Fic: "We Drink The Fatal Drop" ¤Jason/Tim ¤NC-17 ¤romance/angst, emotional, humour

[necchan]

Title: We Drink The Fatal Drop - Part B

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. :/

(Previous Part here)

* * * * *

It couldn't be more than a few minutes before Jason regained (relative) control of his faculties. He pulled back to catch his breath, smirking when Tim dazedly tried to follow him up and start another kiss (or twelve).

For a long minute, Jason gulped down air like a man drowning; then he settled his forehead against Tim's own. He could feel Tim's body shudder with each breath he took, feel his heart thump wildly under his ribcage. He could see it fluttering at the base of Tim's throat. The sheen of sweat on his skin looked inviting, of all things. It made Jason's mouth twitch for a taste.

“Why are you here?” he blurted out before he could either chicken out or wise up (he wasn't sure which).

Tim bit his bottom lip.

“To talk.”

“Because we're so fuckin' good at that.”

“That's why we need to talk.”

Jason sighed. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But -

“Talk away.”

“You... you must stop trying to push me away,” Tim whispered. His voice was soft, scratchy. It caught on the last syllable, and his lips tightened into a firm line. The look of accusation on his face was mingled with a undercurrent of hurt, simmering like candle-flame in his overtly bright eyes.

Jason buried his head against Tim's neck.

“It's not like it actually works though, does it?”

Tim nudged him, nosing Jason's cheek until he met his eyes.

“I... I already gave you the speech about how much it hurts when you reject me, right?”

Jason forced out a snort.

“Around the thirtieth time I gave you the speech about how better off you'd be without me. Point being?”

“Point being, you need to stop babying me.”

“I don't--”

“What? You don't treat me like I can't make my own choices? Like I need to be protected from what I want? Jason, I - I'm not a helpless victim who needs to be saved by the handsome vigilante. You don't have to protect me.”

“Sure I don't. Because it's not like Robin ever needs his ass saved, right?” Jason moved back enough to stare Tim down in the eyes, choked with emotion. “It's not like he gets bound or tortured on a daily basis, or, I dunno, beat with a crowbar or almost raped in a warehouse when he's left unsupervised, oh no!” The muscles in his throat worked noisily as he swallowed, and even his chest seemed to spasm. But he didn't let up, he just kept pushing words out, angry and flushed: “And it's not like the Red Hood is not something you should stay the hell away from either, right?! It's not like it might get you kicked out of the family if you get too involved with me. It's not like it might get you killed!”

“I know that!” Tim burst. “You think I don't? Jason - Jason, I - I just want you! Why can't you let me make my own choices? What will it take for you to realize that I'm not just Robin, I'm Tim! I'm Timothy Jackson Drake. And just like you, I've never been anyone's responsibility but my own! I don't need you to choose for me! I don't want you to protect me if that means I can't have you!”

“Why would you even want me!” Jason yelled back, still chocked, still angry, still raw. “What's there to want in the first place, what--” he started when Tim placed a gentle hand on his cheek. He didn't mean to - he didn't want to - but he trailed off, grasped onto that hand and pulled it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the sweaty palm and inhaling deeply.

Tim looked at him, looked at the place where their hands connected; followed the curve of Jason's cheekbone, the line of his nose, up to where his eyebrows were scrunched in the middle of his forehead. He couldn't resist reaching up, trying to smooth the crease with the tip of his finger.

“There's plenty to want, Jay,” he whispered.

Jason's eyes snapped open at the sound of Tim's voice, his expression wavering between incredulity and rage, and perhaps even hope.

“Tim--”

“Plenty,” he repeated firmly. And the look on his face gave Jason pause.

Honestly, Jason was used to people staring at him in all sorts of ways. Fear. Hatred. Disgust. Disappointment. Shock. Pure, unadulterated terror, the kind that would fill the eyes of a small animal faced with a predator; the kind that would send grown men running, cowering, and would cause blood to be spilled.

There had been days, soon after his dip in the Pit, when in his mind 'being feared' somehow equalled 'not being useless'; and he got drunk on that feeling, curled his fists tight around it and used it as the fuel to push his body on and on and on.

But he'd never seen someone terrified of losing him. He'd never been looked at so earnestly; begged soundlessly not to leave, but rather to stay.

