always with the Dick jokes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irrelevant) wrote2011-04-27 09:46 am
irrelevant) wrote2011-04-27 09:46 am
Entry tags:
[fic] don't Bogart the Bat logo, dude (DCU)
don’t Bogart the Bat logo, dude
DC comics | Tim Drake/Kon-El | NC-17 | ~4800 words
notes: For Meg, the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
batstalker, with ♥. Her prompt was boxers. This is… smutty humor, I guess. Humorous smut? Also, yes, I really am this juvenile.
“Look, I get it, okay? Best friends forever, brothers in arms, what’s mine is yours and all that good stuff,” Kon says as he floats through the door. “But dude. That’s my underwear.” He touches down beside the desk, folds his arms, and gives Tim his best Superman-says-I-don’t-think-so look.
Tim doesn’t uncurl from his hunched-over position, but he does look up from his laptop and blink at Kon. Which is less of a reaction than he was hoping for, but since he was expecting Tim to ignore him, he’ll take it.
And now that he’s got Tim’s attention... “If you cut your hair, you wouldn’t have to hold it off your face like that.”
Tim blinks again. “You keep telling me to get a haircut. According to Bart, you’re jealous.”
It's Kon's turn to blink. He can feel himself doing it, and it's a stupid reaction, but seriously, “What?”
“Hair envy,” Tim explains. “You want to let yours grow, but that would mean the curl and a closer resemblance to Superman. Your need to be recognized as a separate person in both your private and public lives is extant, and subconsciously or not, you won’t do anything that detracts from your self image. But you still feel resentment and I’m a friend. You don’t want me experiencing the joys of long hair if you can’t.” He smiles. Sort of. “Venting on the people you’re close to is a textbook reaction.”
For a second, Kon just stares, because that’s… that is… “That,” he says, “is more fucked up than Bart’s last theory about the dinosaurs and Luthor.”
Tim makes a noise Kon learned years ago is a laugh, not a cough, and finishes pushing his hair out of his face. He half-turns in his chair and looks up at Kon, head tilted to one side. “You were saying something about underwear?”
Right. “You’re wearing my Bat boxers,” Kon points out for the second time. “What’s up with that?”
Tim hikes an eyebrow. “No spare clothes.” He glances at the closet, then back up at Kon. “I took mine with me when I left the team. Most of it wouldn’t fit now, anyway.”
And there’s one gaping pit of doom they’re both dying to avoid. “Right,” Kon says, out loud this time, and shifts his weight to his other foot.
If he didn't have a deep and abiding suspicion that Tim is amused by all this, he’d probably do a little floating. But Tim is definitely amused. His eyebrow is still up, and the corner of his mouth is twitching, and Kon… can’t keep his big mouth shut.
“Why those?” he says. “I’ve got others and those are my—” He shuts his mouth down on favorite at the same time the corner of Tim’s mouth twitches again, and Kon fondly remembers the good old days when Tim used to wear a domino in the Tower twenty-four seven. Old because that was two lives ago. Good because at least then he couldn’t see the expectant mockery in Tim’s smirking eyes; he only had to imagine it.
“Yes?” Tim’s voice is as good as a question mark, and his eyes are still—
Smirking, shit, who the hell has eyes that smirk? Nobody but Tim, Kon is ready and willing to take that bet. “Forget it,” he mumbles without much hope. Tim never forgets anything, especially not if it involves someone else’s stupidity. He’s as bad as any ex that way.
He must not be in freak-Kon-out mode today, though, because all he says is, “Mmn.” He turns back to his computer, and Kon’s beginning to think he’s off the hook... and Tim starts talking again. “How long has it been since you did laundry?”
So maybe he was slightly hasty about the not freaking him out thing. He takes advantage of Tim’s turned back to float toward the ceiling, suspiciously eyeing the top of Tim’s head the whole way. “Why?”
“Because,” Tim says, typetty-type-typing away, “it was either these—” he stops typing long enough to tap his boxer-covered thigh— “Or the pair with half-naked Wendy the Werewolf Stalkers on them.”
That burning sensation? That would be the tips of his ears turning bright red.
“I would have borrowed a pair of Bart’s,” Tim adds oh so casually, “but his clothes are a size too small for me. And he goes commando when he’s in civvies.”
Fingers in his ears, Kon drops from the ceiling onto the bed with a thump that rattles the rest of the furniture and Tim’s laptop against the desk. “I can’t hear you,” he lies, “so you can shut up now.”
“Except,” Tim says inexorably, “when he wears a thong. Most of them are lace.”
Sometimes, having superhearing sucks. “Just so you know,” Kon says, “if I have nightmares, I’m suing you for undue mental distress.”
“Bart might take your case,” Tim says absently. “He’s reading the law library at Harvard today.” When Kon looks over, he’s got a tiny frown line running down the middle of his forehead, like he just read something he really did not like. “Do you need to be here right now?”
Kon rolls onto his side and frowns at Tim’s profile. “Yeah, duh? You promised me a MST3K marathon last month. Still waiting.”
“Hmn.”
“Like I’m still waiting for you to ditch the freaky cowl.”
Tim makes the laugh-cough noise again. “You want to discuss unfortunate costume choices? With me?”
Uh-oh.
“You used to think hipster belts and red gloves were the last word in superhero style.”
“That was long time ago!” Kon protests.
“Were you or were you not wearing your old shades during the cephalopod invasion last week?”
“Busted,” Kon mutters.
“Case rested,” Tim murmurs. “I’m almost done. Shut up for five minutes.”
“Whatever,” Kon agrees. It’s easier (and safer) than the alternative. He flops back down on his back and stares at the ceiling. “You have cobwebs.”
“Five minutes, not five seconds.”
“Whatever.” Cobwebs, but no spiders. They probably died of boredom, too. “Did I already say I’m glad you’re back?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I take it—”
“I’m glad you’re back, too. Clone boy.”
Kon turns his head on the pillow. Tim is smirking at his screen.
“You know, I used to worry about you,” Kon says. “You were always miming it up when you weren’t bossing us around. Now I can't figure out how to shut you back up.”
“You could always—” Tim stops talking abruptly, his mouth folding in on itself like an iron envelope. Kon sits up on the bed.
“I could what?”
“Nothing,” Tim says, and starts clicking things.
