Please look under the information tab for prompt rules/policies.
No. Seriously. Read them, please, it's not that hard.
© All copyrighted materials posted on this personal blog are for the sole purposes of documenting and illustrating my interests. All rights are reserved and respected to their original copyright owners. No copyright infringement of any kind is intended.
Anon wanted Mafia!AU. But this time it’s more fluffy than badass. Sorry anon, listening to Michael Buble on loop tends to make me write fluff.
From now on the official soundtrack for my Mafia!AU writing will come from Mr. Buble. Whenever I listen to him all I see are those boys in their suits and omg a fedora lol.
Jason throws back a shot.
Today he died.
(It wasn’t pretty).
And he can. He can feel it in his bones. In his guts. He can feel it.
Each swing of the crowbar. The bomb. The heat.
Today he should be dead.
Instead he’s moping on the large leather couch in his penthouse drinking like there’s no fucking tomorrow.
Don’t get him wrong, he’s thankful he lived. But shit.
Nothing like remembering the anniversary of your near-death.
There’s snow falling outside the windows. It’s cold, but Jason is burning. He can remember it. How can he forget?
Jason is covered in scars. And burns. He flexes his hand, he can see the small web of raised skin move with his bones.
Jason reaches out to pour another shot when a slender hand rests on top of his.
Unmarred, slender, and white. Snow.
Jason follows the path of the arm, bare for once, travels to the shoulder and to the neck and the face.
Blue eyes and dark lashes.
“What are you doing, Jason?”
Jason curls his hand and Tim’s curls on top of his, following the movement of his hand. Tim presses his lips to Jason’s shoulder, neck, jaw, ear.
“Are you upset?”
“You look upset. Who do I need to kill?”
That brings a slight smirk to Jason’s lips.
“No one, just stay here with me.” Tim steps around the arm of the couch and slides onto Jason’s lap. Draws Jason’s hand away from his glass and into his own lap, toys with the fingers. Eyes blue and dark.
Jason raises a hand and traces the outline of Tim’s face, watches the blue eyes slide closed and lips part in a sigh.
Tim is in one of his rare sleeveless shirts. Jason can see his long limbs, unmarked. And Jason’s hand looks vulgar in it’s coarseness, in comparison.
He begins to pull his hand away when Tim leans forward, following the movement of Jason’s retreat.
His eyes open again.
Smiles and laughs a little, his nose wrinkles. A playful request.
Jason obliges and continues his soft petting. Runs his hands over smooth skin, beautiful, untouched (except for him). His. Safe. Constant.
Tim continues to play with his fingers. Long and thin interlocking with large and scarred.
He’s not wearing his gloves either.
“Are you feeling better yet?”
Jason blinks. Tim tilts his head, onto Jason’s shoulder.
“You like it, when you can touch my skin. Like this. It calms you down. Just like in the hospital. After.”
Jason remembers, the hospital, after. Not much, but he remembers, enough.
Tim’s smile is soft, warm. His eyes are unsure.
Not at all like how he normally is. Not like Jason’s Princess.
“…It’s stupid to mope.” Tim shakes his head.
“No. I. I was. I was remembering today. Too. And. I didn’t want you to see me cry. But. Give me a moment.”
Tim turns his face away and Jason can feel the tears, on his palm. Tim tries to stand but Jason won’t let go. Not today. Not ever.
“Don’t look. I look hideous when I cry.” Jason leans forward, pulls Tim closer and turns his face.
Tim shakes his head.
“Hey. No. Don’t look away from me. Please.”
Jason memorizes Tim’s face.
“Beautiful, I love you. The way you look. And. Don’t change. Don’t you ever, ever change.”
Tim laughs, eyes and face wet, but his laugh is bright.
“You’re incredible. Flattering me while I’m crying, really, Jason?”
“I can’t help it, beautiful, it’s the way you look tonight.”