Stay.

You've hurt me, Tim's eyes seemed to say. But it's okay. Just don't leave. Just stay.

With me.

Stay.

As the silence stretched, the edge of Tim's lip curled up; a rueful, little smile. He titled his head in that way he had, inquisitive and bird-like and fuckin' a-dork-able.

“Why else do you think I'm still putting up with your idiot ways?”

After you've hurt me so much?

And to think that I just wanted to protect him, Jason thought. How come I always end up aiming for more than I can achieve?

“It's a losing battle, isn't it?” He mused. His fingers had found their way through Tim's hair, and Jason didn't know how or why or even when, but he was all right with it.

“You're the one who's making this into a battle, Jay. It doesn't have to be.”

“Exactly what I was talking about. I never can do anything right with you, can I?” he sounded weary; but also a bit amused underneath. “Even when I try to do the right thing, I still end up being the bad guy. There's just no way to get it right.”

Tim briefly contemplated the merits of admitting that even at his worst, Tim would always, always think of Jason as a good man first and foremost. He decided that the resulting scepticism wouldn't be worth the headache, and opted for pressing closer instead, curling against Jason in a way that made him skip a breath.

“I know what you were trying to do, Jay. You tried to make me regret my feelings for you sooner rather than later. You thought you were protecting me. You thought it was the right thing to do. And I get it, I really do. But... have you ever considered that... that I may never regret it? Ever? That being with you might be the best thing in my life?”

“You don't mean it.”

“And you keep thinking you can decide what I do and don't feel. I know what I said, and I mean every word.”

Jason shivered; a full-body shudder. He pressed closer, looming, maybe trying to look dangerous, who knows; or maybe trying to appease that beast inside him that needed TimTimTimTim.

“We... there's no way it can work between us, Tim.”

“It might, if you just let me in.” His voice was soft, a struggle between hurt and hope. “Would it be so bad, Jay? Would it be so horrible to have me?”

“I've--” what could he say? I've dreamed of it? Dreamed of you? Of making you mine? Of claiming you so completely, you'll never leave me? To burn myself into you, and leave a scar deeper than words could explain? Could he say “I need you” and “I'm sorry” and “I know I've hurt you, but it's only because I love you”? Did he have any right to say any of that?

“It's not you,” he said at last. Honesty had never been his best weapon, but he'd been trained to use what worked best. “It's me.”

“Do I need to clamp my ears shut now? Because that sounds awfully like a break-up speech.”

The little quip made Jason's lips quirk up, however briefly. It took him less than a heartbeat to school his features back into something dark and sombre.

“At the end of the day, the truth is that I'm not good for you,” he murmured. “Heck, I'm not even a good man, how can I be good for you?”

Only that you make me wish I were, he thought. I brag and boast but I'm nowhere near as strong or smart or confident as I want others to think I am. But when you look at me like I'm so fucking right, I want to be, Christ how I want to be - strong and smart and confident and right - for you.

“I think you are - and before you start it again,” Tim warned, “I'm aware of the sort of baggage you're going to drag in this relationship. And while I'm willing to give you a second chance, Jay, I-I won't object to you working for it. I'm not...” he huffed. “I'm not a---a fool. And I'm not a saint. I'm going to drag a huge deal of baggage in this relationship too, and---I guess what I'm saying is that I'm willing to try. I'm willing to compromise, but I need you to work with me, I... I just - I think we can have something. I think we can be happy, if you let us, and we - we deserve that, don't we? And I---I'm rambling here, stop me whenever you see fit.”

Jason blew the white tuft away from his eyes, and played with the fingers that had somehow laced themselves with his own when he wasn't looking.

“You should leave me alone,” he muttered, but it sounded perfunctory even to his own ears.

Tim's wrists were red from his manhandling, so Jason lowered his mouth to them, soothingly trailed his tongue along the fingermarks in wordless apology.

“Jason,” Tim began, his voice caught between a whisper and a moan, “You--” he swallowed, exhaled a whiny little breath, “I - we don't---oh.”

He'd never known the inside of his wrist was so sensitive to stimulation. Filing the discovery under Something To Be Researched Thoroughly Later On, Tim forced his brain back into gear, took a deep breath, meaning to say something deep and witty and meaningful that would make Jason change his mind and finally see him, not Robin, not Timothy Jackson Drake, but him, the real him, Tim.

