#that and the pointed ears and wings looking cringy as hell

[violetsmoak]

Philtatos [2/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47630773

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire--for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there's more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time. 

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #gods in disguise

First Chapter

_______________________________________________________________ 

Predictably, Jason is the first to respond to that.

“Bullshit.”

Tim sighs and rolls his eyes because he’s sure the reaction is more Jason being oppositional than actual doubt. They’re staring at a guy that until a few minutes ago had giant black wings sprouting from his shoulders, who’s been collecting suggestive art and carving a swath of hedonism across the city. They’ve dealt with stranger things and less plausible explanations.

“God of Love?” he inquires. “You mean, like Cupid?”

“Gaia, I hate that name. Stupid little Valentine’s Day mascot. I blame the Romans. The Hellenistic was great, except for that.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I mostly go by Steve these days. Cuts down on the explanation time.”

Which just…what?

“Steve, the God of Love,” Jason deadpans. “Because that doesn’t sound like a cringy mascot at all…”

“Why are you in Gotham?” Tim asks, more direct this time.

“And what the hell are you dosing people with that they’re all down to fuck without remembering it? I don’t know how it works wherever you came from, but here that’s assault.”

“I’ve never assaulted anyone!” Eros protests, all wounded integrity. “If anything, I’ve been the one people keep jumping ever since my bow and arrows got stolen.”

“Your bow and arrows? That’s seriously the defense you’re going with?”

“How does one steal from a god?”

“You wait until he’s stoned out of his mind in an Amsterdam coffee shop and knock him out,” Eros grouses. “It’s either brilliance or suicidal madness. I’ll decide which one after I track down the bastard that did it and give them a reminder that I’m Ares’ son as much as Aphrodite’s.”

“Right,” Tim says, raising an eyebrow. “On that note, if you’ve got all these divine connections, why don’t you just get new weapons made?”

“If it were that simple you think I’d have dragged myself to this armpit of the universe? The bow and arrows act as a constant diviner for my abilities. It focusses them or controls them if you will. Otherwise, my powers veer wildly out of control.”

“What powers?” Jason snorts. “If you had anything beyond your feathers, you wouldn’t have been so useless with those mob assholes and made us do all the heavy lifting.”

Eros’ eyes turn hard and his lips pull into a cold smile. He reaches for Jason’s face and wriggles his fingers threateningly. “Would you care to find out?”

Not wanting to give Jason a time to respond by breaking the digits in his face, Tim places himself in front of him.  

“Both of you, knock it off—”

His move manages to divert the Olympian from losing fingers, but it also puts him straight in his path. Impossibly soft finger pads graze his jaw, and it is as if a current of electricity has been passed through his spine.

Tim seizes up, his brain going cloudy and his stomach suddenly hot and trembling. Sight and sound vanish or rather sharpen to a single point, the figure in front of him, and a visceral want edges out every other thought and impulse.

He is dimly aware of moving, of being rivetted at the individual motions that bring him into Eros’ personal space, and which have him fixing his upon the other man’s shoulders. Then he’s dragging him forward and crushing their mouths together.

The taste and smell of pomegranate and ozone overwhelm him, and he doesn’t wait for reciprocation before he’s shoving his tongue into the Olympian’s mouth, harshly trying to chase the unique flavor. All other intent vanishes in the single-minded pursuit of that goal, and he wonders if it’s not just his mouth that tastes like this, if the rest of him—

“What the fuck?!” Hands grab him roughly and he’s being jerked backward, stumbling into an unyielding armored chest. “What the hell did you do to him?”

Tim whines at the loss. “No—I need— he—”

Words aren’t really a workable thing right now, not in the face of the fact the world suddenly seems colder.

There’s a clicking sound, and then Tim’s world tilts as if he just stood up too fast. When his wits return, he realizes that Jason is holding him up with one arm, practically lining them up from ankle to armpit. His other hand is elevated, semi-automatic pointed at Eros’ forehead, glaring him down as if daring him to get closer.

The Olympian raises in slow surrender.

“Just making a point,” he tells them with a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression that could do Dick proud. His voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

“Try it again. See how it works out without a head.”

Every passing second brings reality back into sharp relief, and with it a mounting sense of dread.

