Stargazer

necchan — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 15:26:38 GMT

Ne ho appena avuto conferma!!! :D
Non so quanti tra i miei followers qui sul LJ sono italiani, ma mi farebbe molto piacere vedervi al Neko Shop di Roma, Sabato 19 Maggio, alle ore 17:00 circa. :DDD

Io sarò lì col nuovo sketchbook 2012, "BoyZ"; ma avrò con me anche qualche copia di Creatures, per il quale farò la stessa vendita abbinata che facevo a Lucca: Artbook+Disegno originale a soli 20,00€! Ci sarà anche qualche gadget: pins e magneti di Ery&Glory, e qualche segnalibro su ordinazione. Ma soprattutto: volete qualche mio disegno originale? Qualcosa che avete visto su Tumblr, su LJ o su DA? Qualcosa visto su Creatures of lo stesso BoyZ? PRENOTATELO!!!! :D Contattatemi tramite askbox, via LJ, o via mail. Se il pezzo è ancora disponibile, sarà tutto vostro. ^^

Fate girare la voce! Vi aspetto! :D

(via BoyZ by M.G. Nemesi in Arts & Photography) ... | The Dreamchaser

necchan — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 14:11:17 GMT

(via BoyZ by M.G. Nemesi in Arts & Photography)

It's done! The baby is up!

Price is around 10$. Using the code “FLIGHTLESS” will give you free ground shipping.

*IF* all goes as planned, upon buying the book you’ll receive a thank you message, with a link to download a lil’ bonus content. The cover, textless, perfect quality, ready-to-print. Contact me should it fail. :3

I went for another check up

necchan — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 21:28:07 GMT

And got a third opinion. This time, they told me that, nope, it’s not the cruciate ligament, who told me that and how could they make such a stupid mistake? It’s clearly the meniscus. Which is inflamed. I feel it’s a bit risky to go and poke at it while it’s inflamed, but they told me that physical therapy is a must.
I started it yesterday, and it looks like they might end up doing something to my arm, too, which sort of worries me, but... maybe this time therapy will help rather than damage?
Yesterday session was a bit lukewarm; to test the waters, so to speak. Laying there as I went through the electrotherapy and the laser thinghie I got ideas for fics ~~and for the sketch of Jay and Timothy I’d told Mary about~~.

Today's session was a bit more painful, but still well within acceptable limits. There’s an oddly-looking swelling now (like a series of knots or huge bubbles/bug bytes), and the skin is all red, but I think it’s just the criotherapy (not sure how to translate this one). *pokes at knee*

I must admit, I was real worried. >_< But I’m starting to think more positively now! *crosses fingers*

necchan — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 15:08:04 GMT

…I kinda didn’t tell you, because I *am* the sort who doesn’t mentions bad things until *after* everything is well again, so as not to worry anyone. But this is dragging way too long, and I kinda promised I’d mention it at one point.

I've been bedridden for a few weeks now, because I wrecked my right knee.

I’ve got no idea how to translate this into proper medical terms in English but - the blood vessels in my knee… ripped? Burst? And now there’s blood between the patella and the knee proper, and also between the tibia and the femur? Making it hard/painful to move? Or so my family doc explained to me?

Googling the thing reveals that I might be right as rain in a few months/weeks, but also that this might develop into something of a… recurring pain? *watch me struggle with proper terms*

Anyway, I saw an Orthopaedic last Tuesday; he prescribed physical therapy to me, hoping that it'll be enough to rid me of pain. If not, they'll have to have, and I quote: “to cut me up”.

Which means… surgery, I guess? Or at the very least an intrusive medical examination. :/

I’ve got a check-up scheduled for February 2nd, and now I’m looking around (so to speak… browsing google maps and the telephone directory is more like it), for a good rehab centre. OTL

However, just this morning my parents stumbled into an old friends of theirs, someone they haven't seen in years, and who used to be a med/physical therapist who helped soccer players with their post-injury rehab. It looked like a god-sent, so they went and asked him what he thought I should do... and he screamed in horror at the idea of me doing rehab for this sort of injury. Because, and again, I quote, my knee must stay untouched "if I ever want to walk again". I've no idea what to do. Which road to follow. The doctor says "make rehab, or you won't walk" and the therapist says "don't do it, or you won't walk". I'm stumped. They only thing they agree on, apparently, is that I must rest, and try not to move around. ._.

Devious Journal Entry

necchan — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 14:21:03 GMT

The leave-taking by ~Nemesi-Har-Aralis on deviantART

(3) 「アテナ」/「Necchan」のイラスト [pixiv]

necchan — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 16:25:55 GMT

(3) 「アテナ」/「Necchan」のイラスト [pixiv]

È morto Shingo Araki, il fumettista di Lupin III, Goldrake e I Cavalieri dello Zodiaco - Yahoo!

necchan — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 14:47:54 GMT

È morto Shingo Araki, il fumettista di Lupin III, Goldrake e I Cavalieri dello Zodiaco - Yahoo!

Addio, sensei. ç__ç

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

necchan — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 13:31:33 GMT

Title: We Drink The Fatal Drop - Part C

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)

* * * * *

Tim had been privy to the fact that there was life after orgasm from the tender age of thirteen, when he'd first looked the term up on the encyclopedia (along with anything he could find on how the prolonged exposure to certain stimuli at a early age might develop into a kink). Nevertheless, he was still faintly surprised when he came to after what felt like a millennia-long blackout, skin shiny with salt and heat, pleasure humming along his limbs, and tangled so tightly with Jason he couldn't tell where his skin finished and Jason's own began.

“...remind me again why didn't we do this sooner?”

Jason chuckled, a brief, breathless burst against Tim's ear.

“That would be my fault.”

“Right. Remind me to kick your ass. Uhm. Wait until my legs stop feeling like jelly, though.”

“That good?”

Tim could all but see the smugness dripping from Jason's voice. The whole moving his head and taking aim thing sounded a bit beyond his abilities, so he swatted around blindly, and was rewarded when his palm connected with flesh. Jason's pained noise was brief, and laced with amusement

“Ouch. And to think I've kept things pretty tame. No kinky stuff.”

Tim whimpered again.

“Don't give me ideas, Jay.”

“That was the whole point, pretty bird.”

He ducked his head, pressed his tongue flat against Tim's belly button.

“...there's so much I can show you... so much I can do to you...”

Tim groaned, carded his fingers through Jason's hair and tried to use his hold to tug him back up. Jason reached up over his own head, twined their fingers together and held tight as he lapped the sticky mess beading Tim's stomach, tattooing a wet stripe all the way to his nipples.

“...and you're so fucking eager for me... so fucking beautiful...”

Hot breath, fanning quickly against his sensitive skin. Tim whined low in his throat, feeling warmth spread all the way down to his chest.

Jason mouthed his way up along Tim's collarbone, pressed kisses to the back of his ear, then flicked his tongue between Tim's lips, in and out, in and out, slowly; and there was no mistaking the meaning behind his teasing when Jason pulled back, murmured: “...I'm going to own you so completely, pretty bird.”

Tim made a chocked noise, hid his face in the crook of Jason's neck, holding tight onto his lover with hands and legs.

“Hey, hey, none of that now,” Jason cupped the back of Tim's head and guided him up where they could be face to face. “What's wrong?”

“It's just – I didn't...” he struggled for words. He could feel the flush warming his cheeks getting hotter, and could only hope it didn't look as bright as it felt. He was mortified. “I-I insisted so much, I seduced you, and then I couldn't even – go through with it, and you must be so – so disappointed now.”

Jason's face was blank with incomprehension.

“You didn't go through with it?”

“Yes, I didn't let you – you know.”

Jason's eyebrow lifted itself.

“Do I?”

Tim worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

“We didn't - I mean – you didn't...do... that.”

“Full sentences, pretty bird. I'm not psychic yet.”

“We didn't – because you didn't – get – uh - inside me. So we - we didn't.”

“Reality check, pretty bird. Even without penetration-” he made sure to stress the last word as much as he could and – there. The squirming. The blush brightening. The lip-nibbling. If delighting in Tim's mortified reaction made him a bad person, then he was not just bad. He was the absolute worst. “What we did still classified as sex.”

Tim's blush deepened. His breath shortened. He pushed feebly against Jason, only to be reeled closer, trapped against Jason's naked chest.

“Aww, does this kinda talk embarrass you, pretty bird?”

“Shut up.”

“Does it embarrass you that we just,” Jason said slowly, hot breath travelling across Tim's cheek, “had sex?”

“Shut up, I said.”

“Marvellous, hot, mind-blowing--”

“S-shut up.

“--sex,” Jason said, breath blowing against the shell of Tim's ear. “sex, sex, sex.”

“That's it!”

Tim bucked hard against Jason, flipped them around, straddling Jason and catching his fists. There was a brief struggle, some laughter, and then Tim froze on his perch, all of a sudden. He folded on himself with a whine, pressing his face in the curve of Jason's throat, which apparently had become his new favourite hiding place.

“...we did it. We really just... did it.”

Jason patted him on the hair, grinned against his cooling skin.

“Swift on the uptake as usual, Baby B.”

Tim didn't bother to move away from Jason's neck as he reared up a fist and bumped him in the chest.

“You know what I mean.” He sighed. “It's just – this is were I usually wake up--”

“You dreamed of this?”

“No, so don't sound so smug,” he moved around, pulling away barely enough to glare pointedly at Jason. “I just can't believe we're... together. It took us so long to get here, and now that we are, I - I keep expecting this to end by an second.”

“Don't jinx it.”

“I'm not jinxing it.”

“You totally are, so shut up.”

“Jason--”

“Hush. I command you.”

“You can't 'command' me.”

“As you lover, it's my sacred duty to try.”

Tim grinned.

“You're so transparent. You were just fishing for an opening to say that, weren't you?”

“Say what?”

“Lover.”

“My, 'that your new nickname for me, Pretty Bird? I like it.”

“Idiot.”

“I dunno, it does sound kinda fancy. Your lover. My lover. I might get used to hearing this. Often.”

Tim hummed an agreement, stretching up to catch Jason's bottom lip and roll it between his teeth.

“How much longer can you stay?”

Tim stretched again, enjoying the tingle in his skin, the wet slide of his body against Jason's own.

“What do you mean?”

“Patrol, Tim. How long until you gotta report in?”

Tim froze. Jason looked at him for a moment, and then groaned.

“You forgot! You totally forgot! So, shit, let me rephrase that - how long till Daddy bursts in on us having sex?”

Tim started away.

“He wouldn't!”

“Not to burst your bubble, but he totally would. He probably has you bugged and everything.”

Tim made an horrified sound, and scrambled to disentangle himself from Jason. He rolled to the edge of the bed and made as if to get up, but Jason's hand shot out, forced him to sit back down. When Tim turned around, Jason looked shocked, as if he didn't know why he was reaching out for.

Uncertainty played across his face for a moment, before he covered it with a scowl.

“Come here,” he ordered gruffly, tugging Tim back into his arms and into another kiss. Tim sighed into his mouth, settling against him, frowning a bit when he was released.

“I don't want to go.”

“I know.”

“Do you really? Jay, I--”

“Don't wanna go,” he stole another kiss. “Trust me, I got that part. But you hafta. I really don't wanna be caught in bed with you by the Batman. That wouldn't end well.”

Tim grinned shyly.

“If-if he ever caught us - would you hightail it, or stay and fight for me?”

“Me? Totally hightail it the hell outta town. 'S long as you aren't allergic to sunlight like the little bat-in-training that you are, you'll love my safe house in Saint Martinique.”

Tim, whose shoulders had been drooping, perked up suddenly, looking baffled.

“You – you'd take me with you?”

“Slung on my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.” Tim mock-punched him. “Okay, okay, I'd carry you princess-style? That better?”

Tim scowled.

“I'm not sure.”

Jason sighed.