He meant to be honest. Meant to say: I need you; please need me too.

Meant to say: you can't ask me to give you up, not after I finally know how it feels to have you pressed against me, holding me, after all those years of wishful thinking.

Meant to beg: have me. Have me, and I'll make it so you'll never regret it. I'll lay down beside you each night, and I'll let you own me, I'll let you do anything to me, anything you've ever dreamed of doing to someone else's body, I'll bear the scars of your love like something to be proud of, and if that's not what you want from me, then it will still be all right, I'll still hold you close and kiss you and rock you gently and chase away the shadows from your dreams, so that you might never again wake up alone in the dark.

“I love you, Jay,” he said instead; a breezy, shuddering whine in stead of a divine revelation. “Why can't you love me too?”

He flinched, watching Jason freeze above him; freeze and get this shocked, wondering look on his face; freeze and then snort, snort and smile, a soft, lovely thing, a barely-there quirk of his lips, lips that - oh, that came to rest onto Tim's forehead and moved, and in moving they muttered:

“You think I'd try so hard to keep you safe, if I didn't care?”

-making Tim's heart trip over itself.

Then, after a few moments of careful caresses, Jason's lips were moving again, trailing feather-light along Tim's nose and onto his cheek, and from there they skimmed across Tim's own lips. A flick of his tongue, and Tim was opening his mouth to Jason, surrendering everything he had up to the other Robin.

They were touching now, touching suddenly, touching all over. Touching with an urgency that was frightening, touching with a sweetness that shouldn't belong to people such as them - fighters, soldier, vigilantes - touching, touching, kissing hungrily, moaning into each other's mouth, clinging, fitting together like two halves of a whole.

Tim's hand fluttered for purchase along Jason's bare skin, nails scraping down his sides, raking across his back, up, down, clinging, slipping. When his hands found the waistband of Jason's jeans, he clung tight onto the front, used the new-found leverage to push back and up into the kiss.

Jerking his hips up came instinctive to him; it felt odd and beautiful, and the surprise helped him push against Jason until their positions were reversed: Jason sprawled against the wall as Tim blanketed him, hot and eager, as if he would slip under Jason's skin if only he could.

Jason moaned into his mouth, cupped the back of Tim's head, the curve of his bottom; he pushed his hips up, ground slow and purposeful against Tim, earning himself a string of beautiful moaning noises. Tim was still clinging tight onto his belt, rolling his hips eagerly and fast, as if he didn't know what he wanted, but was learning from copying Jason's own, deliberate jerks. Each time he moved, his knuckles brushed against the hot and tender skin right above Jason's sex, fanning a curl of arousal inside him.

It was with an effort of will that Jason closed his hand around Tim's own, stilled the teasing, involuntary brushes of his fingers. He gradually slowed his hips, pressed Tim flush to him, forcing him to stop moving as well, and moved away from the kiss.

Tim looked dazed and flushed and hungry; he looked confused, too, and Jason suddenly felt like there wasn't enough air in the room.

“You,” he licked his lips. His breathing was strained. His chest felt like it was about to burst. His jeans were so tight they hurt. “You should go, now.”

Tim pulled away a little, panting; looked up at Jason with demand and suspicion.

“No more pushing me away?”

The muscles of Jason's throat worked nosily as he swallowed, teetering on the edge of the decision, and then letting go, like it was a effort, like it came natural: surrendering.

He shook his head.

“No. No more pushing you away.”

“Not ever?”

“No, not - not ever.”

Tim's grin was wide, sudden. Beautiful.

“Then let me stay,” he said. “Let me stay here, now.”

He unclasped his cape, and let it fall behind him. His belt followed, clinking quietly in the dark.

Jason swallowed. His throat felt dry all of a sudden, as though he had been breathing fire and dust. Was Tim aware of what he was asking? What he was offering?

“Tim. Tim, no.”

“Yes.” He unbuttoned his shirt, left it hanging open at his neck. “You promised me. So show me that you meant it.” He trailed a finger down Jason's chest, tracing the multitude of scars. “I can - I could talk to you for hours, lecture you on the unpredictability of human hearts and how no relationship is guaranteed to work in the long run, if not by mutual effort. I could tell you how I think we can make this work. How I think you're a good person. How I always looked up to you, from the beginning. And you would yell at me. And get angry. And run. And then I'd follow and we'd start fighting all over again, fighting until we bled.”

