousness to press the red alert signal on his suit before his face is
hitting the ground, his hands releasing his weapon and dropping heavily, and
his eyes close without his permission.
He can’t even hear what his enemies are whispering, nor the frantic replies to
his signal that arrive from the cave.
The only sound that makes it to his consciousness before everything turns dark
is Jason’s soft whisper as his hands carefully caress his cheek.
“I’m sorry, you were right,” he whispers. “I can’t let you go either.”
—-
“You have to be kidding me,” Timothy scowls, a cigarette held gently in his
mouth as he stares at the older man.
“I’m not, Tim,” Jason urges. “You can be more than this. Be something more
than… his whore.”
“You didn’t have any problem being his whore yourself,” Tim sighs, lighting the
cigarette and ignoring the way Jason flinches. “I am your replacement, aren’t
I?”
“That was before I knew better,” the older man says firmly, his hands resting
on Tim’s shoulders.
“And then Ra’s and his little league of guardians taught you?” Tim mocks,
rolling his eyes. “Don’t make me laugh, Jason, please.”
“Timothy,” Jason whispers, his fingers cradling the younger face carefully,
fingers removing the offending cigarette before leading those tempting lips to
meet his own sweetly. “Please, let me help you.”
Tim allows the kiss and responds in kind, his own hand caressing the other
man’s cheek before a small smile curls his mouth.
“You really think you can protect me?” he asks, eyes turning sad and resigned.
“You think Owlman will let me go?”
“The League of Guardians is ready to welcome you in, just like they did with
me,” Jason offers, thumbs stroking those high cheekbones. “Ra’s promised.”
“Yes, the Archangel would never break his word,” Tim scowls. “But do you really
think he will welcome me forever? That he won’t send me away when his little
princess starts crying? I’m too much of a reminder for her.”
Jason’s eyes widen.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh,” Tim smiles. “Didn’t you know that Thomas raped her? That he whispered my
name while he came inside of her?”
Jason takes a step back, shaking his head.
“He’s spreading his fantasy, Jason,” Tim explains, his own pose one of defeat.
“He wants us to be the happy family that was ripped from him. Him, me, and his
baby boy.”
“Ra’s never said Talia…”
“Yes, Jason,” Tim shrugs. “Thomas forced her to birth a bastard for his
amusement, a child for me to raise and coddle. He probably told her all about
it, too. How he was doing this for me, how he’d rather fuck me as he fucked
her.”
Jason falls to his knees, hands grabbing Tim’s and resting his face on them,
trying to gather his strength by such simple contact.
“And you let him?” he asks hoarsely.
“Do you honestly think I had a say in this?” the boy asks back. “I am the
fantasy weaver, Jay, I am to comply to his wishes and mold my performance
accordingly. He wants a family, I play the mother to his child, the incestuous
brother to warm his sheets and the whore to his companions.”
Jason’s eyes are wide as they meet his, his hands tight around his slender
fingers and soft knuckles. Tim is a Talon, has been a Talon like all the
others, and yet does not, will not engage in dangerous missions like all the
others, because Owlman fears he will be ripped away from the nest.
“Come with me,” he whispers, kissing the fingers within his grasp. “Fuck Ra’s
and Thomas and everyone, we can start again together.”
Timothy looks at him for a moment, his mouth curling into a small frown before
he lets out a small sigh.
“I am a Fantasy Weaver, Jason,” he says patiently. “And there won’t be a place
on Earth or otherwise where Owlman and his little minions won’t look for me.
You should know it by now.”
“What?”
“Of course, why would I want to give that kind of power up?” the boy asks,
raising an eyebrow.
Jason gapes.
Tim’s smile turns predatory.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t realized already, my dearest Jay,” he laughs, his
shoulders shaking with his mirth. “Thomas and Richard think they control me,
because I respond to their fantasies but I’m the one calling the shots in the
end.”
“What are you talking about?” Jason whispers, shaking his head.
“They fuck me, yes, but I made them what they are now, I created a place in
their lives so perfect for each that they will do everything in their power to
keep it,” he explains patiently, his head tilting childishly. “They think I am
theirs, but in the end… they are mine.”
“You can’t possibly think-“
“You are as well,” Tim interrupts, his smile turning into an ugly grin, all
teeth and no emotion. “I am Richard’s whore and Bruce’s have, but I’m also your
damsel in distress, aren’t I, Jason? I embody everything you have ever wanted,
everything that makes you feel powerful and righteous. You need to protect me,
to shelter me from the big, bad owl.”
“You lie,” Jason hisses, hands tightening.