Worst redirection of the subject ever, and does Tim actually expect him to lose interest now? “Tim, come on—”
“I’m done,” Tim cuts him off and stands up, shoving the chair back and closing his laptop as he does. “Watch in here or in the common room?” He turns toward Kon as he speaks, and he’s stretching, back arched, fingers locked together behind his head. Kon’s boxers are loose on him, hanging off his hipbones, and Kon—
Blinks.
Because, whoa. Hair.
Not much, and not everywhere. There are two dark, narrow slashes in the hollows of Tim’s pits, although that’s nothing new. They’ve showered and swum together enough that he remembers them, that he thought he remembered, well, everything.
Everything except for the tiny, silky line starting on Tim’s lower belly and disappearing down into Kon’s low-riding Bat boxers.
“Uh,” he says, and he hears Tim’s cough-laugh and realizes he’s staring. He jerks his head up, farther up than he used to have to, but he stalls out on the way to Tim’s face. Because there’s a lot in between Tim’s waistline and his face, and now Kon’s noticing that along with the hair and the height, Tim’s gotten all kinds of more all over.
It’s not that he’s bulkier. He’s not. His build hasn’t changed, it’s just… grown up along with the rest of him. He’s tighter, harder, even more defined than he used to be, which is impressive considering the shape he was in back then.
And Kon is still staring. He knows it, and his brain keeps telling him he needs to stop, but his eyes keep catching on little things, the tiny physical details of Tim Drake, Conner Kent’s best friend, and it isn’t doing him any good to remind himself of anything. Tim’s just that distracting, and Kon keeps finding new things to get distracted by.
Like Tim’s nipples, small ovals of color startling against Tim’s really-needs-a-tan skin; or the shadow of a line bisecting his abs: it starts at his sternum and hooks up way down his belly with that line of hair—
“My face is up here,” Tim says, serious and seriously not, and Kon’s ears are burning again.
Lifting his head is easy. It’s also harder than trying to lift a kryptonite moon. His brain feels sluggish, almost reluctant, the way it did after Luthor flipped his switch, but Kon’s smarter than Luthor’s games. He’s stronger than kryptonite reluctance. He forces his chin up, and Tim’s eyes are on him, amused and really blue.
And Kon knew that. He did. Everyone knows all the Wayne boys look like smaller versions of their dad, even the adopted ones. Especially the adopted ones. Tim has black hair and blue eyes, and Kon knows – no, he knew that.
Except for how he didn’t, and Tim’s standing there with his blue eyes and his bare abs and naked pits, and he’s nothing Kon knows, like nothing he’s ever seen. He’s wearing Kon’s Bat logo boxers and nothing else, and he’s not.
Wearing.
A mask.
“Oh shit,” Kon blurts, and Tim lowers his arms and raises his eyebrows. Both of them.
“Conner?”
“Blue.” Wow, that could have been so much smoother. Apparently, Tim agrees.
His eyes narrow sharply, focusing in on Kon, and he says, “Conner?” again. Really soft, like a guy trying not to set off a bomb. Not amused. Not anymore. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to start researching alien plagues or break out the kryptonite batarangs. “Is there a problem?”
“No.” But it comes out cracked and high and not him. Tim takes a step toward the bed, all frowny eyebrows and flatlined mouth, and Kon is – okay, he’s starting to get a little pissed. He gets that Tim’s worried and he’s cool with that. But he’s having an epiphanical moment here, and Tim needs to respect that.
Tim doesn’t know that, though, and it’s looking like the batarangs are winning. Kon gets his shit together. He grins (hopes he does) and tries to clear his throat without sounding like that’s what he’s doing. “I’m… yeah, I’m—”
“Something unspecified,” Tim says, and now he’s frowning, looking him over. Studying him like he thinks he’s the one with x-ray vision.
Actually, it kind of feels like he is. Kon props himself up on his elbows and tries not to squirm, but basically, he’s screwed. Tim’s way too observant to miss the stuff Kon would like him to.
And he knows when Tim gets there because his eyes stop moving for a second. Just one, like a blip in a running program, a pause so small only someone who knows Tim would notice. Kon almost wishes he didn’t know him so well, because then he wouldn’t have to meet Tim’s eyes knowing Tim knows he’s hard.
Blue. Really, really fucking blue, and why is he so stuck on Tim’s eyes when he’s sitting in front of him staring like some stupid Robin fanboy who can’t control his dick.
“Superboy,” Tim says quietly in a voice Kon knows in his bones. The Legion didn’t need all that fancy crystal path-finding, he thinks, sure he’s finally lost it, whatever it is. All they needed was Tim.
They should have hauled Tim into the future so he could tell Kon to get his lazy ass up out of the ice, because the only time Kon wouldn’t respond to that voice saying, “Sit-rep,” is if he was all the way dead. Mostly dead would have been easy.
“I’m cool,” Kon croaks, and man, what is he, a frog? Feels like he’s got one in his throat, anyway. He tries coughing it out, and for a second it budges. Then Tim looks him in the eye, and it’s game over.
Tim’s got his big scary Bat-freak face on, the one that only really works for Batman numero uno, but on Tim it’s so close it doesn’t matter that he’s half Wayne’s size and not even wearing a mask, much less his cowl.
“Luthor?” inquires Tim’s inner Bat.
“No, man,” Kon’s frog croaks, “Seriously, I’m—”
“Poison Ivy. She was in Smallville last month, I know—”
“Yeah, because I told you.” Beat it, frog breath, Kon thinks. He makes himself sit up, wills his hard-on down, and his voice sounds almost normal when he says, “I think I finally figured out why you stopped wearing the mask all the time.”
The Look cracks right down the middle of Tim’s frown line. “What?”
“It’s not because we knew who you were.” Tim’s really frowning now. Kon’s starting to enjoy himself, and not just because the frog seems to be gone. “You loved wearing that stupid thing, admit it,” he says, grinning. “You only stopped because you figured out how to make people think you were wearing it even when you weren’t.”
Tim’s jaw doesn’t drop or anything. That’s not Tim. He just gets really still and his eyes get kind of… Kon wants to say panicked, but that’s not it. More like someone going into shock. “I… what?”
If he’s repeating himself, it must be shock. Kon starts laughing. “Dude, I can almost see the cape.”
Tim visibly draws a breath and lets it out. The ten tons of tension sitting on Kon’s chest crack and fall away. “Not mind control,” Tim says, almost to himself.
“Yeah, great big nada on the mind control front.” Tim’s shoulders have stopped looking like approaching Armageddon, and Kon would blow out a breath of relief, but he doesn’t want to freeze the room. “I’m clean,” he says instead, and Tim nods.