“No, but you'd still follow if I left you behind, right?”

“Like a shadow.”

“So don't complain about how I choose to carry you and get moving.”

Tim sighed, but reluctantly dragged himself out of bed. Getting dressed felt like a chore, and when Jason's hands joined to help him, staying naked became all the more appealing.

When he was finally suited back up again (a totally unacceptable amount of time later), Tim let Jason reapply his little domino, then slipped out of Jason's arms and towards the window.

“I'll... be seeing you later, I guess?”

Jason leaned back, arms crossed over his naked chest. Beautifully dishevelled and with a little windblown smirk playing across his lips.

“You asking me?”

Tim forced down his insecurities, chased them away with a firm shake of his head.

“No. No, I'm not asking. I'm telling you.”

Jason studied him carefully for a moment, racking his eyes down Tim's form in wordless appraisal, and then nodded once, curtly.

“Very well then. See you later.”

Tim hesitated as he reached the window.

“Wait for me? I – I want to fall asleep with you.”

Jason froze. Didn't quite smile, and didn't quite flush, but he did look a little bit hopeful, all of a sudden.

“That can be arranged.”

“Good! I mean – uhm. Good.”

“Good.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah.”

“I'll be going, now.”

“You should.”

There was another aborted attempt to get through the window before Tim turned around one more time.

“Just so that you know – I love you.”

“Because I'm obviously going to forget that in the next couple of hours.”

Tim looked crestfallen.

“No, I just hoped--”

“Jeez, Tim, that was a joke, and I know what you were aiming for.” Jason racked his fingers through his hair, gripping the strands so tightly his knuckles became white. “It's just – it's hard okay?! Damn it, I don't-- I never-- Christ, I suck so hard as this sorta thing.” He expelled a few more choice-words, and then took a deep breath, looking like he was trying to sort some internal debate. It took him a moment, but then he squared his jaw, looked Tim in the eye. “Okay, say it again.”

“Uh?”

“Say it again.”

“What--”

“Tim.”

“I don't--”

“Tim.”

“I – I love you.”

“...me too. Now go. Christ, don't make that face! Go, I said. Don't--” Unsurprisingly, he found himself with an armful of Tim, and was almost barrelled over. Tim's body was shivering again – a faint vibration, like a engine put into motion; but he wasn't crying. Farthest from it: he was smiling. Huge and blinding, and Jason could feel his heart beat much too quickly against his ribcage.

“Jay--”

“Hush,” he settled his chin on top of Tim's head, gazed somewhere far behind Tim's shoulder,s far across the lambent horizon. “I thought – I thought you should know. You earned it, the way you pestered me. That's all. But – 'me too' is the best I can do right now. So there. Don't go complaining, or--”

“I'm not,” Tim pulled back. That heartthrob grin spread across his face. That bubbling, contented happiness it radiated, so foreign on Tim's stern face, and yet belonging so perfectly. It was infectious. It squeezed you around the heart and left you bumbling and grinning and it really ought to be illegal, especially since they didn't have the time to do all the wicked, wicked things that marvellous grin invited Jason to do.

They stole another kiss (or several), before Jason managed to usher Tim out the window and into the night.

He felt sluggish still, and the madness coursed through his veins. But there was a smile on his face (so unlike a smirk) and a book on his bedside table and pictures to pick up from the floor and arrange again, because he had a promise to keep, and he didn't mind keeping himself occupied and wait awake; not when the reward he'd been promised was to be so sweet.

I'll lay down beside you each night,

I'll 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.

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

necchan — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 13:29:04 GMT

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.

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.

* * * * *

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)

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

necchan — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 13:28:17 GMT

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.

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.

necchan — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 18:53:08 GMT

AH! Apparently my Hotmail account was hacked into and used to send spam, so I’ve been cut off from using it AND from MSN!!!!!!!! D:

If you need me, write me a PM here, an ask on tumblr or go through my personal e-mail, if you’ve got it, k? D:

necchan — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 23:02:32 GMT

Catlad!Tim and Red Robin!Jason. I've gotta warn you that the value/tone is a bit off, as I coloured this while my Siligraph monitor was having an *intense* disagreement with my PC. ^0^;;;;
Clickthrough to get to the tumblr post. :3

Art: "A Prince and His Slave - 2" (over on Tumblr) ¤ Jason/Tim ¤R

necchan — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 22:58:03 GMT

I (finally) stopped adding (different) embroidery to every single surface visible, and finished this: a long-coveted pic of Prince Timun and Kamren Shaf’i from the Pitverse’s Harem Scenario.

NSFW pic, rated for suggestive themes and (censored) nakedness. Please, click through the preview to get to the original tumblr post. ♥

Working on this helped me finish the headcanon for these two. You can find more about it below the cut (or on the same tumblr post as the full-sized pic).

Sooooo~ooo. We’re in the middle east, in the desert. It’s probably Persia, or some other beautiful land like that. In the heart of this land, there’s a castle, a place of beauty and riches, made of marble columns and patterned walls and spiralling towers. There are glittering mosaics everywhere, scented smoke comes up from golden braziers, and people move through the gardens wearing silk and jewels.

The king of this land is a warlord of sorts. He likes violences, he taxes his people way too much; he raids the nearby villages, assaults the travelling caravans, makes shady deals with criminals, etc. In short, he’s a real tyrant.
He has one son, Timun, whom he keeps like a bird in a cage.
Literally.
Ever since birth, Timun was never allowed out of the palace. He’s a recluse, and he grew up sad and lonely. As a result, he has no friends, he doesn’t talk much, and at a glance, he seems cold and stone-hearted. His father mostly ignores him (unless he needs to show him off to important guests and/or wants to show him the spoils he brings home from the raids). He has a few slaves and attendants (little girls, old ladies and eunuchs… Daddy doesn’t take any chances), but they have *never* showed him any affection, not even as a child. They are terrified to incur into Daddyking’s wrath by doing or saying something disrespectful.

Plus, the Prince is off-limits for another reason. Apparently, he’s mentioned in an ancient Prophecy, something obscure and powerful, that King Slade doesn’t want to become reality. The details are not clear, but there are many rumours. Whatever it is, it caused the King to imprison his own son. And no one want to risk triggering this Prophecy, so they steer clear from the Prince… even if he is beautiful and very intelligent and seems so, so alone.

Enter Jason - or rather, Kamren Shaf’i.
Kamren lives in a little oasis not too far from the village. His father (Oh, hi Bruce!), is a strict but just chief, and his people lead a happy, if simple life. Bruce never saw eye to eye with Slade, but he’s cunning, and never provokes the King openly, which means he’s never openly antagonized in turn.
Kamren, however, is a hothead. He rebels against the King and gives him all sort of headaches - other than provide a source of entertainment. During one of his most adventurous stunts, Kamren is captured and brought to the palace. Slade tortures him to get him to confess he’s Bruce’s offspring (he suspects, but he’s not sure); but Kamren doesn’t say anything. The King grows bored of him and orders his men to cut off his head.
BUT! The Prince emerges from the shadows and claims the slave for himself. (At the beginning, he was supposed to trick his father into handing Kamren over to him; but I’m not sure if Timun simply steps in a moment before Kamren is killed by the guards, and uses his status to have him brought to his rooms.)

Thus Kamren becomes the reluctant slave of Prince Timun. They don’t stay together for long - but all sort of sensual/kinky things happen in these brief months. The Prince always provokes/teases/stimulates Kamren in a way that is both terribly sensual and oddly innocent. Kamren is angry and ashamed by the way his traitorous body reacts to another male’s touch (it never happened before), but… he can’t help but REACT.

At first, Timun comes across as a spoiled child wanting to play with/break his new toy. But little by little Kamren comes to understand that the truth is completely different: Timun is lonely, and UTTERLY FASCINATED by Kamren. He wants to please him - not just in body, though; he wants to make him happy. He wants to watch the emotions play across his face, and wants to be the one causing that pleasure in the first place. He’s inexperienced, and goes about it the wrong way, but the longer they stay together, the more they learn about each other. The Prince’s playful, sometimes cruel-in-its-innocence teasing and stimulation turns into genuine affection; Kamren’s angry reluctance becomes a sort of wondering need.
They always touch, always kiss, always move together in these sensuous, sensuous displays. It’s like the very air about them is charged with electricity when they’re together. It’s very powerful and addictive. Before long, the lines between slave and Master are blurred over. And as the lovers’s affair turns hotter and hotter, their feelings grow deeper.

Then, one day in the gardens, Kamren steps in the path of an arrow meant for Timun. He’s not wounded very badly - the arrow hits him in the shoulder, and Kamren makes a show of pulling it out and throwing it away as he barks angrily at the guards for not noticing the intruder.
Timun, however, is shaken.
Back in the rooms, he asks Kamren if he wants his freedom back, and Kamren is all, “HELL, YEAH”. Timun asked him the same before, and Kamren always answered in this fashion. He doesn’t expect anything to come from this, but Timun makes this face of intense sorrow, and whispers to him:
“You want you freedom? You have it.”
He pleads with Kamren to wait until morning, and then he’ll be given a horse and two bags of gold by the slaves, and he may be free to go.
Timun hurries away, but Kamren hauls him back forcefully, and growls/begs/orders him:
“Come with me.”

They ~~elope~~ run away, and seek refuge in Bruce’s village. During their journey, Kamren suddenly realizes that Timun is not fit, is not MEANT, for a life of toil and deprivation in the desert. He starts second-guessing himself, regretting his choice, thinking he’s not WORTH the sacrifice, and that Timun doesn’t deserve anything less than a rich, pampered life.
But Timun - who’s surprisingly adaptable, despite being unused to physical strain - tells him that he’d thought it through. That he knew what he was getting himself into when he decided to run away with Kamren. He is happy of his decision, and regrets nothing.

Bruce welcomes them with open arms in his land - well, he DOES make a frowny face and grumbles and looks displeased, but he secretly does everything to help the couple.
They start to live a normal life. Timur struggles with this new reality, but he’s stubborn enough to adapt and become a part of the family in virtually no time. He gains Bruce’s respect, makes fast friends with Bruce’s lover. There’s a girl whom everyone expected Kamren to court and ultimately marry, back before he started his life as a rebel/bandit/anti-king activist. And Timun manages to be liked even by her.
At one point, he cuts his hair (is it feasible that he sells them to some travelling merchants?), and says goodbye to his life of riches. When Kamren comes back home and sees the change, Timun fiercely explains to him his reasons for such a drastic choice (a symbolic cut with his past, and/or gold for the village). After his passionate outburst is over, though, he does a 180 degrees turn, goes all shy and worries. He clings to Kamren, bites his bottom lip and asks:
“Do you not like it? I - I am aware how much you enjoy to cling onto my hair as I please you and it-it’s still long enough for that.” (Jason: PFFFFTTTTT that’s fuckin precious.)

The idyll doesn’t last long.
Slade figures out where his son is (finds the ebony tresses in the merchant’s hands?) and goes on all-out war with Bruce’s people.
It is a massacre.
People are killed mercilessly, their cattle is made blood sport of. Their houses are burned, their provisions stolen. Over the desperate cries of the prisoners, the King warns:
“I merely seek not to make the Prophecy turn into reality. Return my son to me, and this will all end.”
The people keep hiding Timun, but soon the guilt becomes too much.
Kamren finds him in tears one day as he enters their little hut, and ready to give himself over to his father.
“What if my Father was right in keeping me locked away? What if I am a doombringer? I’m the cause of all this. I brought destruction upon the people who treated me kindly, upon the family I came to love. This must end. I shall return to my cage.”
But Kamren won’t allow that.
He holds Timun and kisses his brow and shows him what he’s holding in his fist: a vial of poison.
Yes. The massacre shall end. But Timun will not have to know a life of misery. He tips a few drops of poison into Timun’s mouth, drinks the remaining liquid himself. They kiss, slow and lazy, and as sleep starts tugging at their limbs, they lie down on the bedding, enfolded in each other’s arms, heart to heart. Their breathing slows and slows and slows, until their chests stop moving.