“Thomas is obsessed with me, just like I wanted him to be, he’s addicted to the
fantasies I weave,” Tim is giggling, the ugliest sound Jason has ever heard.
“He will never let me go, just as well as you won’t separate yourself from me.
You don’t love me, Jason, you love the rush of feelings I give you, the sense
of protection and power.”
“Timothy.”
“If not,” Tim shrugs. “Walk away right now, I dare you. I have proven to you I
am not a damsel, a little princess for you to protect. Walk away now and forget
about me.”
Jason doesn’t move a muscle, his eyes still wide in their disbelief.
Tim laughs loudly.
“You can’t,” he says. “I bet you are even creating excuses in your head. Poor
little Timothy, he was fucked by his own daddy, he doesn’t know any better, if
only I could show him, he would understand.”
“Shut up,” Jason whispers, his lips trembling.
“You can’t save what is not in danger, Jason,” Tim snaps. “Not when you are
addicted to me as well.”
“Shut up!” the older man roars. “You don’t know anything.”
“Run now,” the boy says finally, standing from his perch on the window and
retrieving his cigarette from the floor. “Run away and try to live with
yourself. I know you will be back, just because you can’t live without me now.”
The Red Hood finally stands and runs away from the ornate room, Timothy’s
maddened cackling echoing in his ears as he puts as much distance as he can
between himself and Wayne Manor. He ignores the way his teeth have sunk into
his lower lip, making it bleed, ignores the way his knuckles are bruising from
his tight grip on the wheel of his bike.
He ignores the tears streaming down his cheeks.
He ignores it all because he knows Tim is right.
—-
Damian is caressing Tim’s hair as his father places him on the cold steel
gurney. He runs his fingers through his cheeks, his lips and his neck. Relieved
by the faint pulse he feels beating against his fingertips and the soft
breathing that hits his own skin when he lays down for a kiss.
“Mother,” he whispers reverently, licking his lips. “You aren’t leaving again,
mother.”
From his seat off to a side, Richard is laughing, enjoying the show, but Damian
doesn’t care. Grayson is a sick bastard and can’t understand the bond that has
been forged between his beautiful mother and himself.
The ties that bind them together forever, thicker than their blood, stronger
than anything in the world.
“You sick fuck,” Richard sneers, shaking his head in amusement, making Todd
growl in warning and his father scowl at Deathwing.
Fools, all of them.
No one will be able to understand Damian’s sorrow, his undying love for his
sweet mother.
“I won’t let them take you away from me again, mother,” he whispers against
Timothy’s pale lips. “I swear.”
—-
Damian rests his head on his mother’s lap, enjoying the feeling of his slender
fingers carding through his hair. His mother’s soft voice is reciting his
history lesson gently, so sweetly that Damian feels it’s the most beautiful of
songs.
He could live like this forever.
“And of course, little one,” Tim whispers, leaning down to kiss the boy’s lips.
“You will always remember that date as the day we became a civilized part of
the world.”
“Yes, mother,” Damian replies, licking his lips in order to savor the
perfection that is his mother’s kisses.
He knows his relationship with his mother is a dysfunctional one. He knows he
shouldn’t share such a sexual desire for the boy that is his mother. But there
is very little about Timothy Drake-Wayne that could be considered conventional.
He has, after all, welcomed him into his arms since his earliest memories,
nurturing his intellect and watching over his training with steel eyes at the
same time as he teaches him about poetry and song and laughter.
He knows, of course, that Timothy is not his real mother, but he could gladly
rip out the throat of the woman that birthed him if it made his mother happy.
Talia Al Ghul was just means to an end, he knows, and she cannot compare to the
perfection that is Timothy.
His father has told him so his whole life and he can’t help but agree with him.
Richard teases him constantly, whispered words of a twisted Oedipus complex
that will make him jump into bed with the little fantasy weaver as soon as he
is able to hold an erection on his own. Damian pretends he doesn’t listen,
because he doesn’t think he will ever be lucky enough to be part of such a
precious moment in his mother’s life.
His mother, of course, belongs to his father.
His violent, crazed, unreliable father.
He does not desire his mother sexually, or at least he thinks he doesn’t. He
doesn’t wish it was himself holding his mother’s small body against his own
when he spies on them. When he closely watches the way his father’s massive
hands bruise his mother’s pale hips, the way he thrusts hungrily inside of his
mother, biting and claiming and marking, growling like an animal in heat as he
calls out the wrong name.
Damian usually ends up crying in his own bed, holding his pillow to his chest
as he swears to himself that he would treat his mother better, that he would
not shame him by calling the name of his deceased uncle.
“Damian, my dear,” Tim calls, smiling gently. “Are you listening to me?”