The frown is still there, though. Tim’s eyes flick towards Kon’s (back to normal, thank Clark for teaching him how to control his blood flow) crotch, then back up to Kon’s face. “Why?” he says.
Next up on the list of conversations Kon absolutely does not want to have, ever… “Why what?” he says, the exact opposite of smart. Playing dumb isn’t the best plan in his game book, but at the moment it’s what he has.
Tim folds his arms over his (still bare) chest. The Bat look is creeping back. “That’s not a reaction I generally associate with this type of situation. If an outside agent isn’t the cause, then…?” Again with the eyebrow.
“You look amazing in my Bat boxers?” is the only thing Kon can think of to say. It’s also the right thing to say, if distraction is the game plan, and even if it isn’t, Kon’s willing to go with the flow.
Tim is frowning down at the boxers. “Where did you get these?”
Distraction maneuver, code name Bat boxers is a go. “Are you saying you guys are the only ones who can have bats on your boxers?” Kon demands. “How is that fair?”
Tim transfers his frown to Kon. “Not all bats are the Bat symbol. And this is a poor example of the design.”
“Hey, man, they were a present from your big bro,” Kon drawls. “Knock me, knock the Bat Dick, and I know you don’t want to do that.”
Tim’s laughter flies out of him, as startled as the look in his eyes, as real as the bed under Kon. He sounds amazing and he looks fantastic, and Kon is ripping holes in the spread trying to keep from reaching for him. “C’mere,” he hears someone say, and when Tim’s eyebrows hit the roof, he realizes someone was him. “If you want to,” he amends light-speed quick.
So much for distraction.
Tim’s eyebrows dive back down into a deep V. They’re getting a real workout today. Just as well, since the rest of him doesn’t look like it’s going to be moving any time soon. “Conner,” he says, patient and suspicious and if-this-a-joke-you’re-a-dead-clone-boy, “What are you doing?”
Kon slouches back against the pillow and tries to look innocent and harmless. It’s not as easy as it should be, given that Tim’s still mostly naked and he’s getting hard again, which probably hasn’t escaped Tim’s notice.
“Does it matter?” he says, and if he sounds distracted, that’s because parts of him totally are.
Tim's face is half turned away, his lips tight, curled in on his words as if he wants to trap them, keep them in his mouth. "Yes," he finally says, “Yes, it matters,” pushing the words out through the trap of his lips. And Kon doesn't need another reminder of how annoying Tim can be when he wants to, but it looks like he going to get one anyway.
“Are you freaking?” he asks, point blank because at this point there is no point in equivocation.
“No.”
Kon runs a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull. Trying to get intel he doesn’t want to share out of Tim is a lot like trying to get a fresh bone away from Krypto, but— “Best friends forever,” Kon says under his breath, and tries again. “I don’t want this to be a problem,” he says, watching Tim’s profile. “It doesn’t have to be. You stretched, I reacted. End of story.”
“You just got back,” Tim says, and looks at him.
It should be a non sequitur. It isn’t.
Kon shuts his mouth on whatever he was going to say. He doesn’t know what it was, but it wouldn’t matter if he did. He says, “I’m not going anywhere.” Forces it past the revivified frog in his throat, and once the words are out there where they can both hear them and know they’re true it’s like coming up out of the chrysalis all over again.
And Tim is still looking at him. He hasn’t looked away once. “Room,” Tim says, still not looking away from Kon, “Code BX83351.”
As far as Kon can tell, the only result is that the windows get opaque. “What was that?” he asks.
“Lead-coated liner,” Tim says. “And the door. You never lock yours.”
So that’s why he sometimes can’t see in Tim’s windows. He checks, and yeah, the walls are lined too. “You are a sneaky, paranoid freak,” he says. “Also, you still look amazing in my boxers. Even if they suck.”
“I know,” Tim agrees, and then he smiles, Red Robin’s smile, and Kon’s brain checks out, possibly for good.
He says, “Bwuh?” and Tim is still smirking, he’s walking towards him, and already this is so much better than a MST3K marathon.
Or it would be if—
“Wait,” Kon says, and swallows. His throat feels like he’s been breathing the Sahara, and he’d know: he’s only flown over it, like, a zillion times. “Can you stay like that? Just for a second?”
Tim stops, the worry line back between his eyebrows. “You want me to stand here?” he says.
“Yeah,” Kon says, “just like that.” He sees Tim’s mouth shaping a word, probably why, but by then he’s sitting up on the side of the bed. He’s reaching, curling his hands around Tim’s half-exposed hipbones. He’s pulling Tim in to stand between his legs and pressing his mouth against that teasing line of hair. It’s soft but not quite as soft as Kon expected, and Tim is sucking in a sharp breath, caving his abdomen in under Kon’s mouth.
It’s hard to hide an erection when you’re wearing somebody else’s too-big boxers. Tim is failing hard at it.
“I am never washing these again,” Kon says. “It’s Wendy the Werewolf Stalker or nothing from now on," he adds, and he feels Tim’s abdomen quiver and jerk in time with his laughter. He rubs his thumb experimentally down the length of Tim’s cock and Tim’s breathing hitches and then his abs are jerking and jumping again, but not because he’s laughing. The patch of yellow fabric stretched over his cockhead looks almost—
Kon slides his thumb up to check, and oh yeah, wet.
Tim’s hands have been doing a kind of midair hovering thing, but suddenly they’re moving. They’re clamping down on Kon’s shoulders, and it’s a good thing Kon is Superboy because Tim has really strong hands.
Kon tips his head back, grinning up at what looks a lot like desperation. He rubs again and Tim’s hands dig in until Kon can feel the individual impression of each finger. Tim’s dick twitches in his hand. When he looks back down, the tiny patch of wet is starting to spread. “You like that?” he says, and Tim’s breath rushes out along with his voice.
He hisses, “Yes, Kon,” and Kon laughs and tugs, and the boxers go away, they slide away down Tim’s legs to the floor. Tim’s dick curves hard and hot into Kon’s hand, slippery under his thumb at the tip, and Tim’s hands are tightening again.
