Fic: Beloved
Title: Beloved
Fandom: Batman
Characters: Tim Drake, Jack Drake, Bruce Wayne/Batman
Summary/Prompt: “In the dark my name is Beloved.”
Notes: Prompt fill for Hearts on Tumblr/kuyeng-thl on LJ. I don’t have a tumblr, but I do check Heart’s tumblr daily and leave her a ridiculous number of prompts (that she fills so spectacularly), so I felt filling her prompt to her followers was the least I could do in thanks for all of the amazing things she’s written for the world.
Warning: This got very, very dark and screwed up. Includes non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, parent-child incest, underage, screwed up ideas of love and intimacy. Read at your own risk. Seriously.
In the dark his name is Beloved. In the light he often thinks he has no name at all. He has one, of course. Of course he does, it would be improper to do otherwise. But no one uses it because there is no one there. There is only him, his distant keepers and the tall imposing gods that occasionally intrude on his silent (prisoncastlehome?) place.
But in the dark he is not alone. In the dark he is held and loved and his name is Beloved.
Beloved is not a name that can exist in the light. (He made that mistake only once, in the beginning. He knows better now.) Beloved is a name that can only be spoken in whispers, hot against his ear. Only felt in the sensation of silk bed sheets and fingertips sliding over his bare skin. Only smelled in the thick musky scent that covers him like a blanket.
All of these little things compose his name. Some days he fears that those little things are all that ties him to the world, that without them he would float away, intangible and forgotten. Other days, the bad days, when he has been untouched for months he knows it to be true. There are more bad days than he would like. The comforts of the dark always evaporate so quickly in the light of day.
He often finds himself praying, not to the deity that lives the strange building he has seen only a few times, but rather to the iterant gods of his mansiontowerjail residence. He waits and waits for their return, because without them the dark is only the dark, and he is nameless. Unloved.
Being Beloved hurts sometimes.
All the time.
But being Unloved hurts more.
Loneliness presses in on him, suffocating and heavy, until he can bear it no more. Until he thinks he will shatter into a thousand pieces under the weight. Until he thinks he will vanish into nothingness.
He cries in the dark during these times, because he cannot be Beloved by himself. He cannot be anything by himself.
He prays and prays then, his lips mouthing silent promises against his pillow at night. He vows to be good, to be docile and obedient if only the one who calls him Beloved would return, but he is powerless against the whims of gods.
It is the loneliness that finally drives Unloved out during the famine of the gods’ absences. That is what pushes him to impossible heights chasing snatches of warmth and color. It soothes the agony of his heart to see another and his Beloved. The sight through the lens of his camera gives him hope that someday soon he will be Beloved again.
He watches and watches, during the times between when he is Beloved, and feels at peace.
His comfort is shattered when another Beloved flies in the sky. It frightens him to think another could be Beloved in his place, that he may still be forgotten even though he tries so very hard to be right and good and Beloved.
Almost before his world manages to adjust to the second Beloved, he vanishes. Gone. But not forgotten. Not unloved.
He knows this because he can feel the rage, the sorrow in the darkness. The Beloved was not forsaken. He was taken. Stolen.
His peace is gone. And he aches inside for the lack of it.
This pain is what gives him, him, stupid, worthless and Unloved as he is, the courage to try to bring color back into the night.
The events he sets in motion quickly spin out of his control. The old Beloved will not bend to duty, will not make it right and he must step in. But even that is not so simple.
He is taken in, but nothing makes sense.
Bruce looks at him. Sees him. All the time. Not only in the dark. Not only when he is draped in fine colors or nothing at all. But he only looks, never touches.
No. That isn’t right. He does. A hand on the arm, through his hair. Hands guiding, shaping, teaching, fighting. But he doesn’t -
He doesn’t -
He doesn’t understand.
He tries and tries. He tries so hard to be good. To be worth it.
But he is still Unloved.
For months and months he waits. He waits so patiently, but still he doesn’t -
And he doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. But he just wants -
He wants to be Beloved. His Beloved. To be touched and cherished and loved. He wants it so badly it hurts.
He wants to ask, to try and understand what he’s doing wrong. So he can be better. But he knows better than to ask, knows better than to ruin the only chance he has at being as treasured as the second Beloved so obviously was and is.
He waits until he cannot anymore. And he knows it is wrong, but he wants to belong to this place, to these people and he knows only one way to make himself matter.
In the dark of night he strips himself of warmth and color, crawls between silk sheets and waits.
And hopes.
But when Bruce appears looming over the bed in the darkness and his responses are all wrong.
It doesn’t make sense.
“Tim.” Bruce’s voice rumbles in the dark and Tim stares up at him with hopeful eyes even though this is not correct. In the dark his name has always been Beloved. Never Tim.
But that’s okay. It’s okay if Bruce does it a little differently. Just as long as Tim is loved. As long as he isn’t alone.