Damian blinks, pulled out of his musings.
“I’m sorry mother,” he says, flushing. “I was…”
There is a sudden bang on the wooden door to their room that makes Tim tense
immediately and Damian stand to attention. He is Talon and will protect his
mother from all harm.
Tim stands as well, his arms crossing over his chest as Ultraboy, Ultraman’s
unfortunate clone breaks through the door, his usually demented smile in place.
“Hello, pretty thing,” he greets, floating towards them. “Did I interrupt you?”
“In fact, you did,” Tim hisses, raising an eyebrow. “Damian, do go and fetch
your father? I believe Ultraboy is not allowed within the Manor’s grounds.”
“Yes, mother,” Damian snaps, dashing.
“Harsh, Timmy,” the other young man hisses, his smile turning manic. “Have you
considered my offer yet?”
“That I weave for you and your family?” Tim asks, frowning. “Really, clone,
haven’t you given up on that?”
“Scared Owlman will think you are spoiled goods after I ride you, beautiful?”
“There is no way I would let you touch me, kid,” Tim scoffs. “And Thomas
wouldn’t let you either.”
“He and my father have called a truce between them,” Ultraboy argues.
“That you are breaking by poaching into his territory,” Tim replies, shaking
his head. “I told you already, brat, I will not weave for you, go home like a
good little abomination and leave me alone.”
Ultraboy is suddenly inches away from Tim, his hands sizing him by the
shoulders roughly. Tim doesn’t flinch, despite his unearthly strength. He is a
professional and, thus, will not bow down to the wishes of a ridiculous brat
like the faulty clone.
“I can show you what a real man feels like, beautiful,” Ultraboy whispers, his
mouth gracing Tim’s as he speaks. “Owlman wouldn’t be able to touch you again.”
“Please,” Tim says evenly. “You just want to see what kind of ride made Owlman
stop fucking your stepmother. There is no substance in you.”
“I’m not asking anymore, Timothy,” Ultraboy hisses, his grip tightening.
“And the answer is still no.”
“Wrong answer.”
When Damian finally returns with his father, Richard and Todd behind him, there
is very little he can do not to fall to his knees in shock.
Ultraboy is nowhere to be seen, the broken window and spilled glass around the
floor is indication enough that he has fled the house already, but Damian can’t
make himself care enough as he stares into his mother’s still body.
Timothy is laying on the floor, surrounded by the glistening pieces of broken
glass that frame him like a halo of the purest diamonds. His face is twisted
into a small frown, the only indication of the agony he must have gone through.
A thin line of blood is leaking from his paling lips, contrasting starkly with
the glassy blue of his partly open eyes.
Both his legs, his beautiful legs, are twisted into an unnatural angle, the
bones of his thigh poking from inside the skin into a mockery of his usual
paleness, painting his naked skin with splatters of crimson.
His chest, the same chest Damian has rested his head in countless times is
sprinkled with the white specks of the metahuman’s seed, while the gaping hole
in his chest reveals, much to Damian’s horror, that the demented clone has
removed his beloved mother’s heart forcefully.
Ripped it with his hands, most likely.
A scream breaks the stillness of the room as Todd rushes to cradle the broken
body in his arms, whispering Damian’s mother’s name over and over like a sacred
mantra, the only thing keeping him sane, apparently, and Richard is scanning
the room with wide eyes devoid of any conscience.
The animal that is Deathwing has finally been released from his cage.
Damian can’t breathe, his lungs unable to gather air as he finally realizes his
mother is gone.
The wonderful, beautiful mother of all his fantasies has died.
He starts retching.
Heaving violently against the marble flooring of the manor, tears running down
his cheeks as his hands claw at the floor, at anything within his reach in
order to keep his precarious balance, any thread of sanity.
How is the world going to turn, now that Timothy is gone?
How is humanity going to survive, now that the weaver of fantasies has been
ripped from them?
—-
Tim opens his eyes slowly, his head pounding and his vision swirling before he
notices he has been strapped down by thick steel chains, his mask has been
ripped off and…
… Damian is standing before him, eyes full of childish hope.
“D… Damian?” he asks weakly.
“Don’t worry, mother,” the boy whispers, rubbing his cheek against his naked
knee – he is naked, why is he naked? What is going on? – and letting his
fingers caress Tim’s small feet reverently. “Nothing is going to harm you
again.”
“Mo…ther?” he asks, eyes widening. “You are not my Damian.”
“Not yet,” the boy says with a pout. “Rest, mother, everything will be okay
now.”
“B… batman…” Tim wants to call, his throat hurting and dry is unable to muster
more than a hoarse whisper. “Bruce.”