Kon hears Tim's breath catch. He looks back up, and that—
“Fuck.” He knows he said it, that’s his voice, hoarse with want. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
Head back, eyes shut, backward arched tight everywhere, exposed and obvious, showing everything, beautiful. Pushing his hips out at Kon, shoving his dick hard into Kon’s gripping hand, and Kon lets him. Makes himself Tim’s support. His shoulders for Tim’s hands, his hands on Tim’s hip and his dick, and Tim pushes like he can’t help himself, and his chin drops: he’s looking down at Kon out of slitted eyes, watching his dick move in and out of the tight circle of Kon’s hand.
His eyes are narrowed blue desperation, and Kon feels like if he looks away the blue will disappear for good down the dark holes of Tim’s pupils. So he keeps looking. He holds and he strokes and he says, “God, Tim, yeah,” and Tim’s mouth parts. His throat works like he wants to say something back and can’t. He curls forward and the movement pushes a choked noise out of him, and Kon slides his hand down from Tim's hip and up the inside of his thigh, watching the pulse beating erratically in the hollow of his throat. He cups Tim's sac, tight and drawn up, and Tim's breathing hitches again--
Kon watches it happen. Tim's orgasm, happening in his eyes, pupils narrowing, blue rims blowing out as he bites down on his lower lip, breath and strangled sound sobbing out through his clenched teeth. Kon squeezes, Tim's dick and his balls, and Tim's hands bear down on Kon's shoulders. His dick jerks once in Kon’s hand and he’s coming all over Kon’s fingers.
Kon stares at his hand, glistening wet with Tim’s semen; at the head of Tim’s dick, slick and messy, and he has vague, hazy ideas about licking something – Tim’s dick or maybe his bony hip – but Tim doesn’t give him the chance. His fingers curl tightly around Kon’s wrist, pulling Kon’s hand gently and inexorably away from his dick.
He leans down until his eyes are on a level with Kon’s. Then he leans forward, still looking at Kon, and sucks two of Kon’s slick, come-saturated fingers into his mouth.
Brainless staring seems to be Kon’s designated MO for the day, so he stares, mind blank, while Tim cleans his hand with his tongue. Tim stares back. When he’s finished he drops Kon's hand, licks his lips and straightens, stretching.
True to form, and to his erect, aching cock, Kon stares some more and thinks about Nightwing and flexibility and how Tim seems to be taking a page from his older brother’s book.
Then Tim shoves him down on the bed and climbs on top of him, and Kon’s too busy getting kissed to care about anything else, even if the else happens to be Dick Grayson’s ass.
Tim tastes like he’s been chewing on his mechanical pencil and he kisses like he wants to own Kon’s mouth. Kon doesn’t care about the first, and he’s completely down with the second. He opens his mouth and lets Tim do whatever he wants.
It works well for both of them. Tim is breathing harder than normal when he pulls away, and even Kon’s feeling a little winded.
Tim props himself up over Kon on his hands and says, “Your mouth.”
“What?” Kon says, and he’ll admit he doesn’t sound all that together – he gets like that when he can feel his balls turning blue. But Tim is smirking in a way that means nothing good for anyone, especially not for Kon, so he’s kind of distracted.
“You could always use your mouth,” Tim says, looking down at Kon from under his lashes, sneaky, hot little freak that he is. “To shut me up. That’s what I was going to say earlier.”
“Oh,” Kon says, and Houston, we have mental degradation in progress, all the way from not together to phenomenal cosmic stupidity in two seconds flat. “I could do that,” he says, not really paying attention to what he’s saying. He’s too busy staring at Tim’s mouth, but not too busy to notice that Tim’s nipples are hard; tiny, distracting dark points—
“Or I could use mine,” Tim says, and flattens his palms on Kon’s abs, and pushes himself backwards.
Kon watches him do it. It's not like he's capable of anything involving higher thought processes. Speech, for example. “You—you could…” He hears his voice trail off, and Tim is still smirking, and he’s also sliding, down Kon, sliding Kon’s zipper down, and he—
“That, you could definitely do—Jesus, Rob, your mouth—”
--
Yeah. That.
--
Later, when blue balls are no longer impending and he’s a much happier clone boy, Kon lays on his back with his hands behind his head, grinning up at the ceiling. Up through the ceiling. Looks like Tim wasn’t as thorough with the lead as he could’ve been. “Dude, Solstice is looking a billion times more amazing since she started training with Ravager, and she was already insanely hot.”
“Stop invading Kiran’s privacy,” Tim says, and creams him with a pillow without turning over.
Heh, pregnable. Must be taking lessons from Cass. Kon rubs his chest and tries again. “Remember the earring?”
Immediately, Tim rolls over and up onto his elbow and frowns at him. “You’re not going to start wearing that again,” he says flatly.
“Nah,” Kon says, “that hoop was way ‘90s. I was thinking more along the lines of a stud. I mean, go with what you know, right?”
Tim is reaching for his pillow, but Kon grabs him and rolls them over. He pushes out with the awesome, amazing, extremely handy power of his tactile telekinesis against Tim’s inner thighs, spreads them then settles between them, and he can feel his own smirk as clearly as he can see Tim's frown. “Your sense of humor still sucks, wonder boy.”
“And yours is still juvenile in the extreme.” But his mouth is twitching as he says it. Kon watches every twitch, feeling a little like a super-powered mouse getting hypnotized by a vampire bat.
“Oh man,” he breathes, “don’t do that. My brain tanks when you do that.”
Tim’s mouth stops twitching and settles into a smug curve. “Interesting,” he says, and reaches up, pushing his hair out of his face, and yeah, he’s totally getting a haircut if Kon has to do it himself. “I’ll need to duplicate the experiment, of course. A single test result isn’t a reliable—”
“Stud,” Kon interrupts, and he thinks Tim may be shuddering a little, but it’s so faint he could be wrong.
There’s a dangerous light in Tim’s eyes. Kon knows that light, has seen it a thousand times before, and he loves it and is pretty much terrified of it at the same time. And Tim’s smiling, and it matches the rest of his expression, and now Kon is the one shuddering.
Tim’s expression turns thoughtful, which is... actually more terrifying than the smile. “You are what you wear?”
Kon doesn’t bother replying. He’s fresh out of comebacks. He leans in and shuts Tim up in the Tim-approved manner, because Tim’s right about test results: one doesn’t add up to much. What worked last time might not work a second or a third, or hey, even a fourth…
Also, variables. He’s pretty sure there needs to be a lot of different variables. Bat logo boxers aren’t really a sure thing, either. He foresees much scientific experimentation in their mutual future.
