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“I told you to put on sunscreen.” Kon chastises, standing against the door, relaxed, inspecting him from a distance.
Red Robin indeed.
“I know,” He pouts, sighing at the minimum movement, skin pulled tight. “Not everyone can heal from the sun, I learnt.”
He smiles, amused at the upset boy, at the light jab, “You look like a tomato, Tim.”
“Yeah, I hurt like one too.”
He laughs, “And how does a tomato hurt exactly?”
Everything is so silly. Tim sighs again, falling back into the bed, wincing when doing it. He is a vigilante, a hero, and the fucking sun tries to defeat him. And succeeds partially.
He feels embarrassed, perpetually poutish, “Don't know. Leave me alone.”
So stupid.
Objectively, he should thank God himself that he wasn’t needed at the manor today; his siblings would have had a riot making fun of him.
He is almost sure that Kon is about to start laughing at his suffering, too.
“Nah. Can't do.” He comes closer, pushes himself out of his perfect pose, stupidly flawless smile on his face, “Have to help like a perfect, dutiful boyfriend.”
His only response to the bragging is a huff. Tim tries to hide from his boyfriend's concerned gaze by closing his eyes, throwing an arm over his face. He is so tired, cold and fucking hot at the same time.
Already planning on buying sunscreen in bulk, he can't have a repeat of this. It's embarrassing, it's humiliating, it's idiotic.
“Tim, c'mon, let me help.”
Kon approaches and pulls him up in a sitting position again, as he would a ragdoll. Sometimes, he hates how easily overpowered by him he can be, or other metas in general. It shows how painfully human he is in comparison. How much he lacks, especially on the job, how much easier it would be if he had powers like Kon, Bart, or Duke.
Superboy is always prepared, most of all for times like these, because Kon's boyfriend is stubborn as hell. Robin is so sure of his genius that he lets himself be naive about it. Conner Kent knows him far too well, since the Young Justice days, and particularly after they became boyfriends, he has been able to read Timothy Drake like an open book.
He knew from the very start that this was the only possible conclusion to his time spent at the beach with Steph and Cass.
Doesn't want to add salt to the wound, telling him I told you so again won't help. So he is honest about his preparedness: “I brought gel for sunburns.”
Tim looks at him, squinting in a jokingly upset way. A bit of his upset bravado at the lack of trust in his ability to keep himself safe, from the sun or otherwise. Frowning towards the container Kon takes from under his jacket, he asks, “What is it?”
“Aloe Vera. Now, baby, would you let me?”
He doesn't wait for an answer. Doesn’t need his stubborn boyfriend to have a negative; he knows Tim would push through it if he could, and does so even with worse injuries. Hates the indisputable fact of it all.
Goes around, sits with Tim's back towards his front. Besmeans his hands full of the gel, reddish skin, and old scars painted on his boyfriend's back. He massages the gel in, not hard, just touching with the tips of his fingers.
He wants to litter him full of kisses, cold kisses that would help his boy out, a calming, soothing sensation.
There's so much to say, to feel.
He continues applying the gel to his tense shoulders and back, watching the burnt skin drink coat after coat selfishly. He is so beautiful, so soft under his palms, trusting.
Tim lets his walls down so easily because of him. Most times, he doesn't feel deserving of it. How quickly Tim lets himself be normal, not a paranoid vigilante, not a bat. His lovely true self, his boyfriend first, and anything else after.
Kon loves him for it. Loves having him like putty under his mistreations, and his gentle care.
Mellow, delicate hot skin, little uncomfortable sounds leaving his boyfriend's lips.
“Kon,” He breathes in a thread, wanton, voice worked up as if his touch is too much, but all he needs at the same time.
Looks from over his shoulder, cheeks, and nose painted red too. He is such a dream.
The tension heavy, the connecting gaze electrifying, the pull impossible to defy.
“Baby,” He answers in a non-response, searching for the allowance to shorten the space, looking into his pretty eyes. A slight nod after, and he reaches for his lover. Kisses him.
Puts his hands on his face, soft, weak. Accomplishing another part of his mission, his thirsty skin taking up the moisture of the creamy gel still on his hands. Their lips dance, he doesn't push, can't.
Not when Tim is so tender, he kisses him lightly, as if it were a secret shared between them.
Amusedly, he feels the Boy Wonder trying to put more effort, needy, wanting to push things forward, he knows all the beats to this dance. “Kon, please.”
Such a loser, mushy for the love of his life, Timothy Drake has him under a spell, wrapped around his skillful fingers.
