Fic: "We Drink The Fatal Drop" ¤Jason/Tim ¤NC-17 ¤romance/angst, emotional, humour
Title: We Drink The Fatal Drop - Part A
Fandom: DCU- Batman.
Rating: *** Uncensored NC-17 version*** R version available on FF.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7601791/1/
Genre: Angst. Romance. Humour.
Wordcount: 9283. 13 pages. Not, I'm not joking.
Characters/Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake.
Betaed by: gravitycomplex and avanalae (thanks, my sweet ones!). Any remaining mistake is mine... or due to FF.net's lousy habit of cutting off portions of the text when the punctuation doesn't suit its taste. B(
Warning: Jason (♥ ), slash, SEX.
Summary: "I'm about to snap," he warned Tim very, very carefully. Tim nodded back seriously, met Jason's averted eyes.
"I've been waiting for you to."Notes: Takes place in the "(love) Until We Bleed" 'verse. This implies that Tim's on the prowl for his very own Jaybird, but Jay's got a very bad cause of the denial. This chapter also bring this verse to an end. Thank you everyone for reading this, and for all the support. More might come, since I do have the ideas for it. I just need struggle them into submission, first. :/
* * * * *
Ever since he'd claimed the flat as his own, a part of Jason kept complaining about how easily it was to access his room from the rooftops.
On this particular night, as Jason landed with a grimace on the building facing his own, that part of him was systematically picked up by the rest of his brain, tossed around, given a pair of concrete shoes and dumped into a virtual rendition of Gotham Bay.
It was well past midnight. Rain fell down so harshly that each drop prickled like a needle against Jason's tense shoulders. A dark, reeking fog curled up from the streets, hiding everything from view like a wool blanket. Gotham was eerily quiet this late into the night; hushed like a cemetery and just as empty. Jason gave a perfunctory glance to his right and left, and then aimed the grappling hook to the ledge right over his bedroom window.
Normally, he wouldn't have bothered with the line - hooks and cables were Bat material, and the Red Hood preferred to fly without aid or restraint - but he was feeling anything but normal.
His head buzzed. His body ached. It throbbed, worn-out and brimming with pain. He was cold, his clothes heavy with rain, dark with sweat and no small amount of blood. Underneath, his body was a study of injuries: blue and yellow like a canvas, new bruises blooming onto older bruises spreading over pinkish scar tissue, barely just healed. He rarely ever took notice of pain, but he'd been working at a punishing rate, going out every night, several times each night, for weeks on end.
Tonight's stunt (a child molester had strayed into his turf, and Jason had felt obliged to go say hello. And by 'hello' we mean that he hung the loser by his big toes on top of the tallest building he could find), was only the last on a long, long list. Prowling the streets night and day; challenging dealers and rapists and murders head-on; throwing thieves around; beating crooks senseless, saving kids, disarming corrupted cops, getting hurt over and over and again, the Red Hood had known no rest ever since the break--
(shut up)
--the last time he'd seen--
(SHUT. UP.)
--Tim.
Jason swore. Slipped as he landed, clutched the ledge so hard he thought he felt it crack under his fingers. He flung himself inside his room with a sort of vengeance, teeth gritted hard enough that the coppery tang of blood flooded his tongue.
He was already half-way through the room and yanking his sodden turtle-neck off, when that part of his brain that disapproved of easy rooftop access regained sudden life, acquired several supporters, and began to curse him in all the languages it knew.
His room had been broken in.
The window hadn't been latched. There was moisture on the floor: a dark stain right under the window, plus a faint trail leading to the collage of pictures and newspaper cut-outs he kept pinned in a board on the southern wall. His pillow looked wet, too, and suspiciously crinkled: as though someone had been squeezing or pressing down on it, and only recently let it go. Not to mention that the shadows weren't deep enough to hide the familiar outline wedged in the corner behind his bed.
Jason paused a moment, then went ahead and ditched the shirt, anyway. He'd never cared for decency before, and he wasn't planning on starting now. The wet fabric clung and hitched in ways he truly didn't care for, and honestly? The quickened breathing emerging from the shadows told him the display was being appreciated. He grinned in the dark, muscles rippling as he rolled up the shirt and squeezed the excess water out.
A sharp intake of a breath, and then Robin was ducking, rolling out of hiding. The shirt Jason had flung at him splattered against the wall, then fell with a wet squelch on the floor.
“Well, well, well. Look what the storm dragged in. You lost, Pretender?”
Pretender.
Not Baby Bird, Baby B, Baby, or any other endearment.
Pretender.
Robin's mouth worked soundlessly a couple of times, then was pressed shut with a faint tremor. Jason told himself he was imagining the hurt that flickered across Robin's face as fast as lightening.
“Well, whatever. You know what? You got in, I imagine you know how to get out. Now.”
Jason flopped noisily onto the edge of his bed, much more interested in getting his boots off than watching Robin's departure. He wrestled with the knots for a moment, deliberately ignoring his guest, and triumphed over his socks only after an intense struggle. He hadn't paid attention to Robin's whereabouts for several moments, so he was caught understandably off-guard when Robin dropped down from seemingly nowhere to straddle his lap.
Jason tensed.
Cold, wet, naked from the waist up, feeling Tim's pliant hot body pressed up against his own wasn't just nice.
It was a shock.