“I…please tell me I didn’t just do that,” Tim says, mortified and still punch drunk. He was never even that forward with Steph.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a flash of irritation flicker across Jason’s face, and then the older vigilante fixes Eros with a look of utter loathing that Tim’s only ever seen when he goes up against one of the crazier rogues. Black Mask or Scarecrow, maybe. That usually precedes extreme violence, which they don’t need right now. They need detachment, to look at this clinically.

(And he needs to focus on something else to erase the fact he just tongue-kissed the God of Love in front of his childhood crush.)

“What was that?”

“I project a field across the surface of my skin that causes instant sexual arousal and frenzy in any living creature. The longer you’re exposed to it, the stronger and longer-lasting the effects—and the more the out of control you get.”

“So basically, you’re a walking Viagra date-rape drug,” Jason sneers.

“It’s not supposed to be like that…”

“Again, I call bullshit. I remember all the stories. Whenever you’re involved, someone ends up falling for someone else without having a choice and bad shit happens. Helen of Troy ringing any bells?”

Eros crosses his arms, resembling Damian at his most petulant; meanwhile, Tim stares at Jason, who notices and scowls back. “What?”

“How do you know that?”

“I have depths,” he replies, tone mildly defensive.

“The stories get so much wrong. Blame primitive writers and centuries of telephone for that,” Eros mutters. “Here’s the deal—my mother, she’s got the make-people-fall-in-love juju. The overwhelming, powerful, love-at-first-sight thing that basically causes the honeymoon period of a relationship. You know, that point where you only see the good qualities in a person?”

Tim exchanges a perplexed look with Jason; he’s never been in a relationship with anyone where he saw only their good qualities, and judging by the older vigilante’s blank expression, neither has he.

“Right, forgot who I’m talking to. You cape types aren’t exactly the hallmark of romance, are you?”

“Yeah, well, you deity types aren’t exactly the hallmark of not getting punched.”

“We’ve already established why that would be a bad idea,” Tim mutters, his ears burning.

“I’m wearing gauntlets.”

“In a healthy relationship,” Eros goes on, ignoring the byplay, “sure, you spend a bit of time totally enamored with your boo. They’re your world. But after a while, that starts to fade. Some people, okay, they’ve stuck together for the getting-to-know-you period and decide to keep going. But others—they get a very real sense of buyer’s remorse.”

“Like Helen did. Or Phaedra or Atalanta,” Jason suggests, and Tim frowns; he only recognizes one of those names.

“Exactly. They realized they’d compromised themselves and ruined their lives for some petty asshole without even knowing it. And they couldn’t exactly do anything about it—in the old days, you were stuck with the guy and you had to make the best of it since, you know, no divorce. Nowadays, it’s not so bad—those whirlwind romances don’t last, but it’s not the end of the world. Celebrities are famous for them. Literally.”

“I don’t understand what all this has to do with you being here and now,” Tim says.

“I’m getting there. I was giving you guys context, geez! Anyway, with me, it’s a little different. It’s more than just that love-at-first-sight, quick and dirty thing. It’s about desire. That bone-deep connection, all need and hunger and slow-burning.” His face relaxes, mouth easing into a fond smile. “It was a deeper thrall than anything Mom had the patience for. With my tools, I could awaken that—in a controlled fashion—and focus it. But now—well, you saw what I can do with just a touch.”

Tim’s cheeks flame.

“The longer I don’t have my tools to temper me, my abilities will become more unstable. You ever see people literally fuck each other to death?” Eros challenges. “Trust me, you don’t want to. And it’s not just sex people desire. This one guy pissed me off once and I made him develop an unhealthy desire for corned beef—”

“If you know your power is about to go Chernobyl, why the hell are you running around town robbing people? You’d think you have more important things to worry about.”

“It’s because I’m losing control that I’ve been doing that.”

Tim narrows his eyes, even if no one can see it. “Explain.”

“Over time, artists pour their souls and creative desires into their work—into the canvas, the clay, the paint, whatever. There’s a magic in the creative act that turns a medium into a vessel. I’ve been having to bleed off my power into these vessels so I can get out and search for my diviners without causing riots. The process takes hours, though, and people generally don’t like me standing in a museum touching the merchandise.”