This is how Slade finds them when he bursts into the hut, flames and destruction behind him. He doesn’t understand, at first, why his son will not wake. Then he touches him, finds him as cold as stone, and finally understand.
He clutches onto Timun in a shocking display or raging sorrow. He tries to pry away his child from Kamren’s arms, but Bruce, Dick and the other villagers burst in at that moment. Bruce is commanding and regal even in his grief, and he commands Slade not to take the lovers from each other.

Slade is beside himself. He cries:

“Your son did this to mine! He took him away from me! It is as the Prophecy forewarned - Bad love came, and drove my son to his death!”
“No, slade. The love of my son for yours did nothing but free him. It took your bird from the cage, it gave him the wings to soar high, and the voice to sing. It is your love - the love that commanded you to kill and destroy, and to make a prisoner of your child, that which killed him.”

And it is a profound lesson, and even if Slade doesn’t want to believe he’s been the death of his own son, the lovers are ultimately buried together in a marble tomb, entwined as they were when they had been found.

Fic: "Glimpses - Take 2" ¤DCU/Batman ¤Jason/Tim ¤PG to R ¤humour, romance, angst

necchan — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 21:01:44 GMT

Title: Glimpses – Take 2

Fandom: DCU- Batman.

Rating: R overall for suggestive themes.

Genre:

Glimpse 1: Humour, romance, a bit of sexiness?

Glimpse 2: Drama, angst, romance.

Glimpse 3: Humour and sexy times.

Glimpse 4: Fluff with a touch of something a bit more grounded – not angst, but... common sense?

Wordcount: 3600+.

Characters/Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake.

Warning: Suggestive themes, mentions of abuse and violence.

Summary: Three otherverses in which Jason found himself the perfect nemesis. And one where he found his other half.

* * * * *

Glimpse 1: Enter the nekojin!

Flying over the rooftops is an electrifying experience.

Red Robin's missed this.

Missed the adrenaline. The weightlessness feeling that comes with the fall, the split-second of pure terror as you blindly fire the grappling gun, not knowing whether it'll take hold; the hard yank as it finds its mark, the stretch in your muscles, the jolt, almost painful, and then you're soaring, like a bird

-like a bat-

and when you land, it has to be precise and perfect and noiseless, lest you injure yourself.

There's sweat pouring down his skin, under his cowl. His breath fogs in the chilly night air, and he tingles all over, tingles, tingles – the strain of muscles, the pounding of his heart, his harsh breathing – it's a lot like making love, he supposes, and he does love this Siren of a City.

It's his first night out after the injury

-and the rehabilitation and physiotherapy and the special training-

and he's breathless with joy as much as with the strain. Gotham missed him as much as he missed her, it seems. She welcomes him back with open arms, unchanged and wicked, lambent with light and draped in shadows, she is the cheekiest of lovers.

But there's a new player, in town: someone pointy-eared and leather-clad, who's as fast with his whip as he is with his jabs.

Red Robin sees him claw his way out of a skylight, festooned with rubies and strings of pearls. He isn't supposed to, he knows that – he's still recovering and in probation and all that, but – he leaves Selina to Bruce, and pursues her sidekick.

The thief is a minute thing, compact and lithe and moving with a grace that ought to be illegal. They play this game of rooftop tag for what feels like hours, running, flying, chasing, scuffling, trading banter and funny jibes.

When Red Robin finally catches the little thief, seizing him about the waist and pulling him back against his chest, a breathy sound like delighted laughter escapes his quarry. It takes Red Robin a moment to realize he's laughing as well.

"Got you," he says between gulps of air.

The catboy hums an affirmative, then turns and slithers against his capturer. Moving like water between Red Robin's arms, he presses up against his chest, meowing softly. He drapes his arms lazily around Red Robin's neck, moaning steady and low, like a purr, deep in his throat.

His heart pounds, a quick staccato beat, and Red Robin wonders why – why does it pound so fast, why is heat pooling low in his chest, why is his breathing speeding-up, and why the hell is he pulling the little catboy closer by the hips?

The purring intensifies, a trick that makes something inside Red Robin spark with heat; and then a teasing, kittenish kiss is placed on Red Robin's lips. A quick slide of the catboy's tongue along the seam of his mouth, followed by a gentle nibble, as sharp claws tease the side of his throat, and,

"I'm so glad you didn't die in Ethiopia, Jason," the catboy whispers against Red Robin's skin.

The sharp spike of surprise is enough of an opening for the catboy to push him away, back-flip over to the rooftop edge and crouch there, backlighted by Gotham's many lights, cheeks dimpled and flushed red.

"I'm Stray, by the way."

"Wait—what—don't—I'm not finished with you!"

"Oh, I dearly hope you're not." The blush burns brighter, but the smile has spread nonetheless, it has become cheeky and suggestive oh-so-pretty, and Jason pointedly refuses to feel a second spark of heat pool decidedly lower than his chest when Stray bites his bottom lip with sharp little teeth.

"I look forward to another game of tag with you." He waves, diamond-tipped claws glinting in the light, and then dives over the edge.

Jason consider pursuing, but decides otherwise. He has retrieved the jewels

-stripped them off Stray without even noticing, what the fuck -

and his wounds ache and his heart pounds and he thinks he needs to ask Bruce a tip or two about dealing with feisty cats, anyway.

* * * * *

Glimpse 2: The sad clown's smile is upside down

The warehouse is dark. It smells of fish and stale fruit, and the hiccuping giggles emerging from the teeming shadows only add to his unease; but Robin moves on, undeterred.

In the next warehouse over, the Joker has already been secured and zipstripped by Batman. Nighwing is right across the street, trying to seize Harley without harming her.

Robin turns off the comm – Barbara's voice comes to him, a sharp "don't!" right before he cuts the communication off. He knows she doesn't understand – none of them does, but – this is something that he needs to do. On his own terms. He can't call himself a good Robin, otherwise. He inherited the mantle and he – he wants to earn it, as well. To be worth of it. And this – this is hismess to take care of. He can't ask the others to understand; he can just hope everything goes well and that they may, perhaps, forgive his reckless choices.

He takes another step forward. The giggles trail off, burst out again, sharp and loud, before the noise is muffled.

Finally, there's silence.

Robin swallows.

The putrid smell chokes him and his heart seems to have lodged somewhere in his throat, but he takes another step forward.

"Jester?"

He hates the crack in his voice. He hates it.

An odd noise answer his call – half a giggle, half a sob – and then a shadow detaches itself from the back wall and the moves-likes-dancing into the light.

"Look what the tide brought up! My dearest songbird!"

The voice is delighted but. It's wrong. It's so wrong. It's too sharp to be a happy voice, and too broken. It's like glass crunching under your feet. It creaks and splinters and hurts.

Robin takes another step forward.

"I came for you."

Jester laughs, moves further into the light and Robin swallows. Joker had crowbarred Jester halfway to death, before deciding he'd be far more entertaining as a son, rather than as a corpse. The abuse still shows on Jester's body, even after months and years. There are scars, hidden under the skin-tight checkered suit, and he walks with a painful-looking limp. His face is covered with make-up, like a doll's – white powder for the cheeks, blood-red lipsticks on his mouth, and those eyes. Those eyes. Blue like lakes and rimmed heavily with kohl, they are-

Beautiful.

Robin holds his hands out.

"Come with me."

Jester laughs – a ripple that moves down his whole body, from shoulder to feet. He rubs a hand over his face, and that's when Robin finally notices the tears.

"I can't - " his voice has lost the hideous pitch, it's soft and sane and broken with sorrow but it is his real voice. Robin doesn't think he's ever heard from this close, not even before the crowbar. "I can't come back, Robin. They - they."

Everything inside Robin is screaming at him to leap forward and catch the other boy in his arms, hold tight and never let go, but it's too soon, too sudden. He might chase him away, and he can't have that, not when he's this close to get him back, not when what was done to Jester was all Robin's fault.

"I know. What they did to you. I know. I-" say it, Robin, say it, "-they hurt me too. But if you come with me, they won't ever hurt us again."

Jester looks up. His eyes are too blue. Too blue. They glow and they plead and the tears make them so pretty. It's painful.

"Ever?"

Robin's voice is solemn.

"They'll never, ever lay a hand on you again."

He reaches out. The red lipstick is smeared all over, and there are black tracks trailing down Jester's cheeks. They feel warm and flushed under Robin's hand – he can feel the heat even through the gauntlets. Jester's lips are pink and soft when Robin nibbles on them. Then comes the soft, wet nudge of his tongue and the equally-as-soft nip of his teeth, smooth hands trailing down Robin's chest and sides, trailing along the seams of his suit, and-

"...bad birdie, would you steal this little Jester from his nest?"

Jester pushes Robin away. He's clutching the remote control he slipped from Robin's belt in one hand, and there's no trace left of sanity in his voice. When he pushes the button, Robin's Red Bird comes rumbling through the door in the back. Jester hops on the bike, straddles the seat like it was an obscene display.

"Bu-bye Songbird. Give a kiss to your Daddybats for me, will you? We should have a nice tea-party, the six of us, Mummy Harl and Daddy J and me and you and both your daddies, yes? Yes. I'll be looking forward to that, Songbird. You dream of me when I'm gone – and try not to soil the sheets to much!"

He turns the bike around, and less than a second after, the night has swallowed him whole.

Robin grits his teeth, but doesn't move.

He was so close. So close.

He punches the floor, again and again, pounding the concrete until he feels the joints in his fingers ache and tastes the blood flooding his mouth.

Pounding until Nightwing comes and engulfs him in his arms, until Babs's voice is warm and soft in his ear, until Batman appears, scowling down at him, imposing and statuesque but so gentle when he unclenches Robin's fist and checks the throbbing hand for damage.

"I was so close," Robin stutters.

"I know."

"I was so damn fucking close."

"I know."

"I... I spoke to him."

"I know."

"He's still there. He's still in there – he..."

Batman touches his head.

"I know."

His voice isn't soft, gentle or caring; it's clipped and cold and perfunctory, but it breaks Robin in half. He clings to his mentor, pounding onto his chest, screaming out all his rage, his guilt, his sadness.

Tim's still there, somewhere, broken and hurt and pleading for help, under the nightmare-doll façade of the Jester.

And Jason has failed him again.

* * * * *

Glimpse 3: Pretty little flower stings like a bee

"So – there are these new drug dealers in town and – uhm – they kinda use these very rare plants to mix up a new toxin and so I – uhm – came to kinda ask you some – uhm – could you please put some clothes on?"

Narcissus –

(seriously? Like, seriously? Couldn't Ivy have called her sidekick something a little less – less provocative? No, wait, something less idiotic? Not that the Mayapple option had been any more appealing to Robin back when they were kids, but this.

This.)

– Narcissus stretches luxuriously on his bed of leaves, groans and mewls, and Robin looks anywhere but at that expanse of smooth, smooth skin presented so shamelessly to him.

It tastes like honey and is soft like petals. Robin remembers it, and Narcissus knows he remembers, because he drapes himself in a lazy sprawl, beckoning and languorous at once, and lets a pout crease his cupid's bow lips.

"Oh, so you don't like looking at my body? But everyone always says it's so pretty..."

Robin snaps.

"This "everyone" better haven't laid a single finger on you, or I swear-"

Narcissus's grin is lazy and lovely and possibly as poisonous as his mommy's.

"Why, is my Robin jealous?"

With a groan, Robin rubs the bridge of his noise.

"Why the fuck would I care if some Gotham psycho or the other is all over your little – vines. Narcissus. Vines. In my comfort zone. Remove them. Now."