“Won’t be able to help you,” Richard chirps, smirking.
Tim’s breathing grows frantic, recognizing the insignia on the older man’s
chest.
“Death…wing…” he whimpers, true fear reflecting in his eyes. He has heard the
tales of Earth 3, of the ruthless Wayne children. Duela had told him all about
them, of course, of sadistic Deathwing, repenting Red Hood, obsessive Talon.
And their mentor.
Tim turns, his face losing all color when his frightened eyes meet calm blue
ones.
Owlman.
“How…”
“Shh,” the older man whispers, placing his fingers on his trembling lips.
“Don’t tire yourself unnecessarily.”
“We just want to make you right again, little fantasy weaver,” Richard says
with a laugh, approaching him to run confident fingers against his neck in a
caress.
“It is, after all, our right,” Jason comments, eyes pitying.
“Your Waynes left you alone, mother!” little Damian snaps, eyes narrowing.
“They have forsaken you, ignored your brilliance. They do not deserve you.”
Tim starts shaking his head, and suddenly he can feel the gentle tugging in the
back of his head keeping him in place.
He turns, slowly, noticing the black wiring that is attached to the nape of his
neck, to his forehead, behind his ears.
“Oh,” Owlman smiles. “You noticed, good, it will make this easier.”
“We lost our little Tim, you see,” Richard laughs, pinching his nose playfully.
“And if your family doesn’t want their own Timmy.”
“Who are we to miss the opportunity?” Thomas adds, fingers dancing over the
keyboard.
“No…” Tim whimpers, tears pooling in his eyes. “Please.”
“It will only hurt if you fight it, Timothy,” Jason says gently, also
approaching him. “Please don’t make us hurt you.”
Tim’s tears start rolling down his cheeks, past his trembling mouth. No, this
can’t be happening to him. Not when he finally found a place within his family.
Not when he made his peace with Damian and Jason, when Dick finally apologized
and Bruce started to smile once more.
Not when he finally found his family.
“You’ll thank us, beautiful,” Richard is trying to encourage. “We can be very
good to you.”
“You will never leave us again, weaver,” Thomas hisses, pressing a button.
A surge of electricity travels through the wiring and into his head, memories,
data, information, images of a life not his own fly over his eyes in rapid
succession. He can see his father’s aging face twisting in pleasure over him,
his calloused hands caressing his naked thighs, Thomas’ twisted smirk as he
thrusts into him, calls him Bruce and brother and beloved, Richard’s teeth
sinking into his skin, claiming him, whispering mineminemine over and over
again, Jason’s tender caresses as he begs him to run away with him, to leave
the filth that is the Court of Owls. Damian, sweet Damian as he grows, as he
hides behind Thomas’ door and watches them have sex, his young mind unable to
tear his curious eyes away as he masturbates to them.
He should be horrified, he feels disgust at the images.
But growing inside of him there is a feeling of ownership, of pride at such
accomplishments.
He has tamed the proud owls, has made them addicts to his whims and desires.
He rules the Earth from behind the iron fist of the Owlman.
A scream breaks out from Tim’s lips, a scream of horror, of death, of despair.
A scream of ecstasy and delight and completion.
A mixture of Timothy and The Weaver.
Two hours later his body is slumping against the steel of the gurney, sweat
making his body shiver against the cold winter air, plastering his hair to his
forehead and stinging into the chafed skin of his wrists and ankles.
Damian’s small hands are caressing his arms, just as Jason sooths his aching
throat.
Tired blue eyes, broken jewels dulled by the agony, turn to regard the older
man staring solemnly at him.
Dry lips move a millimeter, hair leaving his tired lungs.
“Timothy?” Thomas asks, frowning.
Blood leaks from his broken mouth, painting his teeth a faint pink.
“Bruce…” he hisses, his mouth barely moving another inch. “Bruce…”
Richard shares a look with Jason while Damian backs away from him as if stung.
Thomas, however, leans in closer, eyes narrowed.
“Bruce?” he snaps, hands tightening against the steel of his bindings.
A tear slides down Timothy’s face, lost in his sweat, his blood.
And suddenly his weakened mouth is curling upwards with the same
mischievousness of years past.
“Call me Bruce, beloved,” he says, feeling the thrill that runs through his
body when all the eyes focus on him with barely restrained desire.
He is their weaver of fantasies.
The holder of their human happiness.
Their god.
And not even in death were his little subjects able to let him go. Their broken
minds unable to face life without him, without his lies and his stories and his
body.
He still rules them all, rules their minds, their desire and their souls.
He is, once more, the ruler of their world.
He lives again. 
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