His hand slipped back up along the planes Jason's body, looking for that deep, jagged line at the side of his throat. He found it, rubbed it pensively.

“Or you could - you could just make good of your promise. And let me-” bind yourself to me “- get undressed.”

Jason took a deep breath, kept it in. He released it slowly, and reached down to cup Tim's bony hips with both hands. He felt sluggish, tingling, and mad, but the madness was of a different sort than usual: no booming laughter or falling crowbars or flashes of blood. Only heat, heat in the middle of his forehead, heat in his chest and groin, heat and spiking arousal and jagged breathing and sluggish want.

“I'm about to snap,” he warned Tim very, very carefully. Tim nodded back seriously, cocked his head to catch Jason's averted eyes.

“I've been waiting for you to.”

“I... can't guarantee it won't hurt.”

Tim shrugged.

“It will have to, since... I've never done this before.”

“Nev...? You... I... Jesus, I... oh, fuck...”

Tim smiled, put his hands around Jason's neck gently, as if he might bolt otherwise.

“That's the plan. Hopefully to be operative soon?”

Jason breathed out a sound that was suspiciously close to a whimper.

“You have no idea...”

“No, you have no idea. Wanting you. Mourning you. Trying to make you proud. And then seeing you again. Feeling your hate. Fighting you. Failing you. Watching you slip right through my fingers - no. No, you have no idea how it--”

Suddenly, he was snatched into a rough embrace, an ever rougher kiss. There was no hesitancy at all - as though a dam had broken, crumbled down, and there was no way to stop the flood now, no way to survive the pressure.

With a wounded noise, Jason hooked his hand under Tim's leg, lifted him up and against himself. Tim wrapped both legs obligingly around Jason, wound his arms tighter around Jason's neck, and next thing he knew, he was shoved against the wall, with Jason kissing him and rocking between his spread legs, ripping a symphony of sound from him.

Tim could hardly breathe - his heart was pounding so hard, and Jason kissed him so ferociously, like he was hungry for him - and it felt right, to relinquish control. Not just because he was the inexperienced one; and not just because he'd always envisioned it like this, either. It felt right to tug on Jason's shoulders and push back; to seek a direction, a venue for this hunger mounting inside him, to try and learn from Jason, like an eager student.

For his part, Jason felt elated.

He felt an urge as strong as pain to touch Tim, to devour him, to claim and brand him and revel in the warmth of the only fucking person in the whole fucking world that gave a fuck about him. He was surprised by the intensity of his own desire, worried, maybe, but he found that he couldn't stop moving.

Because this was fuckin' Timothy Jackson Drake, trembling and needy and hot against him.

Timmy. Tim. His Baby B. His Little Bird. The one he should hate, the one that should hate him; the one person who gave a damn about Jason, that had Jason figured out, the one he'd beaten, the one who'd replaced him, the one he'd saved; the one who'd followed him and looked up to him for years, the one he'd disappointed, the one who'd seem him at his lowest, who still bore the scars from it and yet chose him, chose him over anyone else.

Tim, who was letting Jason touch him in this fashion, Tim who trusted Jason with his life, trusted him with his heart, and now was trusting him with his body... Jason shuddered, unable to think past that point, past all that desire, that need, intoxicated by how completely he was going to own this beautiful broken bird; by how deep a mark he was going leave on him, how deep a scar, something painful and ugly and meaningful and forevermore, like the blade-marks on the side of both their necks.

Thinking about the scar had him touching it, pressing his thumb at the tender hollow where Tim's neck met the shoulder. And he felt it - felt Tim's pulse echoing through the bones of his hand, bird-fast and fluttery. In a daze, he applied a little more pressure, fascinated when Tim's heartbeat speeded up, the rhythm of it travelling all the way to Jason's chest as if his arm were hollow, commanding Jason's heart to its same tune.

And then Tim wrenched his mouth away, knocking his head back against the wall, panting and flushed and calling his name, voice thin and trembling, saturated with pleasure rather than fear, needy and hot. Something settled inside Jason, like a puzzle-piece falling into place, and his hand unlocked, pressure turning into caress.