Robin knew he shouldn't have let his guard down, but jealousy – no, wait, rewind, he means exasperation. Exasperation, yes. It does that to him. It starts sledge-hammering between his eyes, boiling through his veins like acid, and he sorts-of forgets himself when it happens.

When he comes down a little from his anger-fest, Narcissus is much too close for comfort.

His bare arms are warm and soft as they close around Robin's neck, and his hair has the scent of fruit and flower and all that delicate shit that shouldn't be a turn on, but it apparently is. There are vines slithering up Robin's calves, wrapping around his waist, slipping under his shirt. They held his arms apart, and when Narcissus snuggles into his chest, the vines tug and tug until Robin's arms are closed around him, holding him tight and safe.

Jason sighs, tugs back against the vines a couple of times, and once he's let free, he readjusts his hold so that Tim is tucked seamlessly against him, like two halves of a whole.

"This means you won't help with my case?"

"This means," Tim hums, licking a wet stripe along Jason's throat, "that I missed you, so we get to play while my vines go find these dealers of yours; and once you're all spent, you may go and collect them."

Jason chuckles – definitely not moans – and sets to ravage his boyfriend's mouth with his own.

All to speed up the case, you know.

It's not like he's in love with the half-plant and sort-of can't breath when they're apart, or anything.

Yeah.

Totally.

* * * * *

Glimpse 4: Of mathematical variables.

"I was expecting to find you working to bring criminals in. Not breaking them out."

Red Robin swirls around, a grin on his face. Beside him, his companion abruptly freezes. With a quick shift, he pivots away from the approaching Bat, as though leaping clear off the building might be a better fate.

His frame – broad, muscled but lean, encased in black leather – is so tense, he's literally vibrating on the spot. His gloves creak as he pumps his fists, and his jaw is locked so tightly, Tim thinks he can hear his teeth grinding together.

Without hesitation, he shifts closer to his partner,

("Eh. When you say 'partner' like that, Red Robin, you make it sounds like we're..."

"What?"

"...nothing."

"What?"

"Like you didn't just team up with me because you had no better option.")

and raises his chin proudly towards Batman.

"Lynx isn't a criminal," he says with a shrug. "There's the chance she's a cop, so we... we decided to let her go. It's – complicated."

His partner issues one of those breathless snorts that always – always – precedes a comment or two that will make Tim's cheeks flame up. But the silence holds, instead. It stretches, tense like a line waiting to snap.

("Hush, you. This – this is horrible and you aren't funny in the slightest!"

"Not funny, mh? And yet, some little Princess here is giggling himself breathless."

"I'm not!"

"Aaaa~aand, score. You just admitted to being a princess."

"I did nothing of the sort!"

"Sure. And I figure you think your cheeks don't look like candy apples, right now?"

"Hush!"

"Not that red isn't totally your colour, but-"

"Hush, I said!")

Batman moves a step closer, and before Tim has the chance to analyse his choice, he's already stepped between his father and his partner, effectively acting as a wall between them. The notion jars something inside Tim – it takes hold of something under his ribcage and yanks hard – but he won't let them hurt each other. He won't. He won't.

("What are you thinking?"

"Nothing. Just – when we find Bruce, I wonder what he'll say to- woah, woah, you getting teary eyed on me, little bird?"

"Don't be stupid. I'm not – I don't – it's just... you said when. When we find Bruce."

"Yeah, and?"

"You said when."

"...and?"

"When, and not if. It's – no one else believes me, when I say he's not dead. But you do. You do."

"Kid, it took you all these months to figure that out? And you're supposed to be the brainy half of the team? We're so screwed.")

Batman's eyes narrow briefly.

"I heard you have been keeping company with an outsider, while I was away -" he watches both men tense at his choice of words, and wonders - "But I was expecting you to at least introduce us."

Red Robin – Tim, the motion is much too nervous and shy to be attributed to his vigilante persona – licks his lips.

"Batman this – this is Red X."

("Red X? RED X? Are you for real?"

"You do need a new identity. Plus, it makes perfect sense. Red Robin and Red X."

"The Red I can't argue, but – why the X? It's like the mathematical variable!"

"That's exactly it. In mathematics, "X" can be anything. Everything. It has limitless potential. And so do you. You can be whatever – and whoever you want. You won't be defined by your vigilante name – you will be the one to give it a definition."

"..."

"...you've- you've gone quiet."

"It's—limitless potential. That – that sounds so friggin' good and – and I've been anything but. Especially to you."

"Limitless potential, and limitless danger. Yes, you've got both laying inside you, I can't deny that. Which side you choose is up to you, but-"

"But?"

"You... you've been good to me. You've been good for me, and-"

"Princess? You're stuttering."

"Possibly."

"Prin—Tim."

"Yes?"

"I – I think I will choose danger. One last time; and then I'll go with the limitless potential shit.")

Batman looks at the dark figure standing one step behind Red Robin, and takes it in with one long, measured glance – the ragged cape, the tight suit, the reinforced gauntlets and the utility belt. When he turns to glance briefly over his shoulder at Batman, the mask covering his face is painted like a skull and disfigured by a red X-shaped scar. The red lenses gleam briefly in the dark, and then the mysterious man starts and looks down at Red Robin.

Batman follows his gaze. Nothing in Tim's stance seems to indicate he has moved at all but – ah. There. The hand that's crept behind his back; the way the muscles in the forearm bulge are an obviously indication it's closed around something. And the tense shift in Red X's shoulders is a telling sign that that something is his hand.

("One last time? W-What do you mean?"

"It means – it means I'm about to do something reckless, and fuck if I can be stopped. You'll hate me for it, but Bruce's back so it's not like you're gonna stick with me now and before you go I want to – oh, fuck it."

"..."

"...y-you kissed me."

"Yeah, well, have been meaning to for a while. Was it that bad?"

"...yes.")

"He's – he's not an outsider. He loves Gotham as much as we do. He did a lot for her, gave his blood and his life, and he-"

("That bad, uh? Well shit, I knew you'd hate it so – the fuck you doin' Princess? Let me go."

"No. No. You don't get to kiss me and then disappear. You don't.")

"-he was the only one who believed in me, when you were gone. The only one who didn't think I had gone crazy. I couldn't have found you without his help, he-" without even noticing, Tim's hand moves, flexes around his companion's own unresponsive fingers, squeezing gently. "He's, he's my partner, Batman. I work with him, now."

Red X remains immobile for a moment. Then he stealthily manoeuvres their hands until their finger are entwined, and squeezes back. Tim breathes a silent sigh of relief, leaning back against him a small fraction. The man behind him is warm and solid and broad and scary, but so soft and comforting and familiar, too.

("You're the one who said it was bad!"

"It was bad that you made me think I was the only one feeling the attraction! It was bad that you kept me waiting so damn much! Jason you – we're partners, okay? I'm not letting you go. Not now. Not ever. You're stuck with me and you'd better-"

"Not planning on going anywhere, Princess."

"-not think of leaving me on my... – wait. You're not leaving anymore?"

"Me? Leaving? After what you just told me? Hell, Princess, do you peg me as crazy? No, wait, don't answer that one.")

Batman nods. A barely-there motion, quick and sharp, precise like everything about him.

"I see," he says.

And he does.

His face might be hidden. The scars might be hidden (but not those that count, those burned deep within, those he can't hide, even if he were to try). And his outfit might be different, but it was never the outfit that defined him, not ever. He'd been his own hero long before he'd first donned a suit of any sort, and that never seems to change.

("This

is the best

day

my life.")

"Welcome to the family," he says.

"We missed you," is implied.

It is heard, anyway.

Also on FF.net (here)

Red Hood Cover #4

necchan — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 11:03:34 GMT

Red Hood Cover 4 by ~Nemesi-Har-Aralis on deviantART

Pretty late, as per usual. But then again, I wasn't quite sure I'd be continuing with the mock-covers now that the petition is over, and Red Hood and the Outlaws is out.
It's just, I love doing these; and some of you guys asked for more. I was happy to provide! ;D

Red Hood #4:

The first three Robins are reunited at last, and hot on the trail of the Red Hood! But Timothy Drake questions his place amongst this deadly trinity – how can a geeky kid such as he be of any help to a superhero team? And yet, Timothy seems to hide more dark secrets in his past than both the other Robins combined; and his understanding of the Red Hood might just be the key to help Jason find his way back home...

Also available a step-by-step visual: [link]

Art Dump: JayxTim ¤9 pieces ¤Rating from PG to R

necchan — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 23:09:55 GMT

Two new Jay/Timmeh sketches over on Tumblr.
Can you tell today was my free day? X3;;;;

Plus monster recap of all the JayTim I've posted on Tumblr lately, and forgot to share here. The previews are conveniently LJ-icon-sized and can be stolen for your personal use (possibly with credit? :3)

Sloth's Belated B-day gift, drawn to a model pose she posted on Tumblr. Jay+Tim ¤R for guns and /censored nudity),

Should you feel inspired to write anything to this, I'd love you forever. <3 I'd love you even if you write something to any of the others. ~♥

"Sorry Babybird" JayxTim sketch ¤PG

Pit!Verse Jason/Tim (Greek Scenario)¤R (censored)

Pit!Verse Jason/Tim (Harem Scenario) ¤R for nudity (censored)

Pit!Verse Jason+Tim (German Monastery Scenario) ¤PG

Chibies Comiclet "The MArriage Proposals" ¤Jay/Tim, fluffly Jay+Roy+Kory ¤PG

Father Todd and Angel Tim ¤pg13 for blood

Bad Wolf!Jason & Talon!Tim from Earth-3 ¤PG

Jay/TIm Comiclet "I missed you" ¤PG ¤

Fic: "The Atronaut's Wife" ¤DCU/Batman ¤Jason/Tim ¤R ¤romance, drama, tragedy, sexiness

necchan — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 16:41:51 GMT

This...is a bit odd. But the Neme's sick and needs JayTim angst. ♥

Title: The Astronaut’s Wife.

Fandom: DCU- Batman.

Rating: heavy R.

Genre: Romance, angst.

Wordcount: 2300 circa.

Characters/Pairings: Jason/Tim.

Warnings: Part of the Pit-Verse. Self-betaed. Repeated mentions of sex/sensual situations. Set in a vague/improbable future on a planet that might or might not be earth.

Summary: Through the centuries, they meet briefly and then part, over and over again. There is one incarnation, where their mortal life is a cruel mockery of this endless cycle; where they are forced apart time and again, even as they struggle for have but a few precious moments of love for themselves.

STAY WITH ME FOR A SECOND, 'KAY? 'kay. All right – you need to understand this premise to understand the oddness that's going on in here. In the story, the Astronaut spends months in space, moving at the speed of light. This creates the illusion of time moving at a different pace between the space and the Planet's surface. It is but an illusion, as claimed above. BUT it doesn't change the fact that every time he comes home, once every twelve months, several years have gone by on the Planet's surface. Trust me. It makes sense. :))

* * * * *

The first time you see him, it is at the Gateport.

Your Father, the Governor, is required to attend as the R.O.B.I.N. takes its first flight, and you may be a child still, but you are hauled along, because Rix'ard wished it so and there is nothing your Father would deny him.

You are tiny and quiet, a speckle of dark colours in an otherwise bright crowd. You go unnoticed, like a shadow, and a like a shadow you slip amongst the richly dressed people; padding on silent little feet you move through the dazzling hall, navigate through the satin dresses and velvet trousers of the rich, the crackling leather and luminous feathers of the foreigners. The dames wear glittering make up like exotic birds, their nails are sharp as talons, and their painted mouths stretch into moon-slivers of smiles as they sip their fruity wine. The soldiers and cadets, clustering together in groups of three and four, are sombre and statuesque and talk in low growls like wolves or lions.