Batman, he thinks as Tim hitches a leg over his hip and takes control of the kiss, would be so proud.
DC comics | Tim Drake/Kon-El | NC-17 | ~4800 words
notes: For Meg, the
batstalker, with ♥. Her prompt was boxers. This is… smutty humor, I guess. Humorous smut? Also, yes, I really am this juvenile. “Look, I get it, okay? Best friends forever, brothers in arms, what’s mine is yours and all that good stuff,” Kon says as he floats through the door. “But dude. That’s my underwear.” He touches down beside the desk, folds his arms, and gives Tim his best Superman-says-I-don’t-think-so look.
Tim doesn’t uncurl from his hunched-over position, but he does look up from his laptop and blink at Kon. Which is less of a reaction than he was hoping for, but since he was expecting Tim to ignore him, he’ll take it.
And now that he’s got Tim’s attention... “If you cut your hair, you wouldn’t have to hold it off your face like that.”
Tim blinks again. “You keep telling me to get a haircut. According to Bart, you’re jealous.”
It's Kon's turn to blink. He can feel himself doing it, and it's a stupid reaction, but seriously, “What?”
“Hair envy,” Tim explains. “You want to let yours grow, but that would mean the curl and a closer resemblance to Superman. Your need to be recognized as a separate person in both your private and public lives is extant, and subconsciously or not, you won’t do anything that detracts from your self image. But you still feel resentment and I’m a friend. You don’t want me experiencing the joys of long hair if you can’t.” He smiles. Sort of. “Venting on the people you’re close to is a textbook reaction.”
For a second, Kon just stares, because that’s… that is… “That,” he says, “is more fucked up than Bart’s last theory about the dinosaurs and Luthor.”
Tim makes a noise Kon learned years ago is a laugh, not a cough, and finishes pushing his hair out of his face. He half-turns in his chair and looks up at Kon, head tilted to one side. “You were saying something about underwear?”
Right. “You’re wearing my Bat boxers,” Kon points out for the second time. “What’s up with that?”
Tim hikes an eyebrow. “No spare clothes.” He glances at the closet, then back up at Kon. “I took mine with me when I left the team. Most of it wouldn’t fit now, anyway.”
And there’s one gaping pit of doom they’re both dying to avoid. “Right,” Kon says, out loud this time, and shifts his weight to his other foot.
If he didn't have a deep and abiding suspicion that Tim is amused by all this, he’d probably do a little floating. But Tim is definitely amused. His eyebrow is still up, and the corner of his mouth is twitching, and Kon… can’t keep his big mouth shut.
“Why those?” he says. “I’ve got others and those are my—” He shuts his mouth down on favorite at the same time the corner of Tim’s mouth twitches again, and Kon fondly remembers the good old days when Tim used to wear a domino in the Tower twenty-four seven. Old because that was two lives ago. Good because at least then he couldn’t see the expectant mockery in Tim’s smirking eyes; he only had to imagine it.
“Yes?” Tim’s voice is as good as a question mark, and his eyes are still—
Smirking, shit, who the hell has eyes that smirk? Nobody but Tim, Kon is ready and willing to take that bet. “Forget it,” he mumbles without much hope. Tim never forgets anything, especially not if it involves someone else’s stupidity. He’s as bad as any ex that way.
He must not be in freak-Kon-out mode today, though, because all he says is, “Mmn.” He turns back to his computer, and Kon’s beginning to think he’s off the hook... and Tim starts talking again. “How long has it been since you did laundry?”
So maybe he was slightly hasty about the not freaking him out thing. He takes advantage of Tim’s turned back to float toward the ceiling, suspiciously eyeing the top of Tim’s head the whole way. “Why?”
“Because,” Tim says, typetty-type-typing away, “it was either these—” he stops typing long enough to tap his boxer-covered thigh— “Or the pair with half-naked Wendy the Werewolf Stalkers on them.”
That burning sensation? That would be the tips of his ears turning bright red.
“I would have borrowed a pair of Bart’s,” Tim adds oh so casually, “but his clothes are a size too small for me. And he goes commando when he’s in civvies.”
Fingers in his ears, Kon drops from the ceiling onto the bed with a thump that rattles the rest of the furniture and Tim’s laptop against the desk. “I can’t hear you,” he lies, “so you can shut up now.”
“Except,” Tim says inexorably, “when he wears a thong. Most of them are lace.”
Sometimes, having superhearing sucks. “Just so you know,” Kon says, “if I have nightmares, I’m suing you for undue mental distress.”
“Bart might take your case,” Tim says absently. “He’s reading the law library at Harvard today.” When Kon looks over, he’s got a tiny frown line running down the middle of his forehead, like he just read something he really did not like. “Do you need to be here right now?”
Kon rolls onto his side and frowns at Tim’s profile. “Yeah, duh? You promised me a MST3K marathon last month. Still waiting.”
“Hmn.”
“Like I’m still waiting for you to ditch the freaky cowl.”
Tim makes the laugh-cough noise again. “You want to discuss unfortunate costume choices? With me?”
Uh-oh.
“You used to think hipster belts and red gloves were the last word in superhero style.”
“That was long time ago!” Kon protests.
“Were you or were you not wearing your old shades during the cephalopod invasion last week?”
“Busted,” Kon mutters.
“Case rested,” Tim murmurs. “I’m almost done. Shut up for five minutes.”
“Whatever,” Kon agrees. It’s easier (and safer) than the alternative. He flops back down on his back and stares at the ceiling. “You have cobwebs.”
“Five minutes, not five seconds.”
“Whatever.” Cobwebs, but no spiders. They probably died of boredom, too. “Did I already say I’m glad you’re back?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I take it—”
“I’m glad you’re back, too. Clone boy.”
Kon turns his head on the pillow. Tim is smirking at his screen.
“You know, I used to worry about you,” Kon says. “You were always miming it up when you weren’t bossing us around. Now I can't figure out how to shut you back up.”
“You could always—” Tim stops talking abruptly, his mouth folding in on itself like an iron envelope. Kon sits up on the bed.
“I could what?”
“Nothing,” Tim says, and starts clicking things.
Worst redirection of the subject ever, and does Tim actually expect him to lose interest now? “Tim, come on—”
“I’m done,” Tim cuts him off and stands up, shoving the chair back and closing his laptop as he does. “Watch in here or in the common room?” He turns toward Kon as he speaks, and he’s stretching, back arched, fingers locked together behind his head. Kon’s boxers are loose on him, hanging off his hipbones, and Kon—
Blinks.