He can't, can't indulge him today, attempts to let him know that, “Baby, you are hurt, it would -”
“Kon, I don't care. I have been worse.” He says, turns around in acrobatic excellence, and sits on his lap. “Just - touch me.”
Pretty tights around his legs, powerful, he can't help but follow the lead. Sneaking his hands under the end of his shorts, kneading the area, muscular thighs bunched in knots.
It's music to his ears, hearing his boyfriend's faint sounds, how pleased he is at the rubbing, his skin brimming with goosebumps. It manages to ease the tension perpetually installed in Tim's shoulders.
Even then, he tries to be the voice of reason, “Sweetheart, it would be uncomfortable.”
“I wouldn't - you won't ever make me. You are you.” He is awfully sure, big wet puppy eyes looking into his, playing him like a fiddle.
He would give him the moon as a gift if he could, and would go and fight the sun for him, as revenge for how it ended up hurting his lover. He would make it explode if he could, if Tim asked as much, even when he knows he needs the celestial body to heal. He doesn't care, doesn't care about the other kryptonians either.
It doesn't matter; he doesn't give a crap, not when Tim is Tim. Not when his heart genuinely hurts in his chest, unbelievingly that he is allowed to have him as this, pliant, calm, yearning spilled all over his handsome face.
He trusts him so much. Kon can't help but be drunk on the attention, the feeling of pride at being one of the few people Tim relaxes around.
It's such an amazing feeling to be able to give himself up, to catch Tim in the fall. Be together in the drop, in the heights, the low, and the lowest.
Kon loves him, it doesn't, it can't be contained on his chest.
“Let me ride you.” Tim works on leaving little kisses all over his face, begging prettily, “Please.”
“Tim.”
“I am sure - I swear.”
He is wrapped around the Third-Robin's fingers. His best friend, the love of his life, his firsts and hopefully his lasts.
“Let me - let me help you.” He says, agreeing between kisses, reaching for the waistband of his shorts, lifting him slightly to drop them with his boxers.
He kisses him fervently, trying to drink him whole, mix their tastes till there's no separation anymore. He wants to melt under his skin, wants to fuse together, convert into a religion that praises any piece of land that Timothy Drake walks on.
Tim bites his lip, a string of saliva separates them, a whine leaving the lips he adores. Tim lifts his hips, reaching for him and taking Kon’s dick out of his Superboy suit.
It's weirdly accelerating to have Tim completely undressed under his hands while he is fully clothed besides his member. It pulls at him, at that sensation of pure unadulterated lust forming on the lower stomach.
Kon continues being careful, trying not to touch his boyfriend's red back, lets him take control, anything he wants.
For a while, it is just friction, Tim making it his mission to hump him, sitting himself on one of his legs and going at it. Holding his shoulders to move more easily, his movements making his knee rub a bit against Kon's dick.
It's insane, and intense, and not nearly enough.
They both pant, Tim's heart beating wildly on his chest, Kon's known melody altered. The calm-sounding music of the heartbeat Kon has learned to expect changed, moving from classical to a foreign electro beat.
It's almost as if he had popped pills, the swing becoming erratic, his ears filled with cotton.
Tim keeps coming closer, keeps on rubbing with more dedication, goes from a quiet pace to a run.
Manages to wrap delicate fingers around both of them, pushes their dicks together, and fully spits to make it better.
Such an expert, so good, so kind to whisper little words, little encouragements, a million heavenly moans.
He's already leaking when he stops him in place, grabs him by the hips, and stills him. Even if watching Tim going crazy, as a dog in heat on his leg, is hot as fuck. Even if it makes things to him he doesn’t have time to explore right now, he needs to shorten it. Because if Tim wants this, he will have it to the end, to all bases.
Kon swallows, Tim's hand heavy against their dicks, the warmth unbearable.
Tim takes a bit to calm his breath, his eyes big and dilated, leaving his previous assignment alone, “Would you rather - open me up?”
“Never thought you’d ask.” He says honestly, ready for the debauchery, having sex with Tim usually is otherworldly.
He lifts his fingers to Tim's perfect mouth, there's no stop, no warning. He allows it prettily. Allows the circling of his mouth, the playfulness of tracing his teeth, the tickle of his fingertips on his lower lip. The first push, the addition of more.
He is practically about to fuck his face, scissoring his fingers wide, letting the saliva drip and drip out. Opening him fully, having his jaw locked in place like he knows he loves to feel.
“Do you like that, baby?” He waits for the nod that follows, “Would you like to feel this open right here?”
He asks, his other hand patting at Tim's ass, playfully touching his hole. Leaving him needy and wanting, a smirk stretching on his face at the push and pull.