He stands apart. Alone. He is as much a shadow as you are, though his uniform is a dirty dull white, like milk and old snow. You pause before him, and look up and up and up towards his face, watch his jaw work silently as he glances grimly across the cacophonous crowd. He notices you at his feet, and he smiles – a quirk of luscious lips, the flash of white teeth, and eyes so blue they spear through you. He reaches down to ruffle your hair, his voice a low rumble like a cat's purr.

You shy away from contact, usually. But you find yourself leaning into the touch, the tiniest little bit. He smiles again, eyes dancing with amusement, and murmurs something about precious kittens you don't quite get – animals are not allowed inside the building, are they?

A moment's hesitation, then he moves past you and towards Father, who clasps this man's forearm in a formal greeting. You’ll later realize that your four years of age make this man look old to you, but in Father's eyes, he's young, too young, and untried and precious.

The man who's just a boy looks back over his shoulder at you, grins and salutes you, and you hold your plush-toy tighter to your chest, hide your face in the red breast of the stuffed bird, confused and troubled.

You wish you could say that this moment – this first meeting, this smile, this shiver of blue that are his eyes, the butterflies raising along your throat – stays with you forever, but it isn't so. You hardly think about the Astronaut again, at least not in your waking hours.

In dreams, you probably see him; you curl against his chest and let him sing you lullabies as you sigh and purr like a contented kitten over his beating heart. But it is dreams, and they are elusive, and the morning light washes them away, scatters them like leaves in the wind, leaving nothing behind.

* * * * *

The second time you see him, you're eleven.

He's back on the Planet, and Father ordered him to come to the Manor.

He's weary as he wanders the gilded halls, and you are reminded of something you saw at the animal park: a panther, prowling the length of its cage, jewels eyes piercing the shadows.

You recognize him, though you are not sure where from. His name is all over the news, but there are hardly pictures of him without his helmet on, a red monstrosity that looks like an evil djinn's head.

He's flanked by two companions, exuberant and beautiful, red of hair and of garb: a tall man with orange skin and pupil-less eyes, and a pouty woman with freckles clustered across her upturned nose. They are the light and cheer to the Astronaut's – Jay'sen – mystery. The lithe and graceful to his bulk. The elegant and polite to his brash honesty.

Jay'sen is broad and tan and roguishly handsome. His eyes are still the truest blue you've ever seen, and his hands are warm and enveloping when they solemnly shake yours in front of the press.

For you, it's been seven years. For him, twelve months.

You think you might be falling in love, but you don't gather enough data to formulate a valid theory before he has to go back in space.

* * * * *

The third time you meet him, you're eighteen.

You turn of age on the cusp of summer. The R.O.B.I.N alights back from space when the Desert Willow and Yellow Trumpets and the Red Bird of Paradise are in full bloom.

The whole archipelago is drenched in heat. You can barely sleep at night. You toss and writhe in bed, gripping the sheets, biting your bottom lip to stifle your cries. Clothes are too much too bear, and even the slants of moonlight from the window feel like fingers like lips like eyes, blue and electric like distant nebulas. You breath and gasp into the humid air, and it feels like another person is growing under your skin, someone who wants and needs and begs, and Jay'sen face swims across the dark screen of your lowered eyelids, and a cry is torn from you bleeding lips.

Rix'ard throws a grandiose feast for your birthday, and the crew from the R.O.B.I.N. is there, Jay'sen with his white-and-grey bodyarmour; the alien with lashes so thick and dark they look like they were painted on with Kohl; the woman with the red ringlets aureoling her cheeks; and a boy, a newcomer, a diminutive thing with huge eyes like black holes and skin of caramel.

You move through the vaulted halls of your home like a forlorn child, lost and drunk on your own turmoil. You dream of approaching the Astronaut, to come to him in the scented breeze of the gardens, but he is the one to come to you. He touches your face and calls you little bird. He's a head taller than you, and his eyes call out for you. Phantom cries ring in your ears as he takes you in his arms and spins you and dances with you in the dark. He hums, contended, when you drop his face against his neck, but he pulls away when you trace the side of his throat with your tongue (finding the skin smoother than you expected, and yet not smooth enough, not like scar-tissue and old pain and burning love).

He looks you in the eye, asks: “Are you sure?”.

He asks: “I'm leaving in a day. Are you sure?”.

And you make this sound like a kitten like a bird and put your hand over his heart and long to call him something, something old and forgotten, something that's as sweet and honey and as salty as tears. You nod. Just nod.

He takes you out in the night, on the dew-decked grass, in the air that's still warm with the memory of the sun. He's lean and huge, soft and hard; he's gentle and fierce, and he keeps rubbing your throat with a callous thumb, tracing a line like he memorized it, like it is part of a painting he can remember, can even see, but it just is not there on your skin (even though it ought to be).

There's pain, but you craved it. There's pleasure, and it surprises you, not like the foreign thing that it is, but like an old friend. Above you, Jay'sen is a shadow is a star is a figment of your imagination, a memory made into flesh. He tastes of wine and smells spicy – in the heat of pleasure, at the very cusp of it, he calls your name, Tim, Tim, Tim, Tim, and you think back to marble and golden braziers, to desert flowers and sea-breeze, to leather and gunpowder, but bullet-weapons haven't been made in decades and centuries, and you've never seen one (if not in dreams).

* * * * *

The fourth time you meet him, it is winter.

Snow falls noiselessly from a sky the colour of iron. It covers the City, hiding her sins with a mantle of white. The R.O.B.I.N lands swathed in ice particles, glittering like a crown.

Jay'sen emerges from the Ship's belly like a conquering King. He comes to you, picks you up and spins your round, because you're still smaller than him, lithe and compact and a head shorter than him. He calls you his bird, his kitten, his darling, and when you pull him behind one of the Spaceport's many columns and kiss him, he surges against you, holds you to his chest and devours your mouth as though he has been thirsty for you for centuries.

You make it to the bedroom, and do not come out until he has to board the Spaceship again. When he leaves, you bury your face in his pillow, wrap yourself in his scent, and tell yourself this will sustain you for the next seven years.

It has to.

It has to.

* * * * *

The fifth time you meet, you're older than him. It's only a few years' difference, but he's radiant and bursting with life, and you feel ashamed of your own age.

He laughs at your worried frown, kisses and bites and licks it away, coaxes you out from your foul mood with his hands and mouth and eyes.

Autumn unfolds around you, with its rich scents and russet colours. The trees are shedding as you approach the house of your Ancestors. The leaves are like a carpet along the entryway, they crunch and slide wetly under your feet, remind you of rust and blood and the wet glint of blades.

Jay'sen picks you up as you near the door, carries you over the threshold. Startled laughter bubbles out of your throat, and he grins down at you, delighted and proud. You make love, over and over, fill the air with the sound of your cries and the moisture from your skin. When he draws you to his chest, blissful and spent, you feel something slip around your finger.

It is a gem, the size of a robin's egg, and as red as blood. He twines a lock of your hair around his finger, and says nothing.

You say “Yes”, all the same.

* * * * *

The next time you meet your pretend husband, it is the sixth, you are thirty-nine, and you feel old.

At times, it feels like it's crowded under your skin, and words and feelings are pushing from under your bones, reaching out for something distant. There's an urgency in your chest you cannot explain, and as soon as Jay'sen is in the room with you, you cling to him, you let him hold you and pet you and croon nonsense in your ear. He offers you a kind of protection from these demons, but it is not enough. It's never enough.

You need him.

Need him beside you.

Growing old with you, not staying young and bold and beautiful as you wallow in your solitude; not sailing through starts, as you wander the halls of your silent home, your hand trailing after you on the walls, haunted by ghosts of things that never happened; flashes of the sun dappled over the leaves in a torrid Greek summer, of fingers entwined tightly as blood blooms like flowers on the snow. Of the squeal and creak of boards as a massive ship rocks in the night breeze. Of flying high over the blurred lights of a smoky metropolis, with no net underneath you, but arms holding you tight around the waist.

You dream of ancient magic and humid head, of scented smoke raising like wraiths from braziers of gold. You dream of silver collars and stone angels rearing up over a cracked tombstone. You dream of lilting lullabies, of desert heat and bombed ruins. You think you won't live to see forty, and you have no idea why, but the knowledge pierces you deep, spears you through the heart.

Jay'sen is a thing of beauty in your bed, reclining on the sheets lambent with your combined scent, naked and young. He has a bruise blooming on the side of his throat, where you bit and nibbled at the tender skin. He has left a similar mark on you, and you foolish regret he didn't make it permanent, didn't draw blood and made you his forever.

You lean over and touch him - the curve of his hip, the ridged muscles of his stomach, the shadowy hollow at the base of his neck. His mouth is warm, it tastes sweet and with just the tiniest after-taste of tears.

You look him in the eye, ask: “Are you sure?”.

You ask: “I'm growing old ten times faster than you are. Are you sure?”.

And he smiles. Mysterious and radiant and alive and draws you to the bed, rolls over and covers you with his body. He nods. Just nods.

* * * * *

There isn't a next time, for either of you.

Smiling grimly, heavy-footed and silent, Jay'sen leaves in the morning, goes back to his crew and his ship and his Mission in space. You turn back to the house, listen to the echoes dancing along the empty rooms as you close the door and climb the stairs, alone with phantom memories and dream ghosts.

The fever takes you a few months later. A pain sudden and sharp like a blade, a long exhale like the sound of a name, and you're gone.

So is he.

The R.O.B.I.N. explodes in a flare of red fire as you breath your last. The light takes seven years to reach the Planet. It flares and becomes visible the same day the ship would've alighted back on the surface.

It finds your tomb waiting, silent and cracked and surrounded by angels.

They weep.

Also on FF.net: (here)

Halp...?

necchan — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 10:09:30 GMT

I'm in the middle of a *vital* commissioned work due soon, and I'm... stuck.
I'm supposed to be drawing, amongst the rest, Archangel from Uncanny X-Force and I CAN'T FOR THE LIFE OF ME FIND A REF FOR HIS WINGS. *dies*
They look different in *every* picture I find. At times he has feathers, at times they're smooth. Heck, sometimes they're scaly even, or *bat-shaped*.

At the very least, I need to know if they're retractable or something, and if they vanish completely from his back. I might have to redo the whole layout if they're not and start again from scratch and... I don't have the time. *whimpers* To stay approximately in time with my schedule (Not *in* time, but just barely out), I need to have the panels involving him done today.

Anyone can help? D:

Fic: "The Lazarus Pit - Tim's side" ¤DCU/Batman ¤Jason/Tim ¤R ¤violence, romance, drama, sexiness

necchan — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 22:23:19 GMT

*twiddles thumb* Here it is, for better or worse. I honestly think the previous one was better, in terms of plot and realization. But this companion piece offers you Tim's side of things, and it's an excuse for much...err... cuddling. Okay, it's a shameless piece of sexy angst. I hope you'll like it. ♥

To heartslogos, with many hugs. ♥

Title: The Lazarus Pit - Tim's side

Fandom: DCU- Batman.

Rating: heavy R.

Genre: Romance, angst.

Wordcount: Quasi 2500.

Characters/Pairings: Jason/Tim.

Warnings: Un-betaed. Stream-of-consciousness. Not-graphic mentions of blood, war, slavery, violence, sin and sex (I went all out with this one *shameface*).

Summary: The Lazarus Pit doesn't drive you crazy, as some say. It does worse. Much worse. It makes you dream.

* * * * *

The thing with the Lazarus Pit, is that its effect are unpredictable.

Its curse should not affect people who are young and whole and in no immediate danger of death. So your dip, a calculated risk in its own right, does not worry you. Given your current odds, getting wet is much preferable than a close encounter with the whole of Ra's League, even if the water clogging your nostrils and filling your mouth has an unnatural glow to it, and the chalky taste of decaying centuries.

You emerge from the waters, and at first, you feel no change within you.

The Lazarus Pit doesn't drive you crazy, as some say; and it doesn't rip a piece of a demon's soul to stitch it crudely upon yours, chasing you away from the fleshy vessel of your own body. No. It does worse. Much worse.