Because, whoa. Hair.
Not much, and not everywhere. There are two dark, narrow slashes in the hollows of Tim’s pits, although that’s nothing new. They’ve showered and swum together enough that he remembers them, that he thought he remembered, well, everything.
Everything except for the tiny, silky line starting on Tim’s lower belly and disappearing down into Kon’s low-riding Bat boxers.
“Uh,” he says, and he hears Tim’s cough-laugh and realizes he’s staring. He jerks his head up, farther up than he used to have to, but he stalls out on the way to Tim’s face. Because there’s a lot in between Tim’s waistline and his face, and now Kon’s noticing that along with the hair and the height, Tim’s gotten all kinds of more all over.
It’s not that he’s bulkier. He’s not. His build hasn’t changed, it’s just… grown up along with the rest of him. He’s tighter, harder, even more defined than he used to be, which is impressive considering the shape he was in back then.
And Kon is still staring. He knows it, and his brain keeps telling him he needs to stop, but his eyes keep catching on little things, the tiny physical details of Tim Drake, Conner Kent’s best friend, and it isn’t doing him any good to remind himself of anything. Tim’s just that distracting, and Kon keeps finding new things to get distracted by.
Like Tim’s nipples, small ovals of color startling against Tim’s really-needs-a-tan skin; or the shadow of a line bisecting his abs: it starts at his sternum and hooks up way down his belly with that line of hair—
“My face is up here,” Tim says, serious and seriously not, and Kon’s ears are burning again.
Lifting his head is easy. It’s also harder than trying to lift a kryptonite moon. His brain feels sluggish, almost reluctant, the way it did after Luthor flipped his switch, but Kon’s smarter than Luthor’s games. He’s stronger than kryptonite reluctance. He forces his chin up, and Tim’s eyes are on him, amused and really blue.
And Kon knew that. He did. Everyone knows all the Wayne boys look like smaller versions of their dad, even the adopted ones. Especially the adopted ones. Tim has black hair and blue eyes, and Kon knows – no, he knew that.
Except for how he didn’t, and Tim’s standing there with his blue eyes and his bare abs and naked pits, and he’s nothing Kon knows, like nothing he’s ever seen. He’s wearing Kon’s Bat logo boxers and nothing else, and he’s not.
Wearing.
A mask.
“Oh shit,” Kon blurts, and Tim lowers his arms and raises his eyebrows. Both of them.
“Conner?”
“Blue.” Wow, that could have been so much smoother. Apparently, Tim agrees.
His eyes narrow sharply, focusing in on Kon, and he says, “Conner?” again. Really soft, like a guy trying not to set off a bomb. Not amused. Not anymore. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to start researching alien plagues or break out the kryptonite batarangs. “Is there a problem?”
“No.” But it comes out cracked and high and not him. Tim takes a step toward the bed, all frowny eyebrows and flatlined mouth, and Kon is – okay, he’s starting to get a little pissed. He gets that Tim’s worried and he’s cool with that. But he’s having an epiphanical moment here, and Tim needs to respect that.
Tim doesn’t know that, though, and it’s looking like the batarangs are winning. Kon gets his shit together. He grins (hopes he does) and tries to clear his throat without sounding like that’s what he’s doing. “I’m… yeah, I’m—”
“Something unspecified,” Tim says, and now he’s frowning, looking him over. Studying him like he thinks he’s the one with x-ray vision.
Actually, it kind of feels like he is. Kon props himself up on his elbows and tries not to squirm, but basically, he’s screwed. Tim’s way too observant to miss the stuff Kon would like him to.
And he knows when Tim gets there because his eyes stop moving for a second. Just one, like a blip in a running program, a pause so small only someone who knows Tim would notice. Kon almost wishes he didn’t know him so well, because then he wouldn’t have to meet Tim’s eyes knowing Tim knows he’s hard.
Blue. Really, really fucking blue, and why is he so stuck on Tim’s eyes when he’s sitting in front of him staring like some stupid Robin fanboy who can’t control his dick.
“Superboy,” Tim says quietly in a voice Kon knows in his bones. The Legion didn’t need all that fancy crystal path-finding, he thinks, sure he’s finally lost it, whatever it is. All they needed was Tim.
They should have hauled Tim into the future so he could tell Kon to get his lazy ass up out of the ice, because the only time Kon wouldn’t respond to that voice saying, “Sit-rep,” is if he was all the way dead. Mostly dead would have been easy.
“I’m cool,” Kon croaks, and man, what is he, a frog? Feels like he’s got one in his throat, anyway. He tries coughing it out, and for a second it budges. Then Tim looks him in the eye, and it’s game over.
Tim’s got his big scary Bat-freak face on, the one that only really works for Batman numero uno, but on Tim it’s so close it doesn’t matter that he’s half Wayne’s size and not even wearing a mask, much less his cowl.
“Luthor?” inquires Tim’s inner Bat.
“No, man,” Kon’s frog croaks, “Seriously, I’m—”
“Poison Ivy. She was in Smallville last month, I know—”
“Yeah, because I told you.” Beat it, frog breath, Kon thinks. He makes himself sit up, wills his hard-on down, and his voice sounds almost normal when he says, “I think I finally figured out why you stopped wearing the mask all the time.”
The Look cracks right down the middle of Tim’s frown line. “What?”
“It’s not because we knew who you were.” Tim’s really frowning now. Kon’s starting to enjoy himself, and not just because the frog seems to be gone. “You loved wearing that stupid thing, admit it,” he says, grinning. “You only stopped because you figured out how to make people think you were wearing it even when you weren’t.”
Tim’s jaw doesn’t drop or anything. That’s not Tim. He just gets really still and his eyes get kind of… Kon wants to say panicked, but that’s not it. More like someone going into shock. “I… what?”
If he’s repeating himself, it must be shock. Kon starts laughing. “Dude, I can almost see the cape.”
Tim visibly draws a breath and lets it out. The ten tons of tension sitting on Kon’s chest crack and fall away. “Not mind control,” Tim says, almost to himself.
“Yeah, great big nada on the mind control front.” Tim’s shoulders have stopped looking like approaching Armageddon, and Kon would blow out a breath of relief, but he doesn’t want to freeze the room. “I’m clean,” he says instead, and Tim nods.
The frown is still there, though. Tim’s eyes flick towards Kon’s (back to normal, thank Clark for teaching him how to control his blood flow) crotch, then back up to Kon’s face. “Why?” he says.
