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suzukiblu · 2 years ago

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Tim?

Tim did not actually mean to kidnap an alternate reality's version of Kon.

In his defense, he'd had very limited time in that reality and everything in it had been going to shit and . . . well, everything in it had been going to shit.

Also, Lex Luthor had been a lot more heavily involved in that particular reality's Cadmus, and fuck it if Tim was ever going to leave any version of Kon with that bastard.

With any bastard who could ever look at Kon and call him "it".

"Ow," Tim grunts into the dirty pavement of what he hopes is his own Gotham as blood drips out of his mouth, and feels Kon's fingertips brush very, very tentatively against his back. He's a little too dizzy to lift his head, but he figures it doesn't matter. Like it's just . . . it's fine. They're not in Cadmus and Kon is safe and Tim is . . . conscious, at least, which means he can work with the situation.

Whatever the situation actually is, anyway.

Kon's hands flatten against his back, which is a very familiar tell, and Tim immediately feels the even more familiar embrace of TTK wrapping him up.

Less familiar is the impulse to find said embrace adorable, but in Tim's defense, this Kon is physiologically about ten years old and so far every single thing he's done has been either adorable or heartbreaking or some terrible combination of the two.

"Robin?" Kon asks anxiously. "You're okay, right?"

"M'okay," Tim mumbles blurrily, because it's more or less true. More blood drips out of his mouth and splatters on the pavement. "All okay. S'fine. You hurt?"

"No," Kon says, still sounding nervous. "Dunno where we are, though."

"Should be Gotham," Tim says, forcing himself to lift his head enough to check and nearly laughing as he recognizes their surroundings as the exact part of Crime Alley that he got interdimensionally yanked out of seventy-six hours ago. "Yeah. Gotham."

He pushes himself up enough to look over at Kon. Kon looks very small crouched down next to him with buzzed-down hair, barefoot in pristine white lab scrubs with a shiny metal cuff stamped with an identification number locked around his wrist. "13" features prominently on it.

Tim wants to melt it into slag.

"Is it your Gotham?" Kon asks.

"No clue, but I'm hoping," Tim says. He thinks about getting to his feet but he's pretty sure he'd throw up if he tried. Or fall over. Or both?

Probably both, at this point.

Oh well, he figures, and pushes himself up. He doesn't vomit, surprisingly, although he is very definitely sure that Kon's TTK is the only thing keeping him from falling over.

No reason to look that particular gift horse in the mouth, Tim decides.

"I need coffee," he says as he gives Kon's shoulder an appreciative pat, because the caffeine withdrawal is real. Also he needs medical attention, probably, but also-also he needs to come up with either a cover story for the ER or an explanation for Bruce and therefore caffeine can't hurt.

"Uh, okay," Kon says skeptically. "I don't think Starbucks or anything is gonna be open right now, though, it's pretty late."

"God, what did Cadmus teach you, kid," Tim says despairingly, making a face at the thought. "Starbucks is a punishment from God. We're going to the nearest twenty-four diner and I'm ordering roofing tar. And we're getting you a hot chocolate. Do you want a hot chocolate?"

". . . yeah," Kon says, biting his lip. "Um. I mean, I dunno if I'd like it, though."

"If you don't like it, we'll get you something else," Tim says. "But I haven't slept or eaten properly since I left my reality and I need coffee before it becomes a legitimate medical emergency."

"Shouldn't you get, like, real food, then?" Kon asks skeptically. "Not just coffee?"

"Coffee is food," Tim lies reflexively.

". . . I don't think it is," Kon says, squinting up at him suspiciously. "Are you taking advantage of me being too stupid to know if coffee's food or not?"

". . . we can get something to go," Tim says, wishing he'd blown up a bit more of Cadmus on his way out of that fucking cesspool of a reality. "You're not stupid. Luthor can choke on a fucking cactus for all the shit he kept saying to you."

"I mean, I didn't come out right," Kon says uncomfortably. "I'm not as smart as Dadd–as Lex is. Or as Superman was."

Tim pretends that Kon wasn't about to say "Daddy" for both their sakes. Just . . . yeah. At least for the moment, anyway.

Luthor was a lot more heavily involved in that Cadmus.

And horrifyingly.

Tim tries not to think about the way that Luthor had kept touching Kon. All the little too-deliberate points of contact he'd made time and again and too often.

Much too often.

Tim hadn't seen anyone else even so much as enter Kon's personal space the entire time he'd been in that godforsaken lab, and every single time that Luthor had made a gesture like he might touch him, Kon had tensed in something that couldn't decide between being fear or anticipation.

It'd made Tim want to burn the whole fucking lab and every single LexCorp-owned building he could find to the ground.

He'd settled for interdimensionally kidnapping Kon and destroying all of Cadmus's systems and DNA samples as thoroughly as possible. C-4 had been involved.

A lot of C-4 had been involved.