“So you steal it.”

“It eventually finds its way back. And their original owners usually find that the pieces seem somehow more—magnetic—once I’m done with them.”

“I don’t know how you made that sound dirty, but you did,” Jason grumbles.

“Are you kidding? I created innuendo. And the double entendre.” Eros makes a dismissive gesture. “Anyhow, it’s all moot. I won’t be capable of bleeding off my powers for much longer. As you just saw, my control is slipping. So, you two are going to have to find my bow and arrow for me.”

Tim blinks at the sudden turn of the conversation. “What?”

“Right. Because we don’t have enough of our own shit to deal with, we’re going to go on a scavenger hunt for some entitled godling? That’s not how we operate.”

“You won’t have much of a choice,” Eros replies, and there’s a cruel edge to his smile now. “Not if you want to save your life.”

“That a threat, buddy?”

“Oh, I’ve no need for threats. It’s already done.” Eros points at the still bleeding wound on Jason’s shoulder. “When you saved bird-boy here, you got tagged by the same bullet I did; my blood’s in your veins now. And unless it’s because of the horizontal tango, there are some really nasty side-effects when Olympian blood gets in your frail systems.” His smile remains cold and cruel. “Mine’s particularly nasty.”

Jason crosses his arms, radiating skepticism. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been poisoned. Probably won’t be the last.”

“It’s not poison, per se,” Eros muses. “More like a virus that manifests as an intense, increasingly growing desire that will turn you mad and cook your brain unless you find a way to stop it. And the only cure, I’m afraid, is to be, heh, pricked by one of my arrows.”

“And who the hell am I supposed to be desiring? Because if it’s you, I’m going to claw my eyes out now and get it over with.”

“Thankfully that’s not the case. While I’m sure you would look amazing splayed out in my bed, that doesn’t exactly give your friend here any incentive to help me.” He considers Tim a moment, and his smile turns knowing. “Or perhaps it would.”

“Why me?” Tim asks, trying to keep his voice level. A sudden spike or worry shoots through him at one possibility. “Anyone else could do this.”

“Uh, you’re the first person Helmet Head set eyes on after being infected? Honestly, it’s right there in the myths.”

“I was never into the classics,” Tim mutters, breathing a sigh of relief; none of this has anything to do with his ill-advised crush, which means Jason doesn’t have to know about it. “If it’s just me being around him, I can stay away from him. It’s not like it’s hard.”

I wish that weren’t true.

Jason is staring at him oddly and Tim’s stomach jumps at his inability to interpret anything through the lenses of his mask.

“Okay, princess, let me know how that goes,” Eros chuckles.

Tim swallows.

He knows that Olympians have power—that their relics do, as well; how could he not, considering he’s known Cassie and Diana for so long?

Still, it’s laughable that Jason could ever desire him.

(There’s only a little pain and bitterness in that knowledge.)

Jason appears to be on the same wavelength.

“I call bullshit. I’m not in the habit of lusting after people I’ve tried to kill. Bit counterproductive, you know?”

“You might resist it for a little while,” Eros allows. “Looks aside, you capes have a lot of restraint. And it’s not like I was feeding you my blood or anything, so it might take a little longer still. But even that will fade as the infection spreads.”

For the first time since Eros’ threat, Jason shifts uneasily.

“Now,” the Olympian says, rubbing his hands together, “while watching you two get down and dirty in front of me would be good entertainment—” he leers at them both in a way that makes Jason tense like he’s going to punch him again and Tim consider letting him, “—I don’t have the time. I need the two of you on your game as much as possible if you’re going to help me.”

“Who says we’re going to help you? We could just hand you over to Wonder Woman and have her deal with this. Gods and mythological relics are more her areas of expertise.”

“Ah, but my dear cousin won’t have the same…motivation that you do, darlin’. Unless you want Prince Charming over here to get to the point of losing his mind over you?” Eros tilts his head toward Jason. “I mean, I guess that’s your choice. He is a bit of a douche—”

“I will rip off those wings of yours and stuff them up your—”

Tim grabs Jason and pulls him back a few feet so he can speak to him quietly, but keep an eye on Eros. Almost instantly Jason shoves him off as if he’s just been burned, and Tim raises his hands in surrender.