Next up on the list of conversations Kon absolutely does not want to have, ever… “Why what?” he says, the exact opposite of smart. Playing dumb isn’t the best plan in his game book, but at the moment it’s what he has.
Tim folds his arms over his (still bare) chest. The Bat look is creeping back. “That’s not a reaction I generally associate with this type of situation. If an outside agent isn’t the cause, then…?” Again with the eyebrow.
“You look amazing in my Bat boxers?” is the only thing Kon can think of to say. It’s also the right thing to say, if distraction is the game plan, and even if it isn’t, Kon’s willing to go with the flow.
Tim is frowning down at the boxers. “Where did you get these?”
Distraction maneuver, code name Bat boxers is a go. “Are you saying you guys are the only ones who can have bats on your boxers?” Kon demands. “How is that fair?”
Tim transfers his frown to Kon. “Not all bats are the Bat symbol. And this is a poor example of the design.”
“Hey, man, they were a present from your big bro,” Kon drawls. “Knock me, knock the Bat Dick, and I know you don’t want to do that.”
Tim’s laughter flies out of him, as startled as the look in his eyes, as real as the bed under Kon. He sounds amazing and he looks fantastic, and Kon is ripping holes in the spread trying to keep from reaching for him. “C’mere,” he hears someone say, and when Tim’s eyebrows hit the roof, he realizes someone was him. “If you want to,” he amends light-speed quick.
So much for distraction.
Tim’s eyebrows dive back down into a deep V. They’re getting a real workout today. Just as well, since the rest of him doesn’t look like it’s going to be moving any time soon. “Conner,” he says, patient and suspicious and if-this-a-joke-you’re-a-dead-clone-boy, “What are you doing?”
Kon slouches back against the pillow and tries to look innocent and harmless. It’s not as easy as it should be, given that Tim’s still mostly naked and he’s getting hard again, which probably hasn’t escaped Tim’s notice.
“Does it matter?” he says, and if he sounds distracted, that’s because parts of him totally are.
Tim's face is half turned away, his lips tight, curled in on his words as if he wants to trap them, keep them in his mouth. "Yes," he finally says, “Yes, it matters,” pushing the words out through the trap of his lips. And Kon doesn't need another reminder of how annoying Tim can be when he wants to, but it looks like he going to get one anyway.
“Are you freaking?” he asks, point blank because at this point there is no point in equivocation.
“No.”
Kon runs a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull. Trying to get intel he doesn’t want to share out of Tim is a lot like trying to get a fresh bone away from Krypto, but— “Best friends forever,” Kon says under his breath, and tries again. “I don’t want this to be a problem,” he says, watching Tim’s profile. “It doesn’t have to be. You stretched, I reacted. End of story.”
“You just got back,” Tim says, and looks at him.
It should be a non sequitur. It isn’t.
Kon shuts his mouth on whatever he was going to say. He doesn’t know what it was, but it wouldn’t matter if he did. He says, “I’m not going anywhere.” Forces it past the revivified frog in his throat, and once the words are out there where they can both hear them and know they’re true it’s like coming up out of the chrysalis all over again.
And Tim is still looking at him. He hasn’t looked away once. “Room,” Tim says, still not looking away from Kon, “Code BX83351.”
As far as Kon can tell, the only result is that the windows get opaque. “What was that?” he asks.
“Lead-coated liner,” Tim says. “And the door. You never lock yours.”
So that’s why he sometimes can’t see in Tim’s windows. He checks, and yeah, the walls are lined too. “You are a sneaky, paranoid freak,” he says. “Also, you still look amazing in my boxers. Even if they suck.”
“I know,” Tim agrees, and then he smiles, Red Robin’s smile, and Kon’s brain checks out, possibly for good.
He says, “Bwuh?” and Tim is still smirking, he’s walking towards him, and already this is so much better than a MST3K marathon.
Or it would be if—
“Wait,” Kon says, and swallows. His throat feels like he’s been breathing the Sahara, and he’d know: he’s only flown over it, like, a zillion times. “Can you stay like that? Just for a second?”
Tim stops, the worry line back between his eyebrows. “You want me to stand here?” he says.
“Yeah,” Kon says, “just like that.” He sees Tim’s mouth shaping a word, probably why, but by then he’s sitting up on the side of the bed. He’s reaching, curling his hands around Tim’s half-exposed hipbones. He’s pulling Tim in to stand between his legs and pressing his mouth against that teasing line of hair. It’s soft but not quite as soft as Kon expected, and Tim is sucking in a sharp breath, caving his abdomen in under Kon’s mouth.
It’s hard to hide an erection when you’re wearing somebody else’s too-big boxers. Tim is failing hard at it.
“I am never washing these again,” Kon says. “It’s Wendy the Werewolf Stalker or nothing from now on," he adds, and he feels Tim’s abdomen quiver and jerk in time with his laughter. He rubs his thumb experimentally down the length of Tim’s cock and Tim’s breathing hitches and then his abs are jerking and jumping again, but not because he’s laughing. The patch of yellow fabric stretched over his cockhead looks almost—
Kon slides his thumb up to check, and oh yeah, wet.
Tim’s hands have been doing a kind of midair hovering thing, but suddenly they’re moving. They’re clamping down on Kon’s shoulders, and it’s a good thing Kon is Superboy because Tim has really strong hands.
Kon tips his head back, grinning up at what looks a lot like desperation. He rubs again and Tim’s hands dig in until Kon can feel the individual impression of each finger. Tim’s dick twitches in his hand. When he looks back down, the tiny patch of wet is starting to spread. “You like that?” he says, and Tim’s breath rushes out along with his voice.
He hisses, “Yes, Kon,” and Kon laughs and tugs, and the boxers go away, they slide away down Tim’s legs to the floor. Tim’s dick curves hard and hot into Kon’s hand, slippery under his thumb at the tip, and Tim’s hands are tightening again.
Kon hears Tim's breath catch. He looks back up, and that—
“Fuck.” He knows he said it, that’s his voice, hoarse with want. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
Head back, eyes shut, backward arched tight everywhere, exposed and obvious, showing everything, beautiful. Pushing his hips out at Kon, shoving his dick hard into Kon’s gripping hand, and Kon lets him. Makes himself Tim’s support. His shoulders for Tim’s hands, his hands on Tim’s hip and his dick, and Tim pushes like he can’t help himself, and his chin drops: he’s looking down at Kon out of slitted eyes, watching his dick move in and out of the tight circle of Kon’s hand.