It makes you dream.

A long, never ending dream.

Layers upon layers of truths that are memories and memories that are hopes, forgotten shades of desire that have all colours of the spectrum, and then some.

A dream that is an expanse with no boundaries, a glittering nebula equivalent to the memory of your soul, from the dawn of time to the chaotic end.

You dream a dream of yourself.

Wrapped in the scented shade of a white temple, slipping from a slant of dusty light to the next, chased by the sound of your own laughter, and also by a shadow that ripples with muscles and smells like sun-warmed earth and ocean's breeze and cracked leather. You let the shadow catch you, press back in the circle of his arms, nuzzle in the warm hollow of his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat on your lips.

You dream of seducing him, then and there, coaxing him and teasing him until the air rings with the sound of your mingled cries, it hangs moist and heavy with the scent of your perspiration. The light reverberates against the marble, ricochets off the golden braziers, tinkles oddly in the shadows, as though they were black veils sprinkled with golden powder.

You think the Goddess, the Parthenos, might be blessing your union, you believe so with every fibre of your being, at least until the bitter morning when your loved one leaves to battle the Spartans and never comes back.

You let the blame for his death fall upon your shoulders, you wear it like a shroud and find comfort in its weight. Three-hundred-and-sixty days into your mourning, you walk up to Her altar and take a blade to your chest. You swear to never again believe in someone other than yourself, be it a deity or a cursed spirit from Hades, and your anger flares higher that the fires of Ephestus when, one breath away from your last, someone picks you up and whispers your name and it is him, scarred and ruined but returned from war.

Your dreamself dies with warm tears on his face that are not his own and slips into a dream – or perhaps you do. The dream of a dream, a dream of vaulted halls and creaking doors and the moist smell of snow and mildew.

You are wading through shadows as thick as deep waters and just as icy, when the first screams rips through the night air. Your servant starts back, one hand curling around the hilt of his stiletto. The kind monk who offered you leave to research their vast library cringes back and crosses himself. You do neither. You sprint forth, following the second scream and then the third and the fourth, and chance upon the cell as the fifth, heart-rendering scream tears trough the halls.

One of the novices, you are explained in rushed whispers. He was ensnared by the Devil, the poor soul. The monks are bleeding the evil spirit out of him with the aid of sharp blades, but only the soul might be salvageable – for the body, there's little to no hope.

You rage. You pull your power your position your money and your sword. You scare the monks out the reeking cell and barricade yourself in, deaf to the pleads and threats rising from the other side.

You know the signs. The fever, the shivers, the unclean sweat, dark and dense like oil. You read of them all in a book, you saw them take away your eldest brother, and your father's heart with him. It is no evil spirit, plaguing this young man, but a mortal malady. You slip a pouch of herbs from your belt (oh, the blasphemy! Lord Timofey turned to the way of the Witches in his grief!), you poke the bed of coals in the corner until you have a fire going, and on that fire you boil water, and with that water you make a church-forbidden concoction for the novice.

You coax his mouth open and force the bitter drink down his throat, wiping the moisture from his brow and the hollow of his neck, hushing and whispering at him like a much beloved child. As his lids flutter up, you discover that he was gifted with blue eyes, and the colour pierces you deep. It's a blue like the shade of jewels, like the sapphires encrusted on you father's sword, and the fever lends this man's eyes a shine to rival the most precious of stones.

His teeth are clattering, and you spare no thought to modesty as you rid you both of your clothes. You press yourself to his chest, heart to heart, bare skin slipping wetly against bare skin, your ashen white to his scarred tan, and the most peculiar, the most precious of shivers chases its way down your back as you mould yourself to him, clutching onto his arms. His hands are big as they come around you, they are warm and rough, but pleasantly so, thickly and nice like a cat's tongue. His eyes are wide and gleaming as he watches up from the depths of his feverish stupor, but there is no confusion in there, just the barest glint of recognition that makes you curl tighter around him, makes him press you closer into his chest. You bite your bottom lip, push yourself against him, slide against him, cheekcheststomachgrointhighs, gasping at the feeling it evokes, and tell yourself this is just healing, and nothing else, no matter what.

His hand are gentle upon you, his arms strong, his scent overwhelming and familiar, and his mouth looks inviting, like something you might need to have in order to understand some ancient riddle.

But you do not kiss him.

Not now; not in in the morning, when he wakes up confused and grateful and angry and aroused. Not in the months to come, as you stay in the Monastery to study the leather-bound tomes in German and Latin, and he works the day away in the orchard, bare chested and bronzed by the sun. Not a year later, when War comes bursting at the monastery's doors and sweeps everything away like the tide. Not even as you die, cradled in his arms and with blood in your mouth, are you brave enough to give into this sin, this temptation, this desire that, you know, has nothing of the earthy.

The dream of your dreamself dies, and as the snow blankets his and the novice's bodies, their entwined hands and their mouths that never touched, you fall into another dream, the dream of a dream of a dream, a dream of scented vapours, of gauzes fluttering in the desert wind, of plush cushions and golden trinkets, of the rare perfume of oils and flowers wrapping around you like a garland.

You are in his arms – the shadow, the novice, it is the same presence, him and always Him – and he moves against you, feathering kissed down your neck, where he left his mark on you with a kriss knife.

You are prince and he is slave, but he is the master of your heart, the master of your body, and you would break every rule for him, even those that will condemn you. You push back against him, seek his mouth with yours, and regret nothing of this amour that brought you to your knees and stripped you of your titles and your riches, regret not the hideous end it will lead you to. The only thing you regret is the bit of pain you inflict as you mark him the same way he marked you: a cut on the side of his neck that you kiss and soothe as he pulls you to his chest, chanting your name, whispering Tim, Tim, Tim, like a prayer. You steal a taste of his mouth, coax him closer and call his name, which is not Jason, but tastes like it.

You start and flail and sink deeper into the dream, and dream within the dream within the dream where the light is soft and green and the earth is moist underneath you naked toes.

Hidden away in the shady bowels of a Spanish forest, the ferns rear up thick and high around you, and the clear sound of rippling waterfalls rings in the air like laughter. You shiver as you dip into the water, and then the shivers deepen when he sinks into the water behind you.

His body is like one of the boulders surrounding you: massive and hard and lean and impossibly smooth, under the scars criss-crossing his tanned muscles. His hands are a contradiction, like everything about him: big and rough and so gentle, as though everything around him was precious. His voice is the best contradiction of all: low and rumbling and gruff, but smoother than silk.

He is wounded, weakened by fever. You were appointed to help him bathe, help him bathe and nothing more, this renegade who is a hero who was a stranger but has become the most important part of your life, so you drop the cloth you are holding, dip a shivery hand below the water, and watch his face shift into the first embers of desire. You tilt your head and offer your mouth for the first of many kisses, but the dream is shifting, sparkling, falling, and you're standing on the bridge of a pirate ship, wobbly and insecure even with your cane, and you crooked leg throbs with phantom pains and never-forgotten nightmares.

Your Captain is due to return from his latest foray at any second, and you laugh out loud when the first thing he does upon boarding is make a beeline for you, pick you up and spin you round and curse out loud to the heavens how the damn much he missed you. He brought you jewels, he says, and odd contraptions of metal and wood that you might delight to take apart and back together. He brought you the map of a cursed treasure and an enchanted locket from a siren's cave and a ring with a ruby on it, which he slips onto your finger, as he gruffly declares that he is Captain and damn if he can't make what in the blazes he wants, and you have the Ocean as your witness and the Sun for blessing, so will you do him the honour of marrying him?

And you want to laugh want to say yes want to chastise him for his silly dreams and sob because you are damaged good and kiss him so that he may know you never want him to change, but the dream scatters around you, it splinters and falls like broken glass, and you find yourself on your knees, with your lover your novice your shadow your renegade your pirate your master and your slave kneeling before you, a Jason who is but also is not Jason cupping your face in his bloodied hands, and crying and whispering and cursing because he was prince, and now he's slave, and you were amongst the enemies that took his family apart, you are next of kin to those beasts who brutalized his little brother, and he loves you, but he can't let you live, because you let it happen, and the blade trust in your heart doesn't hurt half as much as the words in his mouth, but you are good at shouldering blame that it is not yours and you were unable to save him or his brother the heir, and he promises he'll follow you in a little while, he just needs to bring his brother back home and then he'll be with you, he promises, forever and ever with you, so you lean against him and let him kiss and kill you, and in that kiss and that death you come back to yourself, surrounded by the glittering shards of countless more dreams, countless more Tims, each with their cursed love who looks like Jason and tastes like him and is as red as blood and as blue as sapphires and as shiny and controversial as a midnight's sun.

The Lazarus Pit, it is unpredictable.

It shouldn't have had any effect on you. You emerged from the waters, and at first, you felt no change within you.

The Lazarus Pit didn't drive you crazy, as some say; and it didn't rip a piece of a demon's soul to stitch it crudely upon yours, chasing you away from the fleshy vessel of your own body. No. It did worse. Much worse.

It woke you up.

So that when you emerged from the eerie waters and took that first gasp of air, you were neither demon nor human.

You were yourself.

You were everything you've ever been.

Mingled voices like a chorus echo insistently inside your empty chest; they spiral trough you heart with the strength of a knife, calling out in one million and one voice – some whispering, some crying, some demanding, some pleading – his name, all his names, that are all different but all taste the same, somehow: sharp and spicy against your tongue, sweet as blood down your throat, bitter like tears behind your closed eyelids.

Those dreams, dreams that are memories that are wishes from a distant past to an unseen future, they should become hazy in your waking hours, but they stay with you, instead; they haunt you as much as they heal you.

For the first time in your life, you can see everything – who you are, who you were, who you have the potential to be – and it doesn't scare you.

For the first time, you are aware of everything – what you have done to him, what he did to you, for you, and what needs to be done.

Those dreams, dreams that are memories that are wishes from a distant past to a unseen future, they stay with you and fill you with resolve.

You know what you have to do, now.

Fic: "The Lazarus Pit" ¤DCU/Batman ¤Jason/Tim ¤R ¤violence, romance, angst

necchan — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 12:21:55 GMT

I'm supposed to be working. I'm not. STOP ME PLEASE.

Title: The Lazarus Pit http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7533699/1/

Fandom: DCU- Batman.

Rating: heavy R.

Genre: Romance, angst.

Wordcount: 1000+.

Characters/Pairings: Jason/Tim.

Warnings: Un-betaed. Stream-of-consciousness. Not-graphic mentions of blood, war, slavery,
violence, sin and sex (I went all out with this one *shameface*).

Summary: The bad thing about the Lazarus Pit, is that it makes you remember.

* * * * *

The bad thing about the Lazarus Pit, is that it makes you remember.

It doesn't drive you crazy, as some say; and it doesn't rip a piece of a demon's soul to imbue the empty puppet of your decaying corpse. No. It does worse. Much worse.

It wakes you up.

You.

Your soul.

Not someone else's.

And when you come back, you're not a demon in a human's clothing.

You're yourself.

You're everything you've ever been.

You're Jason, but not just Jason.

You're all the Jasons who there have ever been.

This is what the Pit did to mend you.

It awoke those parts of your soul – those shiny, those tenebrous portions of it – that lived in a time and a place removed from this, and it made you wholer than whole. It gave you a soul, a memory, that stretches beyond confines, that overflows the fleshy vessel of your body and threatens to spill out, like water from a brimming vase.

You were a solider once. In a sunny land with crunchy white sand that shone iron-hot under the light, and a sapphire ocean that crashed against jagged rocks, spraying pearly foam against your tunic and sandals.

You were a slave. Naked and wild, prowling like a wolf the halls of a perfumed palace, jasmine oil rubbed on your rippling muscles, silver manacles secured around your ankles, chains trailing like writhing serpents behind you.

