Work Text:
A sharp pain in his chest is what wakes Tim up and–
Wait.
Had he passed out? He doesn’t remember any of it.
It actually takes him more than he’d like to admit to realise that his hands are bound above his head, and his head spins as he tries to take in his surroundings– a wave of nausea washes over him, bile catching in the back of his dry throat.
He takes a deep breath. Tim’s eyelids feel heavy, and he struggles to keep them open, and thick blood is dripping steadily from his nostrils, tongue coppery.
The room seems to spin around him, fast, and before he knows it, thick vomit spills from his bleeding lips, squelching onto the sandy floor.
Timothy, calm down, you’re fi–
He doubles over again, sour bile trickling down his chin as he coughs and sputters, trembling helplessly against the restraints. It takes a moment for Tim to manage to take a deep breath and calm himself down, or, calm down enough to at least feel remotely in control of his body.
And slowly, he begins to piece together what happened. Tim remembers, what was her name, Promise, he remembers her hurting him, he remembers–
His chest heaves, and Tim squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly lightheaded.
He thinks he passes out again, just for a few moments. As his mind clears, tired eyes blinking open, a sense of unease settles over him. Tim looks up at his bound wrists, chain tightly secured around them, digging painfully into the brittle bones, despite the gloves.
Fuck.
There’s– someone, two people, talking in front of him. Tim blinks again, frantic, trying to clear his vision. It only takes an instant for the two women to notice that Tim’s somewhat more coherent than before.
He can see their lips move, and he’s fairly certain that he can make out a word or two that they’re saying, but– he doesn’t understand what’s going on.
Concussion, maybe? Poison?
“...targeted for death…” he blinks, world spinning around him, “...because you seek to learn too much...” a woman says, as her eyes glow black.
And Tim, he’s aware that he really shouldn’t judge, but he’s convinced that he spots a glint of danger in the way she looks at him, almost– predatory, dangerous.
The woman– a Daughter of Acheron, he recalls– lets the thick cape fall to her feet, body covered by a thin, beige drape. Tim shivers, and he’s suddenly aware that Promise is there, too, looking uninterested.
“The secrets surrounding the ancient art of killing,” the woman, the Daughter of Acheron, continues, “are meant as a divine promise to knowledge and power, and can not be usurped by one who strives for order.”
She extends a hand, and cards through Tim’s matted hair– he winces.
Yup, concussion.
Tim struggles against the restraints, in vain. His arms hurt, and he realises that it’s getting hard to breathe–
Nothing like some good positional asphyxiation to lighten my day.
“I wanted nothing more from you than the very essence of life, Timothy.” the Daughter of Acheron says, cold, snapping Tim out of his stupor as she lets the light drape drop to her bare feet.
Please, no. Don’t. Don’t– lady, please don’t. I– please.
He’s quick to avert his gaze, bile tickling at the back of his throat.
This is ridiculous. Please, don’t. I’m serious. Don’t–
“Though your flesh dies now, know that your spirit will be honoured, and you will live on–” she grabs at his chin, forcefully turning his face towards her, “–through the child you’re about to give me.”
Tim shakes, hard. He watches, eyes wide, as she lets her hand rest on his crotch, squeezing hard– he lets out a woeful whimper, struggling as she lets her knee push between his legs, grinding violently.
Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. You’re fine. You’re okay, breathe.
“Let it happen, Timothy,” she says, reaching for his neck with her free hand, “it’ll be over soon.”
The woman’s hands are on him, plundering, violating his body. The Daughter of Acheron is quick to unzip his suit, and he whines, helpless, as she pushes his head towards hers, sucking on his lip, then trailing down his neck. And then she bites down– hard.
Tim grimaces, trying to free himself from her hold, but her nails dig into his nape, drawing blood– and Tim can’t, he can’t–
“Pl-please, don’t– mph!” he’s cut off by the woman’s tongue plunging deep into his bobbing throat.
He gags, but she doesn’t pull away, and works to remove his tight suit faster, hands scrambling up and down his torso, then moving to his back, looking for the zip.
His nails dig into his own gloved palms, to keep himself grounded.
Come on, come on, Timothy. Not another– we don’t need another Damian, right? One little demon is enough. Don’t– let her. Fuck. Breathe. Breathe, Timothy, br–
But Tim can’t help himself when his pants suddenly become tight, the woman noticing immediately as she smirks, tongue still in his mouth, intertwined with his, and–
I can’t breathe, I can’t– wait, come on, Timothy, inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight, easy, come on, inhale for four, hold for–
“Amazing, Timothy. You’re amazing.” she groans, “You’re ready at last.”