His eyes are narrowed blue desperation, and Kon feels like if he looks away the blue will disappear for good down the dark holes of Tim’s pupils. So he keeps looking. He holds and he strokes and he says, “God, Tim, yeah,” and Tim’s mouth parts. His throat works like he wants to say something back and can’t. He curls forward and the movement pushes a choked noise out of him, and Kon slides his hand down from Tim's hip and up the inside of his thigh, watching the pulse beating erratically in the hollow of his throat. He cups Tim's sac, tight and drawn up, and Tim's breathing hitches again--
Kon watches it happen. Tim's orgasm, happening in his eyes, pupils narrowing, blue rims blowing out as he bites down on his lower lip, breath and strangled sound sobbing out through his clenched teeth. Kon squeezes, Tim's dick and his balls, and Tim's hands bear down on Kon's shoulders. His dick jerks once in Kon’s hand and he’s coming all over Kon’s fingers.
Kon stares at his hand, glistening wet with Tim’s semen; at the head of Tim’s dick, slick and messy, and he has vague, hazy ideas about licking something – Tim’s dick or maybe his bony hip – but Tim doesn’t give him the chance. His fingers curl tightly around Kon’s wrist, pulling Kon’s hand gently and inexorably away from his dick.
He leans down until his eyes are on a level with Kon’s. Then he leans forward, still looking at Kon, and sucks two of Kon’s slick, come-saturated fingers into his mouth.
Brainless staring seems to be Kon’s designated MO for the day, so he stares, mind blank, while Tim cleans his hand with his tongue. Tim stares back. When he’s finished he drops Kon's hand, licks his lips and straightens, stretching.
True to form, and to his erect, aching cock, Kon stares some more and thinks about Nightwing and flexibility and how Tim seems to be taking a page from his older brother’s book.
Then Tim shoves him down on the bed and climbs on top of him, and Kon’s too busy getting kissed to care about anything else, even if the else happens to be Dick Grayson’s ass.
Tim tastes like he’s been chewing on his mechanical pencil and he kisses like he wants to own Kon’s mouth. Kon doesn’t care about the first, and he’s completely down with the second. He opens his mouth and lets Tim do whatever he wants.
It works well for both of them. Tim is breathing harder than normal when he pulls away, and even Kon’s feeling a little winded.
Tim props himself up over Kon on his hands and says, “Your mouth.”
“What?” Kon says, and he’ll admit he doesn’t sound all that together – he gets like that when he can feel his balls turning blue. But Tim is smirking in a way that means nothing good for anyone, especially not for Kon, so he’s kind of distracted.
“You could always use your mouth,” Tim says, looking down at Kon from under his lashes, sneaky, hot little freak that he is. “To shut me up. That’s what I was going to say earlier.”
“Oh,” Kon says, and Houston, we have mental degradation in progress, all the way from not together to phenomenal cosmic stupidity in two seconds flat. “I could do that,” he says, not really paying attention to what he’s saying. He’s too busy staring at Tim’s mouth, but not too busy to notice that Tim’s nipples are hard; tiny, distracting dark points—
“Or I could use mine,” Tim says, and flattens his palms on Kon’s abs, and pushes himself backwards.
Kon watches him do it. It's not like he's capable of anything involving higher thought processes. Speech, for example. “You—you could…” He hears his voice trail off, and Tim is still smirking, and he’s also sliding, down Kon, sliding Kon’s zipper down, and he—
“That, you could definitely do—Jesus, Rob, your mouth—”
--
Yeah. That.
--
Later, when blue balls are no longer impending and he’s a much happier clone boy, Kon lays on his back with his hands behind his head, grinning up at the ceiling. Up through the ceiling. Looks like Tim wasn’t as thorough with the lead as he could’ve been. “Dude, Solstice is looking a billion times more amazing since she started training with Ravager, and she was already insanely hot.”
“Stop invading Kiran’s privacy,” Tim says, and creams him with a pillow without turning over.
Heh, pregnable. Must be taking lessons from Cass. Kon rubs his chest and tries again. “Remember the earring?”
Immediately, Tim rolls over and up onto his elbow and frowns at him. “You’re not going to start wearing that again,” he says flatly.
“Nah,” Kon says, “that hoop was way ‘90s. I was thinking more along the lines of a stud. I mean, go with what you know, right?”
Tim is reaching for his pillow, but Kon grabs him and rolls them over. He pushes out with the awesome, amazing, extremely handy power of his tactile telekinesis against Tim’s inner thighs, spreads them then settles between them, and he can feel his own smirk as clearly as he can see Tim's frown. “Your sense of humor still sucks, wonder boy.”
“And yours is still juvenile in the extreme.” But his mouth is twitching as he says it. Kon watches every twitch, feeling a little like a super-powered mouse getting hypnotized by a vampire bat.
“Oh man,” he breathes, “don’t do that. My brain tanks when you do that.”
Tim’s mouth stops twitching and settles into a smug curve. “Interesting,” he says, and reaches up, pushing his hair out of his face, and yeah, he’s totally getting a haircut if Kon has to do it himself. “I’ll need to duplicate the experiment, of course. A single test result isn’t a reliable—”
“Stud,” Kon interrupts, and he thinks Tim may be shuddering a little, but it’s so faint he could be wrong.
There’s a dangerous light in Tim’s eyes. Kon knows that light, has seen it a thousand times before, and he loves it and is pretty much terrified of it at the same time. And Tim’s smiling, and it matches the rest of his expression, and now Kon is the one shuddering.
Tim’s expression turns thoughtful, which is... actually more terrifying than the smile. “You are what you wear?”
Kon doesn’t bother replying. He’s fresh out of comebacks. He leans in and shuts Tim up in the Tim-approved manner, because Tim’s right about test results: one doesn’t add up to much. What worked last time might not work a second or a third, or hey, even a fourth…
Also, variables. He’s pretty sure there needs to be a lot of different variables. Bat logo boxers aren’t really a sure thing, either. He foresees much scientific experimentation in their mutual future.
Batman, he thinks as Tim hitches a leg over his hip and takes control of the kiss, would be so proud.
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I enjoyed this a lot.
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a;lkjhsdg; I just love them both. And you! <3 thank you for sharing.
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And this was totally, utterly hot!
:D
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