“Arguing with him obviously isn’t going to do anything,” he informs him.

“He’s obviously lying—trying to mess with us to do his bidding.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Until we know if this is truth or a bluff, we need to put him in a safe location. He needs to be tried for the thefts, regardless of his reasons. And since he has abilities, we’ll need a facility that can cancel-out meta powers.”

“Just keep him the fuck out of Belle Reve,” Jason grumbles. “We don’t need him ending up as one of Waller’s not-so-secret projects.”

“And in the meantime, we monitor your condition,” Tim goes on. “Back at the Cave, B has—”

“I’m not going to the damn Cave.”

“J—Hood, if he’s telling even part of the truth, you could be in trouble.”

“Because I’m going to lose my mind over your scrawny ass? I don’t think so.” He turns away. “Screw this, I’m out. You can figure this out. Gods are above my paygrade.”

He has his grapple gun out and an instant later vanishes into the night. And it’s like any other patrol; barely an acknowledgment of their team-up or thanks or farewell.

“He shouldn’t have done that,” Eros says, shaking his head. “Bad things happen when you repress your desires. It comes out in ugly ways.”

Irritation sparks in Tim.

“That bullet that went through your wing—has it healed yet?” he asks tersely, rummaging in his utility belt as he approaches the Olympian. “I can’t see since they…disappeared.”

“It’s not gushing blood anymore, but there’s still a dirty great hole there. Why?”

Without warning, Tim turns around and sticks a syringe into his neck, careful not to brush any skin accidentally as he pushes down the plunger.

“What the fu—” Eros’ words cut off with a gurgle.

“Just need to know how much time I have before the sedative wears off,” Tim replies. It was designed with Wonder Woman in mind, so he really hopes it’s strong enough.

The Olympian pitches forward. Tim catches him, and curses at the weight he hadn’t expected; wherever those wings are, they still contribute to the body’s overall mass, it seems.

⁂

Jason makes a beeline for his safe house on the Upper West Side; the events of the night have been such a disappointment that he figures he deserves to crash at one of his more comfortable properties. Somewhere with good heating and decent water pressure and a few of his favorite books tucked away.

“Not the leftover pizza I was looking forward to, but it’ll do,” he murmurs to himself. To be honest, his appetite’s all but disappeared in the wake of tonight’s revelations.

Not that Jason is concerned about whatever Eros or Steve or whatever-his-name-is told them. Some guy calls himself the god of love and informs Jason he’s been infected with an unholy desire that’s going to drive him mad and kill him?

“Been there. Done that. And for Drake of all people? Pfft. Please.”

The Condiment King had more credibility.

Besides, even if it was a believable threat, it’s not as if he’s going to just accept it. Jason’s always had issues with other people telling him what to do, and he’s been on the wrong end of Poison Ivy’s concoctions far too often for that. If there’s a chance something’s going to impact or impair his control over his own actions, he’s got a problem with that.

And it’s just…it’s Tim Drake.

Jason has been carefully trying to reconfigure his mental categorization of the guy for years, from ‘Replacement—Must Beat To Death On Sight’, to ‘Timbers—Ally-Possibly-Friend-Kinda-Brother-Sort Of?’. It’s still a work-in-progress figuring out which category he fits in, and Jason doesn’t need to add more complications, such as those that will no doubt ensue if he considers adding any other relationship dimensions.

Not like the kid’s a terrible catch or anything. Jason saw that long before he figured out he isn’t one hundred percent straight. But that was his own discovery, born of conscious choice. Not from someone telling him in plain English that he’s got no choice but to develop a thing for a workaholic pretty-boy Bat with self-esteem issues.

Which means on principle, Jason’s damn well going to fight that. It doesn’t matter that Tim’s intelligent, sarcastic and the right kind of risky, or that he isn’t repulsive or even unattractive—

Jason adamantly cuts off that line of thinking when he realizes where it’s going, touching down on the roof of his building a little harder than necessary.

“Nope. Not going there.”

Talk about a mind-fuck. Asshole Steve got me thinking about it, and now I won’t be able to not think about it whenever I run into the kid.