Possibly that had been a slight overreaction, but fuck if Tim cares. Just–Clark had still been dead, and Cassie hadn't had powers and Bart hadn't been in the time period and Tim himself hadn't even existed, for whatever reason, and apparently neither had Cissie or Greta or Anita or Slobo, and Bruce had already had his hands full with Damian and Dick had been off-planet and Jason had also still been dead and just–

Options had been limited, alright?

Options had been limited, and by that point Tim hadn't had time to go check and see what the Kents were up to or track down Lois Lane or Jimmy Olsen or even just tip off the Justice League or the Titans, because by that point he'd been in an examination room with a Lex Luthor who was stroking a frightened Kon's face with one hand while holding a syringe that was glowing kryptonite-green with the other and Tim had just . . . he'd just made some choices at that point, okay?

He'd made some very decisive choices.

And some very decisive commitments.

Or at least one very decisive commitment, anyway.

#dc robin #tim drake #superboy #kon el #conner kent #anonymous #long post #implied molestation #implied abuse #wip: interdimensional kidnapping via robin

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oozebrain · 6 months ago

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Art x gender neutral Reader. Art and reader are both ND.

Chapter summary: A new neighbor moves into the house beside you. Being the only other kid in the neighborhood, you’re excited to meet him and hopefully make your first friend.

Warnings include: implied child abuse, verbal abuse, abusive parent (mother), angst, ableism (including r slur), swearing. Minors dni.

Laughter in the Dark

Chapter 1

The sound of a moving truck woke you up. You grumble sleepily and pull your covers over your head. It’s so piercing and loud in the quiet. You look to your alarm clock and it reads six thirty in the morning. It’s the weekend and you were looking forward to sleeping in, but with the incessant beeping it was impossible. Once the beeping subsided, you thought there would be peace, but loud banging and thudding followed after.

Annoyed, you toss your blanket off and go to the window to see what has so rudely woken you up. In the yard you see a tall woman and a smaller figure next to her. He seems restless, looking around this way and that as he soaks up his new surroundings. He looks to be about your age and excitement blossomed in your chest.

In a hurry you put on your clothes and comb your fingers through your hair. As you enter the living room you see your mother. She is also getting ready, her own curiosity piqued. You were both nosy, there was nothing that could be done about it.

“Are we going to see the new neighbors?” You ask, pulling on your jacket.

“That goddamn truck woke me up. I’m going over there to ask them who the hell moves in at six in the fucking morning on a Saturday.”

You hoped she wouldn’t. You desperately want to make a good impression. You want a friend, an acquaintance, anything. Anyone. You try to placate her, “Maybe we can all be friends and have cookouts and stuff.”

She ignores you, muttering to herself as she puts on her own jacket and grabs her purse and keys. You silently follow her out the door, the bracing breeze of the fall morning tearing through your neck. You pull your jacket closer, the thin material doing little to actually block out the cold. You’ve gotten used to it over the years but the breezes always managed to rip you up.

The neighbors are less than a few feet away and the pair turn to acknowledge you as you walk up. The boy turns away and retreats by the garage, away from the group that’s been created. Naturally, you separate as well and migrate over to the teenager.

He is gangly and taller than you are. In the cold morning he is bundled up with a jacket and hat with ear flaps. You could barely see his face from the scarf wrapped around it, which he pulled up over his nose when you walked up. Despite being bundled up, he was still huddled up into himself and withdrew from you when you approached by taking a step back. He eyed you warily so you stopped short, offering a friendly wave.

He doesn’t speak but continues to stare at you with apprehension. He looks down at the ground and awkwardly kicks a pebble out of the way. It scoots over to you and you gently kick it back. He pauses and stands rigid for a moment before looking back to you. He says nothing but kicks the pebble back, this time with more enthusiasm and you reciprocate.

The boy doesn’t seem interested in conversation so you don’t force the subject and continue to play in a silence. You notice he keeps looking back to his mother, and you notice this because you are doing the same. Every now and again you check over your shoulder to see if she is watching you, but she is still talking to the boy’s mother.

You look back to him and offer him a smile. You can’t see his mouth but you see his eyes crinkle slightly in the smile hidden beneath. It seemed like he was shy, just as you were. You idly sway, hands behind your back and fingers fidgeting as you coax yourself through this encounter with a new person.

It’s difficult to meet new people. You’ve lived here your whole life but can’t name a single person. There were no other kids in the neighborhood, so seeing him step out of the car gave you hope that things could change. You tried not to appear over eager but you truly were hopeful you would be able to make a friend.

“Arthur, who’s this?” Comes a voice to your left. You both turn your heads in unison to look at his mother. He doesn’t answer or move, he merely stares with wide eyes, hands in his pockets and huddled into himself. His smile is gone. Again, you notice his behavior because you do the same, your own gaze wide with apprehension now that attention has been drawn to you.

She closes the distance and smiles down at you, “Sorry dear. He doesn’t mean to be so rude, he’s just retarded.”

You grimace some at this statement. She takes your scowl of disdain as confusion and continues to rub salt in the wound, “Retarded means he’s slow. He can’t talk. I think he can, but someone just doesn’t want to because they like making things hard for mommy, don’t they?”