“D-don’t, please.” he pleads, low– or, tries to.
He’s not sure his words are intelligible. And if they are, he’s sure that the Daughter of Acheron doesn’t care. So Tim tries to think about something else, anything else, when she finally pulls away from the kiss, hands now busy with his pants.
He’s profoundly grateful for the annoying zip system, the one he’d thought to change, because “I’m sure I can invent a costume that only takes under two minutes to put on, instead of three and a half, Bruce, you have to trust me!”
Now he’s glad Bruce had made him focus on more urgent issues.
Tim averts his gaze, eyes squeezed shut.
Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. Come on, Timothy, come on. Calm down. Just calm d–
There’s a scream, and the Daughter of Acheron’s hands aren’t on his body anymore, her hot breath isn’t making his neck hairs stand, his chest isn’t quacking under her touch anymore.
And– his wrists are free.
“...have disrupted a ceremony years in waiting!” he faintly hears the woman scream, rabid, raw, and when the dizziness partially subsides, before he can even think about it, he pulls out his bō and–
Tim blinks. She’s on the floor, head split open, bō slick with blood. He lets it clatter to the floor. The other woman, Promise, is on the floor, too.
“Red Robin.”
Cass? Oh. Cass. The plan.
“B-black Bat.” he shivers, and– the plan, right. “Thanks for coming.”
Tim thinks he says something else, bruised body moving automatically, mouth running.
And– then there’s a sword. There’s a sword that is poking out of his ribcage, just in the middle of it.
The plan. Timothy, stick to the plan.
He lets himself fall forward with a pitiful scream, hoping it sounds somewhat convincing, limbs now limp, blood flooding the grooves on the floor. Tim lets his eyes fall shut for a second.
Or a bit longer, maybe.
“...obin. Red Robin.” Cass calls, and– it must have been a few moments since his 'death’, because he’s moved from his position on the floor, now standing next to Cass.
He thinks he may have lost time. He thinks he may have gotten lost in time, actually.
“Good job.” Cass says with a gentle smile.
He manages a nod, shaky.
And Cass is speaking again, she’s saying something– she’s saying something to him, but he can’t–
He doubles over with a gag, knees hitting the floor with a loud thud before he dry heaves, body on all fours, trembling uncontrollably. His fists curls under his weight, arms wobbly, head spinning.
“...little brother, hurt?” Cass’ voice cuts through the fog, edged with worry.
There’s a hand on his shoulder now, and he shudders, hard.
“D-don’t, please don’t touch me.” Tim begs before he can stop himself.
The pressure of Cass’ touch is instantly gone. “Sorry.”
“N-no, I’m– fuck, I’m sorry.” he tries, then dry heaves again. “M’sorry, I c-can’t–”
“Little brother, hurt.” Cass repeats, more as a statement than as a question, now, “Traumatised.”
Tim shakes his head vehementy. “M’fine, I j-just need–”
He’s forcefully cut off by a stream of watery bile spilling from his lips and nostrils, stomach clenching uncomfortably, heart hammering in his ears as he quakes and whimpers, a hand gripping at the half-unzipped uniform shirt, where his heart is.
“Sorry, m’sorry Ca– Black Bat.”
A shake of the head. “It’s okay. Breathe, Red Robin.” she says, tone even. “Woman, dead. Can’t hurt anymore.”
He nods, frantic. “I don’t– she didn’t even–” another bout of vomit.
This time, his arm gives out, and he can’t help the guttural scream that he lets out when Cass skillfully slings an arm around his torso to prevent him from falling face-first into his own sick, tinted with crimson.
“She di-didn’t even–” Tim tries again, full-body shudders making his teeth clatter and brain rattle, “didn’t e-even take m-my sh-shirt off. I don’t kn-know why–”
“Doesn’t matter. She hurt you.” Cass cuts, a scowl on her face, “Evil woman. Red Robin didn’t deserve it.”
He nods again, “Sorry, m’sorry.” he sobs, “I don’t– know why m’crying. M-my head? I think? C-Cass, m’not–” he stutters, breathing heavily, panic eating him from the inside, ravaging his guts.
Admittedly, Tim thinks he really does sound mildly hysterical even to his own ears as he represses a strained, wet chuckle, sinking deeper into his sister’s tight hold as he does so.
“Wh-what am I e-even doing, Cass? I– I think m’losing it.” he howls.
He blames it on the concussion.
Cass pats his back, and her touch doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t sting. “It’s okay, little brother.” she hums, gentle, “You can cry.”