You were a holy man once, and isn't that just hilarious? You lived in a monastery that lay like a vulture through the snowy peaks of Middle Europe, a place of quiet and silence and terrible sins. You fought to keep war out of the holy ground, fought and bled to keep it out of the massive oak doors, and it sneaked in from the back, tiptoed from the underground passages like a ghoul raising from its crypt, and made bloody work of your brothers, of the young prince studying the sacred books in your precious library.

There was a time when you pretended to be a holy man. A runaway renegade, found by pious men as he lay in the moss and the rotting remains of his own clothes, his chest marked by one-thousand-and-one wars, wrists bruised with the remainders of years of torture. You hid amongst them, wearing their rough robes against your still-bleeding back, hiding in plain sight amongst the dappling shadows of the orange-sweet Andalusia, with the Moors haunting the shores and the delicate white hands of one of the Castle's helpers haunting your dreams.

You were a king once – or were supposed to be. You were prince and you were sold to the enemies that conquered your land, and you were made to watch as they turned your little brother into their pleasure toy.

You were a sailor. You turned pirate. You sailed the jewels sea of the Caribbean, you fought storms and the burning heat of the unforgiving sun, and you brought home riches and gold, strings of pearl to dapple around your mother's neck, and rings and old maps and golden compasses for your precious lover, and small knives you used to teach him how to defend himself.

You were countless other men, but you were always you.

You were Duncan once. You were Asa. You were Raphael. You were Blaise.

You were in love.

All the times.

You were Duncan, and you loved Tadhg. You were Asa, and you loved Tim. You where Raphael and you loved Timothy. You where Blaise, and you loved Timothée, because the fucker couldn't be creative and ever get
a different name, could he?

Tim.

Always.

Your Tim.

Beloved Tim.

The Tim you fought, you alienate, because, truly, what can he want with you? What can you offer him, when your love always, always ends in tears?

How can you watch this latest incarnation of him – this fighter with bird bones and bedroom eyes and a silver mind – and not see other Tims superimposed on him?

How can you watch him tilt his head, and not remember the little boy with the pale-blue blooms arranged around his forehead, the giggling little rascal that you used to chase through the streets of Athens?

How can you watch him emerge from the Gotham shadows as though he's but a filament of their teeming pattern, and not remember the prince in furs and velvet that came to you in the holy ground of the German
monastery, his hands smooth and cold on your heart, his breath hot against your neck, moist and gliding on your feverish skin, his lips as red as blood, as red as sin?

How can you watch him narrow his eyes in thought, brows furrowed together over his mask, and not remember the sylph-like orphan that you bought in Port Royale, and that was more use to the ship than half the crew put together, even if he was small and malnourished and crippled?

How can you watch him be himself, just be there, beautiful and still and eerie and scarred and perfect and sorrowful and broken and not remember huge eyes, shining blue and fearless over sooth-covered cheeks; remember the flash of white teeth as work-roughened hands trailed down your chest, nails catching on your nipples, and then dipped low, and lower, trailing down your stomach, between your legs, trembling and hot, careful but firm, gentle but shy, coaxing you and teasing you until you leaned over and pushed him down and covered him and tasted fruit and salt from his chapped mouth, tasted his moans and found them sweeter than the finest wine? Remember his body against yours, his warmth, his strength and shyness, the taste of salt of his skin, the exact texture of his every scar, the scent of his hair?

You can't.

You watch, and you remember, and you yearn, and you flee.

Because the Lazarus Pit didn't drive you crazy, as some say; it didn't rip a piece of a demon's soul to imbue the empty puppet of your decaying corpse. No. It did worse. Much worse.

It woke you up.

You.

Your soul.

Not someone else's.

You came back, and you are not a demon in a human's clothing.

You're yourself.

You're everything you've ever been.

And that's not something you've ever thought worthy of Tim.

I realize now I didn't share here my latest JayTim sketches.
EXPECT A FLOOD. ♥

Fic: "Broke Heart Blues" ¤DCU/Batman ¤Jason/Tim, Damian, Kon + Batclan ¤R ¤violence, romance, angst

necchan — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 21:24:33 GMT

I started this on my smartphone during the convention, because I was so inspired I was bursting. It ran away with me as soon as I sat down to flesh out the initial notes. :S

I want to stress that I don't necessarily agree with anything Jason says in this. Okay, I don't agree at all. xD;;

Title: Broke Heart blues. http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7522305/1/

Fandom: DCU- Batman.

Rating: heavy R.

Genre: Romance, angst, family.

Wordcount: 3500-3600 circa.

Characters/Pairings: Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Conner Kent, Damian Wayne (though it's not like I ever mention any of these names *sweet smile*). Jason/Tim mainly. But to be fair, the emotional mess is more along the lines of: Dami crushes on Jay who loves Tim who would be better off with Kon. Or would he?

Warnings: Self-betaed. Stream-of-consciousness. Second Person POV. Language. Jason being very self-hating and mocking of everyone and angry. Mentions of blood, violence, and (very briefly) of sex. The plot takes root in the old DCU, but obviously goes AU to allow for my pairings and for the Batclan/Flock of Red-brested Birds to be reunited. :]

Summary: As you watch them together, something beneath your ribcage stops and breaks. He never laughs when He's with you.

* * * * *

It happens so suddenly, it hits you like a punch

(a crowbar)

to the stomach.

You know of their friendship; you've heard so much about it, it's become like the stuff of legends. Even in a crowd, even in a group, they make a team of their own, a team of two, like fucking Batman-and-Robin, but without the angst, the fixation, all the bad stuff.

It should be nice.

It really should.

But as you watch them together, something beneath your ribcage stops and breaks; it crushes your lungs like a punch, and a weight settles on the aching remains and makes it hard to breathe.

Their hands brush together. Their heads bent close and closer, mouth brushing an ear, trading secret for secret.

Then He moves back, head tilted back, cheeks dimpled, pale throat rippling with laughter.

He never laughs when He's with you.

He frowns. He mutters. He yells.

He pushes, He demands, He reminds you you're on trial, makes sure you don't waste the chance, don't whip out a gun, don't waste another life. He grits his teeth, clenches his fists, narrows his eyes. He distrusts and criticizes and is always damn right and shakes his head and watches your back and directs your missions and flushes angrily at your jokes and stitches your wounds and both shies away when you approach and meets you head-on when you argue, but He never laughs.

Not when He's with you.

Something like bile like grief rears up inside your throat. It chokes you.

They move closer once more – shoulders brushing together, hands fluttering and then meeting, a brief squeeze and then settling back on each other's shoulder, and they smile. They smile.

It hurts.

It damn fucking hurts.

And for the first time in your life you do something you would have never considered doing before.

You give up.

You run away.

Perhaps the rage the shame the anger at your own cowardice will one day obliterate the hurt the helplessness the jealousy the unworthiness that watching them together causes you.

One day.

* * * * *

Swapping working partners is easy.

You trade a Baby Bird for a Baby Demon, and no one questions your motives. They couldn't – not when you make it happen like it wasn't all your idea (your need) to begin with.

The Baby Demon is a silent companion, a vicious fighter, a mean judge, an unstoppable force of nature. He's a Wiseman in a child's body, a prodigy, and above all: an haughty little shit. He's mean and he's sardonic, and his snarky humour never fails to rip a laugh from your lips.

You spend more time tongue-lashing each other and ducking batarangs thrown from the shadows that you do punching criminals' teeth in; but you'd take a knife to the guts for the little shit (and you do that on the third week), and he'd pursue the one who dared hurt you with the dogged determination of an Hell-hound, he'd catch him and bring him to justice bloodied and broken (and he does).

You work well together. Of all the Bat's birds, you're probably the best suited to work in pair – the Demon, and the Baby Demon. Together, you're a force to be reckoned with. But you unleash the worst out of the kid, you're quick to realize. The Baby Demon simply cannot keep his assassin training in check when he works with you – your moves are too attuned, too similar, too perfect.

Like steps of a dance, each thing you do requires an answering move from him, which demands an even more complicated step from you, until the choreography is perfect and is bloody and is beautiful is deadly.

And you don't want that. Not for him, not for you.

You teach him, odd as it may sound.

You grab him by the scruff of his neck like a vicious kitty, shake some sense into him, some restraint, which would be laughable, coming from you – the Blood-Thirsty Demon, teaching about restraint? - but no one knows better than you how much focus, how much will and determination and rage it takes to keep it all in, the violence and the hunger and the thirst for something that's not quite vengeance and not quite justice, but that's beautifully painted in red, a red that can fall like a shroud before your eyes, blinding you to reason.

So you grab him by the scruff of his neck like a vicious kitty; you shake some sense into him, duck his flailing kicks and his sharp nails, and when he finally starts listening to you, things get better. They were good to start with. Now they get great.

You two start handcuffing more thugs than you send to the hospital. The Baby Demon's taunts loose most of their edge, and when you touch him, nine times out of ten it is only just to ruffle his hair or pat his shoulder (rather than to restrain him from a killing blow).

Soon enough, you don't have to worry about getting a knife between your shoulder-blades every time you turn your back on him; and now he lets himself fall asleep near you after patrol, knowing he can trust you not to toss him from the nearest drop available.

Sometimes, you think you spy a light in his eyes like the one he reserves for the Big Bird, the Big D, the Shiny Golden Boy of the flock.

It's perfection.

It's fucking perfection. And you even allow yourself a teeny winy bit of pride at your brotherly accomplishment. At least until you realize it's fucking not the same light, and you want to laugh want to cry want to stab at something (yourself) because the Baby Demon doesn't look at you like a brother like a mentor like a friend.

He watches you in the same way you watch the Baby Bird, and it's all such a fucking mess, isn't it?

You don't drop him (you're doing something good for him, and you ain't a quitter); but you go out of your way to be Brotherly and Uninteresting and Untouchable (and it surprises you how much you've got to sweat to appear unappealing to someone's eyes. Last time you checked, you were a failure and a monster and totally undeserving of notice from the human race as a whole. Your only redeeming feature are your handsome looks, and you know for a fact you're not the best looking of the clan by far. Not when the Golden Boy's got that smile that can move heaven and earth, and the Baby Bird those eyes that pierce you and can ignite a flame inside your chest. Not when Daddy-dearest's got those frowning lines like brush strokes from a painting around his generous mouth, and the Lady Bat those lethal hands that are minute and perfect as they wrap around yours. Babs' swan neck is warm and as pale as ivory, the hollow at the base fluttering like a drum when she laughs, and Blondielocks's luscious lips are always, always curled upwards in a smile that stops the heart. How can you compete with any of that?).

* * * * *

You don't drop your newest partner, but he's taken from you all the same.

You rage, you rant; he kicks and screams. But Daddy-Dearest shakes his solemn head and takes the Little One for himself. You won't work with Shiny Golden Big Brother D, and you can't work with the Baby Bird, not when you can't look at him and not remember how he looked throwing his head back and laughing freely in the night.

The only choice you're left with is to either fly solo, or scavenge a new partner outside of the flock of red-breasted birds.

Roy is too clingy; Kory is too beautiful; Eddie is too busy. Raven is too understanding; Scarlet is better off without you; the Titans are too perfect. And Donna is still off-limits, forever will be, to the likes of you. But flying solo is a shitty deal. You get wounded more often and catch less criminals.

You hate it.

So you take to hiding away in Babs' Tower whenever you need stitches, and endure her not-so-gentle teasing as you self-tend to your wounds. Before you know it, she's the one you answer to. The one to give you missions and tips, the one to mutter into your earpiece and make you laugh when the night's air has got a killing bite to it and you feel like your nose is about to freeze off your face.

You start working with her birds. Somewhat. Acting as escape diversion for her own Secret clan of Bats is more like it.

Once, you wake up to the Lady Bat watching you, her face one scant inch from your own. A couple of times you find yourself as a guinea-pig for Blondielocks' cooking experiments, but as nice and dandy as this all is, you miss home.