She punctuated her overly sweet sounding condescension by pursing her lips and looking down at him over her glasses. He averts his gaze and stares at you instead. He is silently saying something to you with his eyes. It speaks loudly to you, it screams, it roars. He hates her. After a moment he looks away to stare off into the distance while she stands over him in her own silence.

“Well I think we’d better be going. It was great meeting you both.” Your own mother cuts in, sensing the awkward tension. You wanted to leave the situation, but didn’t particularly want to leave him. Arthur glanced back at you before dropping his gaze again. He turned and left without a word, footsteps plodding heavy on the concrete steps up to the porch. The metal screen door closes behind him with an angry slam.

Arthur’s mother sighs, throwing her hands up in the air and looking to your mother apologetically, “Kids. You give them everything and they still want more.”

Your own mother says nothing, but a look crosses her face having her own words repeated to her from a stranger. She makes a noncommittal noise and motions for you to come with her. You give a half-hearted wave goodbye and begin your walk home, just a short distance across the yard.

As you turn to wave you can see Arthur staring at you from the living room window. His scarf is off to reveal a healing lip and your stomach tightens. You really don’t want to leave him here, but if you don’t comply that would be you next. But still, you have to do something, anything.

“Can me and Arthur play later, mom?” You put her on the spot. All the pressure was off you and now rested on her shoulders. She said nothing for a moment, flicking her eyes between you and Arthur’s mother before nodding.

“As long as it’s okay with his mom it’s alright with me.” She agrees and the two of you look to her. She folds her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to one leg as she thought. You didn’t know what was going on in her head, but she was visibly thinking long and hard about something, and you didn’t like it.

After a time she relented, “They have to stay in the front yard. I don’t want Arthur wandering around until we know our neighbors better.”

Your mother seems a little peeved at that statement, taking it as a personal offense, but doesn’t address it. Instead she chuckles awkwardly and motions again for you to follow, which you do. The two of you make it to the house and once you are inside the truth comes out.

“I do not want you hanging out with that kid.” She turns to you, “He’s fucking weird, what if he hurts you?”

You didn’t say anything. He didn’t come off as threatening, in fact he was the one who had initially withdrawn when you approached. Arthur didn’t seem like a mean or bad kid, he looked... scared, stressed, absent. He looked the same way you did after a long night of berating, or the look of dread when you heard ‘just wait until we get home’.

“I do not want you hanging out with him. I’m going down there later to tell her you have a stomachache.”

You look at her with a pleading, but angry, expression. Your ears burn and you clench your teeth. You are twelve years old but she manages you like a toddler, “I don’t have any friends, why can’t I play with him?”

“Because he’s a freak. You have no idea what his mom told me, he’s a fucking nutcase.” She sighs, “Kids like him are why they should bring back asylums. You’re not going, that’s final. I am not sending you out with him.”

“It’s just in the yard!”

“You’re NOT going!”

“You never let me do anything!” You scream at her, fists balled and ready to fight back. You were more worked up than you should be, and part of it was your worry for Arthur. You needed a friend, and he needed a friend too. In your short time meeting him, you could tell he understood you, and you understood him. There was an unspoken solidarity. He knew, and you knew. You just wanted a friend, what the hell was wrong with everyone?

“I’m doing what’s best for you, I’m looking out for you. You should be more thankful that I actually give a shit about you and don’t let you run around with fucking psychopaths who hack up animals!” She screams back, taking an intimidating step toward you.

You aren’t having this, not today. You scoff at her and trudge to your room. The door slams behind you, an echo from just moments before. You lock the door behind you and flop onto your bed, tightly hugging the pillow beside you. The door wasn’t allowed to be locked but you didn’t care right now, that was a problem for later you. You didn’t want to even hear her breathe right now.

Frustrated tears come and you bury your face in the pillow. You were so angry and crestfallen. She always did this, she always agreed to plans in the moment then changed them as soon as you were behind closed doors. Any attempts to make friends had been foiled, and now that it had been so long without a friend you deeply struggled to make connections.

But you felt a connection with Arthur. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to talk to him, to give him someone to confide in, and you wanted someone to confide in as well. After a small cry you sit up on your bed, still hugging your pillow in your lap. From the corner of your eye you can see a small flash of light blinking over and over.

You get up to walk to the window and shield your eyes at the flashlight. Across the way is Arthur framed by the window pane. His bedroom seems to be across from yours. He turns off the flashlight and offers you a small, shy wave which you reciprocate. He flashes the light at you again. You hold up your finger to tell him to wait a moment and retrieve your own and flicker it at him.

And then you see it, a smile. It’s small and stiff, but it’s there. The two of you sit there at the window in the dim morning light, sending nonsensical Morse code that only the two of you can understand. Fate held you both in its hands as it linked the two of you together through these small flashes of light. You were exhilarated, and judging by the growing smile on his face, so was he.

#art the clown #art the clown x reader #art the clown x you #angst #implied abuse #r slur tw #verbal abuse #my fics

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