“Tim, why are you in my bed?” Bruce asks.
He doesn’t understand the question, doesn’t understand why Bruce is making this so difficult. He knows better than to speak, not in the dark. So he sits up, letting silky soft sheets pool around his waist, making his nakedness clear even in the dark of the room.
“Tim, what are you doing?” Bruce sounds upset.
What is he doing wrong?
He kicks the bedding aside and turns over, putting himself on display. Showing Bruce that he is ready, that he knows how this works, that he can be what Bruce needs. He closes his eyes and waits.
He feels the bed shift, but nothing more. Nothing happens for the longest time.
When hands finally come, they do not act as they should. Instead they grip his shoulders, gentle, impersonal, and they turn his around. Then they drape the sheets back over his lap and another blanket is wrapped around his shoulder.
He is confused. Lost.
He finally looks up into Bruce’s eyes and tries to understand what he is doing wrong.
But the clues he finds in Bruce’s face make no sense.
“Tim, who taught you to do this?” Bruce asks.
And he knows that Bruce is angry. But he doesn’t understand why. He is torn between the need to please, to be Bruce’s Beloved and his knowledge of the rules.
“Tim. Answer me.” That is the Batman voice. The voice he walks nightly through fire and hell for.
“My father,” he answers automatically.
Bruce’s face contorts. He has studied facial expressions long and hard enough to understand that if Bruce was anyone else, he would be crying. But that doesn’t mean Tim understands.
“What’s wrong?” he asks even though he knows he isn’t supposed to speak.
Bruce lets out a shuddering gasp and pulls him into a hug.
He is new to hugs. The first Beloved has tried very hard to teach him, but he knows he is bad at it. He wonders sometimes if that is why Bruce has not touched him.
But Bruce does not remove the blankets, does not touch his skin, just holds him with painful gentleness.
“I don’t understand,” he whispers. “What am I doing wrong? Why won’t you love me?”
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Bruce says in harsh whisper. “I love you very much, Tim. But not like that. Never like that. And never again. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”
Never like that.
What other way is there?
Never again.
Is he truly so unworthy?
His eyes fill with tears as he realizes that he truly is Unloved, even here, in this kind house. He shakes like a leaf and tries to push himself away, but Bruce holds on tight and that doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. If he isn’t Beloved, why won’t Bruce let him go? Why won’t Bruce let him disappear?
“I don’t understand,” he cries over and over.
“It’s okay,” Bruce whispers into his ear in the dark of the room. “It’s okay.”
Unloved
Fandom: Batman
Characters: Tim Drake, Jack Drake, Bruce Wayne/Batman
Summary/Prompt: “In the dark my name is Beloved.”
Notes: Prompt fill for Hearts on Tumblr/kuyeng-thl on LJ. I don’t have a tumblr, but I do check Heart’s tumblr daily and leave her a ridiculous number of prompts (that she fills so spectacularly), so I felt filling her prompt to her followers was the least I could do in thanks for all of the amazing things she’s written for the world.
Warning: This got very, very dark and screwed up. Includes non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, parent-child incest, underage, screwed up ideas of love and intimacy. Read at your own risk. Seriously.
In the dark his name is Beloved. In the light he often thinks he has no name at all. He has one, of course. Of course he does, it would be improper to do otherwise. But no one uses it because there is no one there. There is only him, his distant keepers and the tall imposing gods that occasionally intrude on his silent (prisoncastlehome?) place.
But in the dark he is not alone. In the dark he is held and loved and his name is Beloved.
Beloved is not a name that can exist in the light. (He made that mistake only once, in the beginning. He knows better now.) Beloved is a name that can only be spoken in whispers, hot against his ear. Only felt in the sensation of silk bed sheets and fingertips sliding over his bare skin. Only smelled in the thick musky scent that covers him like a blanket.
All of these little things compose his name. Some days he fears that those little things are all that ties him to the world, that without them he would float away, intangible and forgotten. Other days, the bad days, when he has been untouched for months he knows it to be true. There are more bad days than he would like. The comforts of the dark always evaporate so quickly in the light of day.
He often finds himself praying, not to the deity that lives the strange building he has seen only a few times, but rather to the iterant gods of his mansiontowerjail residence. He waits and waits for their return, because without them the dark is only the dark, and he is nameless. Unloved.
Being Beloved hurts sometimes.
All the time.
But being Unloved hurts more.
Loneliness presses in on him, suffocating and heavy, until he can bear it no more. Until he thinks he will shatter into a thousand pieces under the weight. Until he thinks he will vanish into nothingness.
He cries in the dark during these times, because he cannot be Beloved by himself. He cannot be anything by himself.
He prays and prays then, his lips mouthing silent promises against his pillow at night. He vows to be good, to be docile and obedient if only the one who calls him Beloved would return, but he is powerless against the whims of gods.