Warmth flooded him, sudden and swift. A fire spreading from the centre of his chest outwards, making his skin tingle sweetly. He fought down a shiver as deft hands moved along the planes of his body, the touch barely-there and careful - skimming up along bruised ribs, across healing cuts, over burned skin and scar tissue - and came to rest above his heart. Blue eyes flickered up to meet his own, and the colour took him off guard, for a moment. Not because he had forgotten it in the past few weeks, no; but rather because of how vividly perfect it had stood out in his dreams for all those nights.
“Does it hurt?”
A whole fucking lot, Jason wanted to answer. But he wouldn't have meant the visible wounds. So he swallowed down the urge (touchhimholdhimkisshim), grasped Tim's hand and tossed it away from his chest as though it burned him (and it did).
“I dunno. Is blood red, Pretender? The sort of question is that?”
Tim made a humming sound, and kept tracing Jason's wounds, fingers dancing along the scar on the side of his neck; feathering along the line of his jaw, pressing gently into the back of his neck and racking through his hair. And then Tim was draping his arms around Jason's neck, and his breath was fluttering hot and fast against Jason's mouth.
Jason had all the time in the world to think up a scathing retort, to grumble it out and push Tim away from him.
He did none of these things.
Tim's fingers tightened into his hair, and their lips touched briefly. Once, twice, three times. Tim's lips parted, moved as though with whispered words. His tongue touched against Jason's mouth, and he couldn't help but allow for a brief, mellow kiss.
When he pulled back, it was with a low, weary-sounding exhale.
“I thought...”
Tim silenced him with a second kiss, still slow, but deeper. The warmth pooling at Jason's chest began to spread, seeping towards his toes, his head, his groin. He curled his fingers around Tim's wrist; felt the pulse beat a quick staccato under his thumb. He slipped his other hand around Tim's waist. Then he flipped them over, too fast for Tim to react, and pinned Tim to the bed with his bulkier frame.
“I thought,” Jason repeated, voice harsh and clipped, “that I'd made it clear last time.”
He yanked the mask off Robin's face. With no solvent to soften the glue, it must have hurt incredibly; and yet Tim barely made a sound. His body jolted once underneath Jason's own, and then he lay passive once more.
“Stay away from me.”
“Not happening.”
Jason exhaled through his nose, trying to find his balance.
“I'm...”
“Mine,” Tim informed, pushing against him.
“Am I, now?”
He pushed. Hard. Folded Tim like a toy, knees pushing like a violation between his thighs, forearm digging into his throat.
Tim didn't fight.
Instead, he let his legs fall open, allowing Jason closer. He arched his neck into the chockehold, until his vision dimmed and his lugs burned and his heart hammered in ways he hadn't expected it to.
Jason waited an heartbeat, two, three. Then he wrenched back with a growl, releasing Tim as though he'd been burned. He grasped Tim's hand, and it was only when Tim drew in a shuddering gulp of air that Jason realized he hadn't been breathing himself.
“Fuck it, Tim! You---you don't---fuck!”
Lost for words, Jason opted for a concrete outlet for his anger. He leapt away from the bed, away from Tim, and began to pace. His feet took him towards the collage of pictures on the wall, and it was Tim again, Tim all over, Tim in his old Robin suit, a younger Tim, soft and pliant, red and green and yellow, bright against the dark backdrop of Gotham's smoky night. Incensed, Jason knocked the board with a broad swipe of his arm, sent it flying and swore, low and through his teeth.
He leaned his forearms against the wall, breathing deeply with his rage, fully expecting Tim to slip away while he wasn’t looking (and quite frankly prepared to let him go, go, foolish little Robin, go, get away from me).
Tim, bless his besotted little self, threw him for yet another loop. Instead than fleeing, he slid slowly up to Jason, wound his arms around Jason's waist, pressed one cheek between his shoulder-blades.
Caught off guard, Jason moved away from the wall to look at Tim, and Tim deftly ducked under Jason's outstretched arm. He went to curl in the small space between the wall and Jason's chest, looking up at him.
“Mine,” he repeated. Then he went and playfully kissed Jason on the tip of his nose.
Suddenly, it was too much. Dwarfed under the weight of a desire he'd held back for too long (three weeks, four days and seven hours since he last saw Tim. Four years since the Pit. Seven since the coffin. A couple of lovers in-between, but never loved ones, never people in love with him), Jason caved in.
With a groan like a wounded animal, he swept down and captured Tim's mouth, pressed, nibbled, forced it open, mastered it with tongue and teeth.
All he found was welcome.
Tim made a luxurious moaning sound, wound his arms around Jason, kissing back frantically, wriggling and rocking until somehow he was pressed into the wall and his buttocks had worked themselves into Jason's palms, and - damn. Jason - okay, Jason had told him to scram, and he'd meant it too, but - Tim was arching into his touch, chest and mouth vibrating as he made this long, purring noise of delight and scraped his nails along Jason's back (fuck, when had he taken the gloves off?), and - and - and - and Jason just had to yank him closer and touch him all over and kiss him like he was trying to devour him, okay?
It suddenly felt like his sanity depended on it, on this - touching Tim, kissing Tim, pinning him down and holding him tight, as if he was a part of his own body, something precious and long-lost, long coveted; holding him as though they could go back to being something whole if they tried hard enough.
* * * * *
On to part B.