And isn’t that a keen bit of psychological manipulation?

Luckily, Jason’s been trained by more than one master in the art of avoidance. He forces his attention onto the routine of checking the perimeter and disabling his security system, then slipping into his apartment through the roof-access.

“Hello, safe house,” he mutters out of habit, heading for his bathroom. Once inside, he methodically checks himself for injuries, which are overall minor. The bullet wound in his shoulder is scabbing over already.

He tries to ignore the uneasy clench in his stomach at that and the prevalent thought of that is not a good sign.

He heads for the shower and turns the water on as hot as he can stand, letting it distract him, unwinding the knots and tension holding him together. Once he’s out, he throws on a pair of boxer briefs and settles in the center of his bed to meditate. It takes longer tonight to get his brain and still-racing heartrate to ease, to remember his All-Caste training and seek acceptance in the darkest part of his soul, and the possibility that that will be enough to counteract whatever real or imagined threat was made by the so-called god of love.

Dawn is peeking over Gotham’s horizon when he finally manages to calm himself down and pass out. For once, he sleeps; for once he doesn’t dream of Glasgow smiles and green sludge.

When he wakes up, it’s with odd energy that borders on manic. He powers through his morning workout at full intensity and still has energy left over, which he uses to cook breakfast and a few advance meals that he can stick in the freezer for the next time he holes up here. All his safe houses include have decent food storage since he never knows when lying low is going to translate as ‘disappear completely off the grid for a while.

When he’s still buzzing and raring to go, he decides he can’t put it off any longer. He’s not stupid—has been in the game long enough to know it’s pointless to ignore something completely until you’ve investigated the hell out of it.

Which is how he finds himself down in his would-be-Batcave beneath One Police Plaza running a full set of blood panels and other diagnostics to see if there’s an actual sign of contamination from the tainted bullet. And when everything comes back negative, he even checks in with Doc Thompkins for her two cents worth that nothing is the matter with him. 

“I’m not sure what you want me to tell you, Jason, everything’s coming up normal,” Thompkins tells him. “The only thing I can recommend is the same thing I always do—stop smoking.”

“But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to come see you so you can scold me,” he grins at her, earning an arch look above the rim of her glasses.

Still, he remains antsy even after leaving the clinic and decides he needs to calm his nerves.

There’s a coffee shop on Winchester he’s taken to because they do tea as close to Alfred’s as possible, at least what he’s found in Gotham. The teenaged girl at the counter blushes and laughs nervously at him when he smiles and flirts a bit, and he makes sure to tip well because kids in the service industry are paid nothing for being treated like crap.

Still, it’s hard to stop himself from drumming his fingers against the counter, his innate impatience ratcheted up today. He knows the place is busy and they can only go as fast as they’re going, but—

“An Americano, please. Double shot.”

Jason’s looking before he even realizes it, and for a split second he expects to see Tim there, sleep-deprived and sheepish, but only finds a blond skater kid and he’s—

Not disappointed.

He’s not.

That’s all he needs, is someone in the Family finding out where he goes to get his tea. That might encourage them to try to hang out with him. Especially Dick.

So, no. Not disappointed. Relieved. He’s relieved.

(He avoids wondering when he memorized Tim Drake’s coffee preferences.)

Jason doesn’t stick around the shop like he originally planned, and the tea isn’t as calming as he intended after he practically chugs it and heads out. He spends the day running around town, checking in with his informants in the shadier parts of the city and restocking the medical supplies in his safe houses.

He’s coming out of the one near Robinson Park when he hears a kid shouting— “Mama, look at the baby bird!”—and his head whips around so fast his muscles scream in protest, and what the hell?

Jason turns in the opposite direction and takes the subway.

He’s tense and angry as he returns to the base beneath the police station and spends longer than usual letting out his feelings on the punching bag in his gym. Halfway through, his phone rings and Roy’s face blinks up from the screen.

“Please tell me you have a job,” Jason says in lieu of a greeting.

“What? No. I’m still on vacation.”

“Your life is a vacation.”

“Yeah, that’s why it’s so great.”

That’s said with a bitter twist to his mouth.

“What do you want?”