It is the loneliness that finally drives Unloved out during the famine of the gods’ absences. That is what pushes him to impossible heights chasing snatches of warmth and color. It soothes the agony of his heart to see another and his Beloved. The sight through the lens of his camera gives him hope that someday soon he will be Beloved again.
He watches and watches, during the times between when he is Beloved, and feels at peace.
His comfort is shattered when another Beloved flies in the sky. It frightens him to think another could be Beloved in his place, that he may still be forgotten even though he tries so very hard to be right and good and Beloved.
Almost before his world manages to adjust to the second Beloved, he vanishes. Gone. But not forgotten. Not unloved.
He knows this because he can feel the rage, the sorrow in the darkness. The Beloved was not forsaken. He was taken. Stolen.
His peace is gone. And he aches inside for the lack of it.
This pain is what gives him, him, stupid, worthless and Unloved as he is, the courage to try to bring color back into the night.
The events he sets in motion quickly spin out of his control. The old Beloved will not bend to duty, will not make it right and he must step in. But even that is not so simple.
He is taken in, but nothing makes sense.
Bruce looks at him. Sees him. All the time. Not only in the dark. Not only when he is draped in fine colors or nothing at all. But he only looks, never touches.
No. That isn’t right. He does. A hand on the arm, through his hair. Hands guiding, shaping, teaching, fighting. But he doesn’t -
He doesn’t -
He doesn’t understand.
He tries and tries. He tries so hard to be good. To be worth it.
But he is still Unloved.
For months and months he waits. He waits so patiently, but still he doesn’t -
And he doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. But he just wants -
He wants to be Beloved. His Beloved. To be touched and cherished and loved. He wants it so badly it hurts.
He wants to ask, to try and understand what he’s doing wrong. So he can be better. But he knows better than to ask, knows better than to ruin the only chance he has at being as treasured as the second Beloved so obviously was and is.
He waits until he cannot anymore. And he knows it is wrong, but he wants to belong to this place, to these people and he knows only one way to make himself matter.
In the dark of night he strips himself of warmth and color, crawls between silk sheets and waits.
And hopes.
But when Bruce appears looming over the bed in the darkness and his responses are all wrong.
It doesn’t make sense.
“Tim.” Bruce’s voice rumbles in the dark and Tim stares up at him with hopeful eyes even though this is not correct. In the dark his name has always been Beloved. Never Tim.
But that’s okay. It’s okay if Bruce does it a little differently. Just as long as Tim is loved. As long as he isn’t alone.
“Tim, why are you in my bed?” Bruce asks.
He doesn’t understand the question, doesn’t understand why Bruce is making this so difficult. He knows better than to speak, not in the dark. So he sits up, letting silky soft sheets pool around his waist, making his nakedness clear even in the dark of the room.
“Tim, what are you doing?” Bruce sounds upset.
What is he doing wrong?
He kicks the bedding aside and turns over, putting himself on display. Showing Bruce that he is ready, that he knows how this works, that he can be what Bruce needs. He closes his eyes and waits.
He feels the bed shift, but nothing more. Nothing happens for the longest time.
When hands finally come, they do not act as they should. Instead they grip his shoulders, gentle, impersonal, and they turn his around. Then they drape the sheets back over his lap and another blanket is wrapped around his shoulder.
He is confused. Lost.
He finally looks up into Bruce’s eyes and tries to understand what he is doing wrong.
But the clues he finds in Bruce’s face make no sense.
“Tim, who taught you to do this?” Bruce asks.
And he knows that Bruce is angry. But he doesn’t understand why. He is torn between the need to please, to be Bruce’s Beloved and his knowledge of the rules.
“Tim. Answer me.” That is the Batman voice. The voice he walks nightly through fire and hell for.
“My father,” he answers automatically.
Bruce’s face contorts. He has studied facial expressions long and hard enough to understand that if Bruce was anyone else, he would be crying. But that doesn’t mean Tim understands.
“What’s wrong?” he asks even though he knows he isn’t supposed to speak.
Bruce lets out a shuddering gasp and pulls him into a hug.
He is new to hugs. The first Beloved has tried very hard to teach him, but he knows he is bad at it. He wonders sometimes if that is why Bruce has not touched him.
But Bruce does not remove the blankets, does not touch his skin, just holds him with painful gentleness.
“I don’t understand,” he whispers. “What am I doing wrong? Why won’t you love me?”
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Bruce says in harsh whisper. “I love you very much, Tim. But not like that. Never like that. And never again. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”
Never like that.
What other way is there?
Never again.
Is he truly so unworthy?
His eyes fill with tears as he realizes that he truly is Unloved, even here, in this kind house. He shakes like a leaf and tries to push himself away, but Bruce holds on tight and that doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. If he isn’t Beloved, why won’t Bruce let him go? Why won’t Bruce let him disappear?
“I don’t understand,” he cries over and over.
“It’s okay,” Bruce whispers into his ear in the dark of the room. “It’s okay.”
Unloved