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“This is fucking dumb,” Tim says blankly. “This is so stupid. What the fuck am I doing? I have so much to do, and I’m wasting time—”
Damian cuts him off with a quick, “You’re not wasting time, beloved. You’re being very productive,” he scratches at Tim’s head through the bars, “You’re doing exactly what I asked of you.”
Tim deflates a little.
It was a good answer.
He liked— he liked doing what Damian asked. His directions were always— his directions left very little up to interpretation. They were always very simple actions: the real price was the— was his—
“Let me out,” Tim says, voice empty.
“No,” Damian replies, not unkindly, “No, I don’t think I will.”
Bafflingly, Tim can feel the tears welling up, stinging the corners of his eyes.
“Please,” he says hoarsely. “Please let me out,” he begs, and Damian sticks two of his fingers through the bars again, this time lifting Tim’s chin until he’s making eye contact.
“Beloved, look at me.” Tim swallows, and makes his eyes focus on Damian’s placid face in front of him.
“Hello, wife. It’s good to see you again,” he says with a wry smile. “Can you see me?”
Tim swallows again and nods.
Damian’s eyes were really quite beautiful, a strange amalgamation of colors underserved by calling them hazel.
“Look at me, Tim,” he says again, petting his cheek. “You are perfectly capable of getting out of this crate. Look at the hinges.” He pulls back the thin, gauzy material loosely draped over the sides of the crate.
“You could snap the pins in half at anytime. I’m certain you could free yourself within seconds, if you wanted.” Damian lets the material fall back into place.
“You are in this space simply because I asked it of you. And now I’m asking you to remain in this space until I am done working,” he gestures to the desk across room, in full view. “Do you think you could do that? For me?”
Yeah.
Yeah, Tim could do that for him.
“What am I supposed to do in here until you’re done?” Tim asks quietly, and Damian lets out a little chuckle.
“What else do puppies do in their crates? Go to sleep, my sweet.” Damian pets his hair again, and Tim just leans into it until Damian withdraws, and Tim can’t quite keep the little whimper from escaping his throat.
“You’re alright, Tim,” Damian says, before turning and walking over to the desk. “I’m right here,” he says, giving him one last fond look before sitting down and turning his attention to the files he had open.
Tim just sits there for a moment, feeling small.
He stares at the back of Damian’s head, at the angled side of his profile. He rubs the material of the blanket between his finger tips. The whole setup was impeccable. Damian had truly out done himself.
It was also absurd.
It was well and truly absurd.
Every part of it was ridiculous, from the memory foam pad underneath him, so much nicer than a real dog would ever earn, to the twinkling fairy lights that lined the crate.
Damian had given him a pink double-lined fleece blanket but no pillows. If he actually wanted to sleep, he’d have to— he’d have to—
“Can you put some music on, please?” Tim asks, and Damian stops mid pen-stroke. “I’m not trying to be a bother. Something classical, maybe? Chopin? Or even like, Philip Glass?”
Damian turns to look at him, considering.
“Please,” Tim begs. Anything. Anything to drown out the sound of his own mind.
“Alright, Tim.” Damian says, “I will put on some music.” He looks at him some more. “Do you want me to get the gag, as well?” A curl of fear scoops at the bottom of Tim’s stomach.
Evidently sensing his distress, Damian continues, “There is no right or wrong answer here, Tim. I am not going to trap you with a comfort question. You know that.”
Damian had said that before, ever since Tim had confessed that often times when Bruce asked him a question, he felt like he was just, guessing for the answer Bruce wanted to hear.
But Tim couldn’t, Tim doesn’t know— he just nods. Reflexively. Figuring it was better, safer to err on the side of giving up more control to Damian, to appease him. Damian doesn’t look any happier though, he just silently gets up to fiddle with the little speaker on the shelf.
Tim could feel himself relax a little, closing his eyes, as the opening notes of Rêverie came humming out of it.
When he opens them again, Damian is kneeling in front of him, small smile on his face.
“You look very beautiful like this,” he says, “Like you were always meant to be my little pet.”
He says it with such reverence. Like it was a good thing to be.
“Here,” Damian says, and drops something through the bars and on to Tim’s lap. And then Tim is staring down at the little black silicone ball gag.
He looks up at Damian’s impassive face. Not a trace of help to be found from the other man, he just stares.
Hands shaking a little, Tim picks up the gag.
“You’ll fasten it for me?” He asks, not quite able to make eye contact, and Damian just hums his assent.
He lifts the gag up to his mouth slowly, pressing the silicone against his lips for a moment, not quite opening his mouth.
He pulls it back two or three inches.
“And you won’t leave me?” He asks, needy, urgently, small, entirely too revealing—
“Not for a second,” Damian says firmly. “I would never leave my valuables unprotected.”
Tim nods as a few unbidden tears slip out.
He presses the gag into his mouth, turning around and leaning back so Damian can fasten it for him. His shoulders shake as he tries to get his breathing under control.
Fuck, why was this so scary?
Tim had been literally tortured before. Multiple times. Nothing was restraining his arms, his legs, he could just undo the latch himself and take the gag off if he wanted. Hell, he probably didn’t even need to snap the hinges. If he stood up really fast, got his feet under him, he could probably bust out with sheer strength.
It was all just a poorly hidden illusion of the loss of control.
And it was making him weep.
It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t.
Damian fastened the gag onto him; Damian would be the one to take it off.
Damian had put him in the crate. That was enough.
That was more than enough.
“There you are,” Damian says as Tim turns around, gag secured, “How does that feel? Tight enough?” He asks, relishing the forced hypothetical a bit more than was probably polite.
“Lean forward,” he says, and Tim obediently presses his face against the bars. He keeps perfectly still as Damian leans in.
He lasts all of 15 seconds of perfect stillness before he’s squirming away at the feeling of Damian licking at his tears with wide, flat strokes. He can’t help but pull back with a muffled giggle, spit drying on his face as Damian gives him a wicked grin.
“Good puppy,” he says, “lay down.”
And Tim is too buoyed at the ridiculousness of his love to notice the exquisite humiliation of curling up in a little ball, in his little crate, with a fuzzy pink blanket tugged up over him.