“I’m working on camouflage field projector, but missing a key component that happens to be in Gotham.” Jason closes his eyes, somehow knowing what’s coming next. “And I figure, you’ve got an in—any chance you put in a good word for me with your little brother? The pretty one on all the TV commercials.”

“Ask him yourself, I’m not a fucking messenger,” Jason growls. “And he’s not my brother.”

He hangs up and glares at his phone, contemplating whether throwing it at the wall will make him feel better.

This is not happening…

The punching bag no longer cutting it, he throws on his gear and heads out for patrol, hoping that will quell the sensation of fire in his blood. Throws himself into it with brutal abandon, the only goal being to take his mind off everything. Violence is the best way to bring him back to the very basest mind frame, where he is focussed only on the thrill of the fight.

It works, for a while.

He hauls a few johns to the curb when they get too rough with the girls, gives a bunch of teens robbing a bodega in his neighborhood something to think about, puts an end to a bar fight when a customer gets handsy with a waitress, stumbles into a domestic dispute with a guy smacking around his kid—

Jason relishes in the sound of broken bones and the reminders of the fact he’s the one in control. It almost seems like he’s getting back to himself by the end of the evening. He feels more himself, less uneasy; there's still something buzzing beneath his skin, but it’s negligible.

See? It was total bull. God of love my ass, he was just messing with my head.

He takes a moment to rest, gazing out across the skyline and digging for a cigarette. One more loop around the neighborhood, and he’ll head home. He’s just turning his back against the wind so he can light the cigarette when he finds himself face to face with Tim Drake.

Or rather, a giant billboard with his face on it, advertising the Neon Knights initiative.

The cigarette drops from his hands.

“This is not happening,” he murmurs, and he’s said that at least once today already, hasn’t he?

But it’s getting ridiculous. Like he’s being shadowed wherever he goes by the specter of Tim, and all because someone else decided to play mind games with him.

Well, screw that. My head’s been messed with enough.

He takes a running leap off the roof, deciding to forgo anymore patrolling. It might be an idea to get out of Gotham for a few days if only to take a break.

But no, he’s not being chased out of his own damn city. No one chases the Red Hood out of Gotham, except on occasion Batman, and that’s not chasing so much as Jason telling Bruce to fuck off and making a pointed exit. And Steve is no Batman.

I’m going to take off a few days. Been wound up the past few weeks anyway, it’s getting to me. Things will go back to normal as soon as I—

His shoulders tense as he recognizes the sensation of eyes on him.

Someone’s following him.

It’s reflex to melt into the shadows of the next building, slipping around so that he can get a good vantage point. If someone’s planning an ambush, he’s more than happy to turn it around on them. And the mood he’s in tonight if it’s someone that can give him an actual fight—

There’s a sound of someone landing on the rooftop, and the whirring of a grapple line retracting. And then Jason zeroes in on the familiar figure in black and red. That strange knot of anxiety he’s been carrying around the whole day lets go as he recognizes him, and in its place, something else springs up, almost like…relief?

Which, no, he should not be relieved to see Red Robin. The only time he should ever be relieved to see the Tim is if he’s in the middle of a duel to the death with the Joker and needs back-up from someone capable of thinking a dozen steps ahead.

Relief is replaced with anger, and Jason lies in wait until Tim alights on the same roof, and then slips forward to grab hold of him. He neatly dodges the other vigilante’s attempts to free himself from the hold and drags him over to the edge of the roof.

“Jason? What the hell—?”

He ignores him and dangles him over the edge, forcing Tim to grasp at his wrist and hold on tight.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t drop you for not following the rules—you remember, the ‘no bats in my territory’ rule? I get that it’s unofficial and all, but it’s still there,” he snarls.

“I—I wanted to check on you!” Tim grunts. “It’s been twenty-four hours, and—”

“And what? Wanted to check if I was ready to jump your malnourished bones yet? Wouldn’t looking for me be a monumentally stupid thing to do if that were the case?” Jason yanks Tim back over the edge and tosses him back onto the roof, gratified to see him stumble as he tries to regain his balance. “I don’t need you pretending you give a shit to ease a guilty conscience of because you think checking up on me is something B would want you to do. Go back to California, Replacement. If I need help, I’ll ask. And chances are, I won’t be asking you.”