He forced himself to take a few deep, jagged breaths

(the scent of sex, Tim's sweat, soap, leather and kevlar, gunpowder and salt and blood, a residue of his own cologne, spread thin in the air, smeared along Tim's skin)

gathered enough control to pull Tim's shirt over his head instead of ripping it off.

They had to part for a moment for that manoeuvre to work, and as soon as the annoying piece of clothing was out of the way Tim reached out to him like a needy child. He let out a high, keening moan when Jason's teeth found the taut arch of his throat and sank down.

Tim struggled to keep the sound in, but Jason eased his clenched mouth open with a gentle finger, watched with hooded eyes as Tim's cheeks hollowed around it, as he sucked it in and out of his mouth.

“Let me hear you, pretty bird.”

Tim shook his head, eyes dazed over his hollowed cheeks. Jason mouthed his way up along Tim's jaw, reached down to palm Tim's erection through his Kevlar, a slow, teasing caress that had Tim arching against the wall, need and frustration playing across his features.

“Do it,” Jason coaxed. And once more, when Tim shook his head: “Do it. Let me know,” he slipped his finger out of Tim's mouth, rubbed the wetness along the scar on Tim's neck. “that you like what I'm doing to you.”

Tim gasped, whined, broke.

“Jason...”

His hands scrambled for purchase along Jason's back, slipping on the slick of perspiration, and he whimpered - actually whimpered. A string of breathy, velvet-rough noises sprang from his mouth as Jason's hand slipped inside his pants and found him, slick and hardening, and -oh. OH. Tim had been aware, of course Tim had been aware of everything partaking the subject of physical love: he had been nothing but thorough in his book research. But apparently... being touched by someone else felt nothing like masturbation.

Nothing.

Tim's lashes fluttered, his chest fluttered, his whole fucking body fluttered, and he pushed up into Jason's hand as much as his position allowed, which wasn't much at all. He was pinned and helpless under Jason's heavier bulk, unable to do anything more than receive whatever pleasure Jason chose to bestow upon him. Jason tried to ignore the feelings it evoked in his chest, the possessive lurch in his gut as Tim arched and shivered and uttered soft, startled cries of pleasure with every touch, but he found he had no power over it.

Tim was so broken; so perfect. It startled Jason into stillness. His hand trailed up to cup Tim's cheek, pet it, pull gently against it to reel Tim into another kiss, then another, and then another. He couldn't help it. He had to devour him, had to touch him all over, every single inch of his flushed skin, all at once. He couldn't help it. Just couldn't help it. His little bird sounded so needy, so surprised by the intensity of his own pleasure; it was as though he was discovering this for the first time, and Jesus fuckin' Christ, but he was. He really was learning this all with Jason, which damn well made Jason's head spin and his chest stutter and his mind go white.

Before he even knew it, he was teasing his fingers down between the curve of Tim's ass, earning himself a whimper and a groan. The way Tim squirmed back against his fingers was The Single Hottest Thing Jason had ever experienced, but...

“Not here,” he wrenched his mouth away, panted quick and hot against Tim's mouth, and barely resisted the urge to claim it again.

Tim made a faint noise, twitched with a mix of pain and surprise. Jason sank his head in the crook of Tim's neck, pressed open-mouthed kisses against the sweaty skin to soothe him.

“C'mon, pretty bird,” he husked against Tim's ear, tugged gently on his trembling thigh. “Let go. Bed. Now.”

Tim shuddered ever so faintly, and tightened his grip instead. Latching his mouth onto Jason's collar, he flickered his tongue along the scar Bruce had left there not too long ago.

“Don't make me... ugh... don't make me stop touching you... Jay...!"

Was that his voice? He sounded faint and raw and needy. And he would've been embarrassed, if he weren't too busy rolling his hips up in silent demand; pushing his heels against the curve of Jason's ass, seeking friction.

Jason moaned low at the added pressure, and -

“Ugh. You fuckin' little... fine. Fine,” he growled, cupping Tim's neck with a carefulness that belied his angry tone. He nibbled on Tim's ear, ordered him: “Hold on, pretty bird” and then quickly swivelled around, swallowed harshly against the added friction and began to stagger towards the bed.