You miss Home.

You run into Shiny Golden Big Brother D every once in a while; you even help him with his jig in Blüdhaven when he needs a hand that doesn't mind getting dirty. You barely ever see the Big Bad Bat, but you do save the Baby Demon's butt from a ridiculous gang of Joker-boys, once. (You almost laugh out loud when you drop him back to Daddy's, and realize the "trap" you saved him from was all a ploy devised by the Butler to get you back to the Cave for a while.)

The Baby Bird, you avoid like the plague.

You've been avoiding him from before the Baby Demon was taken from you; from before you took the little shit under your own wing, even.

You've been giving the Baby Bird the cold treatment for months.

Which, of course, ensures that he comes looking for you, eyes blazing up a storm and mouth pulled taut into a frown. He looks angry and disappointed and hurt, and your mind automatically waxes up a string of poetic and Tolkien-like nonsense about light and dawn and grace and power when you watch the flush glowing across his cheeks, watch his eyes flash a deeper, electric shade of blue as he gestures wildly with his hands.

You watch him, and you can't help growing angry and disappointed and hurt yourself. You yell, he yells back. You throw a punch, he ducks. You flee, he follows.

You don't know how, or why, but you start working together once more.

Fighting, bickering, yelling. Hurting each other with words and actions, solving cases, yes, but never with a smile, never with a gentle touch or word exchanged between you.

There's only pain and rage and bitterness, festering inside wounds so deep they cannot be seen, spewing venom and toxic waste that are destroying you both from inside out.

The end of the world starts from there.

* * * * *

You're not quite sure how it starts – or how it ends.

The only thing you're aware of is the blood.

Baby Bird's blood, pooling under his shuddering body. The blood of his attackers, sticky and dark and spread all over your bruised knuckles.

You're bleeding from one million places yourself, and there's the tip of a hunting knife embedded in your left calf muscle. You're black and blue all over, but you.

Don't.

Fucking.

Care.

Baby Bird is down.

His head is in your lap, and you're wrapped around him, clinging to him, bloodied and screaming like a mindless animal, your throat raw and your eyes stinging as you cling and scream, cling and scream, so long and so high your throat might start bleeding at any moment, bleeding pain and rage and bitterness, bleeding all the words you've never told him, bleeding out the love and the hope and the damn fucking truth, that kernel of it you've kept hidden for so long, hidden not like the treasure it is, but hidden like a ignominy, hidden and left to rot for so long that it festered inside you and now it's pouring out on its own.

You hated him, at first.

You envied him, you tested him, and eventually, you grew to admire him. To care for him. As a fellow Bird. As a brother.

You began lust after him, after a fashion. And what an odd lust, it was. Because what you needed from him was never his body, naked and pliant in your bed, scarred legs flexing around your hips, urging you on. No. No. What you needed – what you will always need – is him sitting flush against you on a rooftop, the warmth of your bodies seeping together. You need to have his head tucked under your chin, his breath raising in silvery wraiths in the dark sky, mingling with your own. Have his hand dwarfed inside your own, his neck tilted, baring the scar that mirrors your own to your questing mouth; the scar you put there as a mark and a remained, and that has long since grown into something to atone for.

You love him.

You fucking love him, and you know you're not enough – never will be – you know he's in love with the Super-kid, and you – you're so fucking pathetic that you preferred to run rather than fight, run because there's nothing you can offer him, nothing but an ugly soul inside a scarred body, a heart which is a broken, second-hand toy at best, if not a rotting monstrosity.

You let him go, as not to hurt him.

Let him go, because you need him so much, so fucking much, you couldn't trust yourself not to do something stupid, something ugly and mean like challenge the Super-kid, or badmouth your Baby Bird, you dear one, your Tim – no, not your Tim. Never your Tim.

You tell him this. You scream this to the heavens, trying to keep him awake and aware, soiled hands pushing against his oozing wounds, eyes locked with his own, watching them flicker and dim, wide with wonder beyond the haze of pain.

You scream and push and rock him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. You kick and rage and bare bloodied teeth when they take him from you (take you from him), you howl and lash out, you claw and kick and issue a stream a gibberish in different languages (English for Bruce and Alfred, Arabic for Talia, Sanskrit for Ducra, all of the people who helped made you, all of them loved, all of them adults to your inner child).

Strong arms wrap around your shoulders

(Dick)

cold, little hands cup your face

(Damian)

as a mantle as dark as a shroud falls upon Tim,

(Bruce)

wraps around him, absorbing his blood, hiding his face, and he's taken away.

(Kon. Kon. Kon.)

You crumble like a broken puppet, like a statue of salt. Your brothers cling to you and you cling to them, as the redwhiteblue of the Police cars flashes all around you, filling the word with cold sterile light.

Your cheeks are covered with tears.

It's the only part of your body that feels even remotely warm.

* * * * *

Your hands don't feel clean.

You wash them and wash them and wash them, over and again. But as soon as you close your eyes, you can feel it, the blood. Tim's blood, gushing between your fingers; you can feel his flesh, yielding and tender under the pressure of your hands, gaping wounds oozing waves of sticky red liquid.

So you wash your hands once more. And then again. You're not sure the feeling will ever go away – but it's okay, because you cling to that phantom memory almost as strongly as you wish it gone. You don't want to forget how Tim's life felt like, trickling away through your useless fingers. You think that remembering it will prevent something that awful to ever happen again.

You hope it will.

But you can't take the chance. You won't.

Tim is alive.

Barely.

Tim is alive and on the (slow, painful) road to recovery, and you're leaving.

Damian tried stopping you (and Gods, you never want to see that kind of look in his face again. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes); Alfred tried stopping you. Dick didn't. He understood your reasoning, your reasons. So he patted your back and hugged you and wished you well. Bruce doesn't approve of your choice, but he didn't try to stop you either. He wants you to stay, but he knows how it feels to dip your hands in the warm blood of someone you love, so he won't order you not to go.

You're on top of the city's highest tower. Gotham is spread under and before you like a chest brimming with jewels (or a can of worms, you're never quite sure with her.) The smoke of your cigarette raises in wraith-like plumes in the chilly air. It veils the city and lends her a shine, blurs every core of light from streets and windows and turns it into a pulsing star.

You snort. Throw away the cancer stick and crush it under your boot. You smear the ashes left and right, then turn around.

And stop dead.

There's a rushing sound, something like a train like a bullet like an aeroplane hurtling towards you, and a patch of darkness amongst the starts that's not just a void but a figure drawing close at inhuman speed.

You take a step back. Try to. Think to.

But Kon is faster than thought, faster than light, and he drops gracefully before you not a second after you spotted him. In his arms, Tim looks thin and frail and entirely too pale. The rings under his eyes are black and ugly, so deep they look like they were painted on with ink or charcoal. His eyes are blue and angry like an electric storm, and he's shivering – partly from rage, partly from exhaustion, partly from the cold.

Kon (the motherfucker) deposits Tim on his feet as if he didn't look like death ran him over, and takes a step back (the motherfucker). When Tim sways, knees buckling, you have no choice but rush forward and catch him. Thin, talon-like fingers curl around your biceps, shaking with the strain. Tim sort-of fall into your chest, tucks his head under your chin, breathing harsh and fast against your neck.

Kon smiles. The motherfucker. He smiles. Arms crossed and expression smug like he fucking owns the world, and you'd like to punch the grin off his face but it a) wouldn't be worth the resulting broken fingers; and b)you're a little too busy making sure Tim doesn't pull any of his gazillion of stitches and bleeds to death for the second time in a matter of days.

You're so busy glaring at the motherfucker, you don't notice the arms enveloping you until you're trapped by shaking matchsticks, small fists curled tight in the fabric of your jacket.

When Tim's voice comes, it's surprisingly clear, steady like it shouldn't be, through faint with weariness. Two words. Two simple words: a thanks, and Kon's name, and the Super-kid brightens up like a fucking Christmas tree. He brings two fingers to his forehead for a mock-salute, and starts hovering in that silly ballerina pose all Supes are so damn fond of.

He says something along the lines of "Well, what are best friends for?" and blasts away into the night, streaking the sky like a wayward shooting star.

Best friends, you think, bitterly. Yeah, right.

And then you are not thinking anything at all anymore, because chapped, trembling lips are placed on the scar on the side of your neck

(He took me away from you.

This is it. This is the time you decide.

You want to stop me? You are going to have to kill me.

Shoot me.

Right in my face)

and Tim is mumbling something in a shaky voice, his breath raising in silvery wraiths in the dark sky, mingling with your own, and the first word he spells sounds distinctly like "idiot".

The warmth of your bodies is seeping together (and didn't you dream of something like this?). One of his hands lifts itself towards your face, and when it fails and falls and you catch it, your gloved hand is so big it literally dwarfs Tim's own.

And then it's lips again. Cold lips and teeth clicking together and faint shivers and it takes you a little while to catch up and kiss back, crushing Tim to you, cupping your hands around his waist, allowing him to climb up and flex his legs around your hips (and you definitely dreamed of this, though it involved a bed of roses rather than a soiled rooftop).

"It was you, you idiot," Tim tells you, between bites that are kisses and kisses that are laughter and laughter that are frowns and frowns that are made of deep lines you want to trace with your eyes and mouth and fingers, always and forever. "It was always you."

* * * * *

In the early morning of light, you are kneeling with Tim pressed against you, the warmth of your bodies mingling, your breath streaming between your joined mouths, his legs wrapped around you and your hands on each other's scar, healing and mending and reproaching and forgiving and kissing and kissing and kissing.

Overhead, a black bat flies west, feeling the light, and Gotham embraces it, envelops its dark shape in her shadowy arms.

Perhaps you will live happily ever after this once.

You can't wait to try this happiness thing out.

~ End

Art: "Reboot" ¤ Jason/Tim ¤PG ¤angst, romance, drama

necchan — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 13:17:38 GMT

http://mgnemesi.tumblr.com/post/12008003827/tim-i-guess-can-tell-you-now-jason-shut-up#notes-container

Tim: …I guess can tell you, now.
Jason: Shut up.
Tim: …I love you.
Jason: Shut up, I said.
Tim: I’ve loved you from the start, and it won’t make any difference, because in a moment we won’t exist anymore.
Jason: Shut up, I said. Don’t talk like this is the end, because I won’t fuckin’ let it be, you heard me? I won’t. I won’t.
Tim: Jason…
Jason: I’m gonna find you. Wherever the fuck you’ll be, I’ll find you.
Tim: Jay. Jay, I love you.
Jason: I’ll find you, baby bird.

I leave for Lucca in a few hours! See you next week! ♥

necchan — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 12:49:07 GMT

S-she’s finally available for pre-order. çAç

*paws at screen* LOVEISWARMIKU HOW LONG I’VE COVETED THEE!

And they even made two version: a uber-detailed one, and also the one shown above *points*, which is the cheap half-price version for poor money-less people like me.
Must...
resist...
temptation...
...UGH.
*fails*
*starts saving*

Art: "Gone with the Wind" ¤ Jason/Tim + Chibi!Dick & Chibi!Dami's commentary ¤PG

necchan — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 15:22:23 GMT

As per the poll result: Tim and Jay in their very own version of “Gone With The Wind”. *LOL* No one else ever stood a chance, did they?

Probably went too messy with the colouring due to limited time, but it still look pretty. ♥ Who knows, perhaps this might tie with the DCnU. Like, their first meeting — or their last before Jay went to save Roy in Qurac. ~~Also, should anyone want to write something to this, they have my eternal love/blessing. ♥♥~~

Also, ignore Dick. He’s being fannish. xD

Click through each image for full-size, and here for the tumblr post. :)

Devious Journal Entry

necchan — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 22:41:55 GMT

Ilumina Poster Image 1 by ~Nemesi-Har-Aralis on deviantART