Tim’s fists clench, and he’s tense like he’s priming to argue, but after a beat, his shoulders droop and he huffs.

“Fine,” he says in a neutral voice. “Just as long as you ask someone.”

And then he’s grappling off without another word, and it isn’t as cathartic to see the back of him as Jason figured it would be.

Like he has any right to sound concerned…

He should feel better, now that he’s gotten his message across, but he doesn’t. The foul mood continues for the rest of his patrol, which he ends up cutting short because his head is just not in it tonight.

He is deliberate in choosing his safe house in Coventry, figuring he’s less likely to run into Red Robin on patrol there or in general. It’s nowhere near his usual patrol route, or the apartment he owns on Park Row—and fuck him for making Jason want to avoid his own stomping grounds!

It’s just for one night. Until I calm down and can be trusted not to shoot the kid.  

But the nervous, frustrated ball of discomfort in his gut doesn’t go away as he settles in for the night. He doesn’t bother with a shower or cigarette, or—well, his normal way to wind down when feeling like this, because he doesn’t trust himself not to let his mind wander to places it shouldn’t while his hand is on his dick.

It’s more difficult to meditate tonight, and he remains aggravated and angry as he drifts off to sleep.

It should be no surprise that that night, he dreams of Tim for the first time.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #jaytimbingo2019 #fanfic #jaytim fic #batfic #tim drake #jason todd #eros (new earth) #mythology #gods in disguise #violet writes #drama #angst #introspection

[bi-bi-richie]

When We Do Something Crazy I Fall More in Love With You.

Their relationship was never normal.

Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak had never been normal, in a less cringy way.

It all started that fateful day of Eddie’s arranged marriage, all planned by his mother of course.

Eddie had been falling for Richie ever since they finished high school. He had a slight crush on him before then but only after he saw the excitement on Richie face when he found out both him and Eddie were gonna go to the same college was when he realized he loved him. He almost told the trashmouth too, but two months before they left his mother dropped this whole marriage thing on his lap. Her name was Myra, no doubt she’d make Eddie miserable, and she was awful. Now her looks were alright, she wasn’t ugly but she wasn’t terrible. She had long blond hair, dull grey-ish eyes, pale skin, and average height. Even hearing her name made Eddie sick to his stomach, but Richie was a whole other story. Richie was supposed to be Eddie’s best man, he was honored sure but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he’d rather be the bride. He was sad, sluggish, he didn’t wanna function most of the time. He always insisted he was fine though, he promised Eddie he was okay, he said he was excited to watch Eddie get married.

Everything changed the night before the wedding.

Eddie didn’t want a bachelors party, hell he didn’t wanna get married either. He was laying in bed with Richie on his side, they didn’t speak but instead they held hands. It wasn’t anything new to them, in fact they held hands a lot to the point that it felt awkward when they didn’t. Tonight was different considering that if Eddie goes through with this wedding they’d never be able to hold hands again. The thought was terrifying.

“Eddie… look at me.” Richie started shifting his body to get a better look at the boy next to him. Eddie did it of course he could never say no to Richie, he loved Richie. It took everything in Eddie not to cry when he saw the absolute misery in his friend’s eyes. Eddie would’ve given anything to take it away from him, to be his one and only even if for one minute.

“Eds… god you’re so beautiful…” He sucked in a breath, his voice was obviously shaky like he was trying not to cry. “Eddie please don’t do this. Don’t marry her.”

Eddie wasn’t too shocked honestly. He knew this marriage was tearing Richie apart just as much as it was to him. But hearing those words leave the mouth of the man he loves lifted something off of Eddie’s chest. It gave him wings. “I won’t Richie… I won’t.”

Richie gasped out a sob and wrapped his entire body around Eddie’s. Eddie couldn’t take it anymore and pressed his lips on Richie’s. It was a gentle kiss, more loving than anything. Richie let his hand wander into Eddie’s hair to push him closer and his other arm wrapped around his waist. Eddie gripped onto the collar of Richie’s shirt with both hands to pull him closer.

“Eddie, run away with me.” Richie whispered against the smaller boy’s lips. It was an expected statement, Eddie knew that the minute he told Richie he wouldn’t marry Myra that they’d have to escape.