It wasn't an easy feat, what with Tim rubbing against him, teeth at his collarbone and fists in his hair. Half-way through, Tim rocked his hips pointedly, tugging onto Jason's hair and pulling him off balance enough that Jason had no choice but swivel aside and shove Tim against the dingy wardrobe. Deftly, Tim used the leverage to kick off his boots, and used hands and feet to work Jason's pants down his hips.

“Sneaky,” Jason grumbled against Tim's mouth, feeling the sting when Tim grinned, clinking their teeth together in a kiss that they held, fumbling and furious, while Jason strode the remaining few steps to the bed and lowered Tim onto it.

The new position allowed Tim the leverage he needed to finally strip off his pants. They were completely naked now, touching everywhere, and when they met, Jason's erection felt hard and slick and hot against his own. Their hips fell into an instinctual rhythm, slide and grind, slide and grind, and Tim couldn't suppress a shiver as he clung onto his lover - lover, how he'd coveted the chance to call Jason that...! - panting his name, panting “Jason...” as though he knew nothing else.

“I know, pretty bird,” Jason answered him, catching his hand. “I know.”

Did he? Did he have an idea how he was making Tim feel? The way Jason was touching him, the chaotic pattern of hands and nails and tongue and teeth questing across Tim's skin, hunting down the spots that made Tim gasp and tingle... and when he found them, Jason would fondle those spots mercilessly, biting and then soothing, brushing and then scraping, an alternation of pain and pleasure, pain and pleasure, that reduced Tim to a trembling, mewling mess.

This fire in his loins, this mutual need, submission and aggression originating from both parts, the gasps, the seeking mouths, the muscles clenching and quivering as during combat, the total surrender, the trust, the thrill of physical contact - oh, the things he could say on this subject. Tim could verily spend the rest of his life studying sex with Jason, he decided.

“Want you,” he whined, and there was a burst of hot air against his cheek as Jason made a sound suspended between laughter and pain. Fingers trailed down his stomach and a nudge on the inside of his leg had him keening and spreading himself open--

“Mmmgh. Hurry. Jason--- Jay ---!”

“We've got all the time. No way I'm ruining this. Not this.”

Tim rocked up into Jason's hand as it closed around him, wiping any sort of coherent thought from his mind in long, languid strokes. Jason's hand was chafed and hardened, it scraped deliciously against Tim's skin, fingers pulling at him, nails dragging gently, thumb swerving hard and slow against the head, and it shouldn't, couldn't be so good, so much better that when Tim touched himself, but it was, and it didn't make sense, and he didn't want it to stop.

“Jay! Jayjayjay...”

“You're mine too,” Jason growled, ordered, begged. “You know, it right? You're MINE.”

Tim gasped, moaned, crossed his ankles at the small of Jason's back, urging him closer, faster, harder, and even though Tim was sure he was moaning, he couldn't hear anything but the rush of blood in his ears, so when he groaned out “yours”, he wasn't sure it wasn't only in his head.

But then Jason was kissing him again, closing a hand around Tim and pulling, long and slow, until Tim was writhing and wondering what had kept them from doing this for so long, so long, and when he felt his climax roll up between his thighs he wanted to stop it - too much, too soon, he wanted more of this, more of Jason, just more. He clawed at Jason's chest, pushing his hand down between them, wanting them to come together, wanting to give back as much as he was being given, trying to copy what Jason was doing to him, trying to learn, ever the earnest pupil. But then Jason went completely still, a shadow above him, of solid weight and burning warmth, his bright, feverish eyes full of madness and full of sorrow, and--

“Tell me.” An order. A plea.

“Jay...”

“Tell me, pretty bird. Show me it's real.”

“Ungh. Love you. I love you, Jay. Love you. Love-ah!”

--and then his imnd was whiped blank, because Jason was moving again, twining their fingers together and wrapping their joined hands around both their erections, starting lazy and building up a rhythm that was both drunken and furious, limbs quivering, breath hitching, sweat pouring, and he mouthed his way up from Tim's lips to his ear, licked and bit down and husked: “Come for me,” and Tim wailed in their combined grip and came, warm and sticky, between their entwined fingers.

* * * * *

On to Part C (end)