“Richie… Where will we go? How’re we gonna... “ The question died on his tongue as they split apart. He didn’t wanna think about the specifics of it, he didn’t wanna think. Or maybe he did, maybe all he wanted to think about was Richie.

“Pack up Eds. Get everything you need because we’re getting out of here tonight. I’ll text the other Losers now.” Richie hopped off the bed pulling Eddie up with him. The rush of excitement was almost too much for Eddie, he was expecting his name to echo through his head at any minute as if to wake him up. He didn’t wanna wake up either. Eddie would follow Richie to the end of the earth almost so honestly the only thing that could stop him was if this was all fake.

“Hurry Eddie we don’t have much time.” Eddie decided then. Maybe it was the heat of the moment or the determination in his voice or hell, maybe it was the high school crush coming back to him. But Eddie knows now, he wants Richie. He always has.

That night was possibly the best night of their lives. Eddie ignored every text message and phone call from Myra and his mom with a smile on his face. The other Losers met up with them at a little diner outside of town to ditch with them too. Eddie couldn’t bare the thought of leaving Derry without his best friends and there was nothing left for any of the Losers anymore in Derry either. New york is what they settle to run away to. Pretty cliche if you ask any of the Losers but with all the shit they had been through life just needs to be a little cliche.

As they pile into the car at eight thirty (when the wedding was supposed to start) he got calls from almost everyone. Some were numbers he had never even seen before but he kind of just assumes they started sharing numbers. Eddie makes up a game mid way that for every phone call trying to get him to go back to the wedding Richie has to kiss him to remind him why he’s running away. Two hundred and ninety nine kisses later Eddie finally answers the phone, it’s Myra.

“Eddie! Oh my god are you okay? Where are you?! I’m so worried did someone kid-”

“How about you connect me to the speakers yeah? You’re in the church right?”

“Well yes… But Edd-”

“Just do it.” and she does. It takes a minute but Myra finally connects her phone to the music speakers. Richie is sitting next to him watching it play out, he’s amazed in all honesty. Who knew his little Eds would get the balls to stand up so intensely?

“I’m assuming everyone who can hear me is a guest to this wedding right?” He hears his mom cry out from a distance but he ignores her. She won’t ever wanna talk to him again after this.

“Just thought, since I’m not there, you all would like to get what you came for right? A declaration of love? A promise? Well heres your promise fuck heads-” He giggles a bit from the sudden shocked gasps, Richie does too.

“I promise to run away with the person I love, and to love them for as fucking long as I live. I promise I’ll be there for them forever and ever. I love one person and I plan on loving them for the rest of my life, that person is Richie fucking Tozier.” Richie let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, suddenly Eddie isn’t looking at the phone in anger anymore. He’s looking at Richie with pure love in his eyes. Richie realized in that moment that he also loved Eddie. He loved Eddie Kaspbrak, and Eddie Kaspbrak loved Richie Tozier.

“I’ve been gay since I met this fucker and nobody is gonna change that. Fuck all of you by the way. Oh hey mom, there’s no pill to fix this shit. I wouldn’t plan on waiting for me to show up back in Derry any time soon. See ya fuckers!” Right before he pressed the end call button Richie yanked the phone from his hands and pulled it right up to his ear.

“You heard the man! Richie Tozier has claimed his love, don’t worry Sonia I always enjoyed our nights together.” that earned him a hit to his gut, “oof! Warning next time Eds! Anyway just wanted to say that I too hated all of you and all of my love has gone to the little spaghetti next to me. Myra, you can go fuck yourself. Over and out mother fuckers!”

They were both out of breath by the time the call finally ended. Richie expects Eddie to cry, he expects the reality to set in and take over Eddie. But Eddie giggled. Eddie giggled and then burst into unbelievable, relieved, fuck-you-I’m-on-top-of-the-world laughter. Richie has never felt so in love.

“I love you so much Richie!” He yelled pulling his boyfriend’s head to his so he could kiss him. Richie gladly accepted his lips and placed his hands on his head to guide the kiss. When they pull away they rest their heads on each other’s forehead.

“I love you too Eddie.”

#Reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it 2017 #the losers club