Tim, for his part, tries to trace Kon’s rings, sucking around them, teeth scratching metal. Hollows his face, sucks harder as an answer, as if his life depended on it. Trying to agree implicitly.
Skilled, an artist put to work. Tim is a masterpiece, a full-blown professional.
His fingers vibrate with the begged pleas, pretty blue, soaked eyes. He only takes pity on him after a feigned big thrust, his long fingers making his boyfriend gag, the sound trapped, tears starting to fall from his eyes.
He licks his cheek in apology, takes his fingers out, and drinks after the wetness falling off his commissure, filthy and fully wrecked.
“You are so pretty. My pretty boy.”
It's not too much, Tim swears while he breaches him open quickly, the first finger finding its promised place. There's no push, no seen discomfort, just his beautiful boyfriend falling into his shoulder, mouthing at his neck while he asks for more. He obliges easily.
Makes a quiet thing, opens him up carefully, two, three fingers, languid pace, no hammering. Kisses under his ear tenderly, whispers how good he is, how easy he takes to the intrusion in praises, keeps checking if it's alright.
Tim is tied to his place on the side of his neck, trying to leave behind marks that Kon’s skin won’t take. Almost makes Tim wish he were wearing lipstick, to show something, substantial evidence of Kon-el being his. Being part of his legacy, his history, his everything.
He loves him.
A trapped sound leaves his lips, there it is. He moves his hips to chase after. Let himself be opened, filled, stretched to perdition.
He nearly loses himself in the feeling, the push against his prostate, the quickness, the frantic need to feel it there and then, over and over again. Mouth open, brain overheating in the search for more, he pants against Kon's jaw, takes kitten's bites on his jawbone.
He stops it as Kon did before. It's a herculean task.
He will not end this night young, not until he has his boyfriend deep inside his guts, not until he is dripping, used, and wasted.
“Kon - I'm ready.” He pushes himself upright, fingers still trapped under his muscles, slipping further inside at the change in position. A breathy sigh.
Tim puts his hand on his boyfriend’s chest, yearning for his heartbeat, to hear him. He touches the symbol painted right there. Traces the s with a dainty caress, enamored by the simplicity of the design. What it means to wear it as proudly as Kon does.
Tim touches the image of hope, of belonging, and what it brings with it. The concept of who he should be as a person, as a hero, kind, humanist, insanely hopeful, and sure that anyone could reach redemption. He knows how much it weighs on Kon, on never living up to it fully, not as naive to the horrors as Superman first was.
He leaves a peck on his lips, soft, nice. Tries to dissuade the sadness momentarily present on his chest; it's not the moment.
Kon smiles back at him, none the wiser. It's absurd. How much he loves him, how much his happiness matters to him, sometimes even much more than his own.
A fit of giggles is exchanged without reason, exciting, adoring. It's fun, safe, a deep connection being made deeper.
A path of kisses is left on his neck while Kon uses his TTK to lift him a bit, never wanting to leave him open and begging. Supplanting his fingers for his dick in seconds, no time for a complaint, no time for Kon’s spoiled boyfriend to be even slightly upset at the emptiness.
It's heaven, pornographic in nature, stupidly warm and tight, and absolutely punishing. Throat suddenly dry, self-control pushed to its limits.
He wants, needs, and craves badly.
Kon wants to be selfish, wants to grab him by the hips and fuck him hard, till he can't move anymore, till he is sweaty and begging for release. A dichotomy in itself, not wanting to touch him either, letting him do all the work, never helping him to reach that peak, leaving him frustrated.
The sickening adoring nature wants nothing more than to hold him softly and thrust into him, light, at a bored pace so Tim feels everything. Needs to profess his love over and over again.
His body calls for his in all ways possible, all positions, all places.
Fully drunk, fogged brain, white sound. He goes back to making out, to trying to drink him empty of saliva, desperate. So lost in the sauce, in the all-composing feeling of being involved in light, in a religious ritual of sorts.
Tim starts by himself, because, despite what Kon-el might desire, he will never put his needs before Timothy Drake's ones. Will never break his faith, never disappoint him if he can help it.
He moves calmly, quietly, accommodating to the pressure.
It’s a tired waltz, as if he is learning how to use his body once again, how to deepen the link. The string that attaches them in golden blissful existence, because sex is sex, but sex between them is fireworks, it's the pull of finally having your person. It’s not shameful, or weird, or sinful, it's the need to relax and get to know the other in all the nooks and crannies.
It’s painfully corny of Kon to call it making love, and Tim would make fun of him for thinking about it that way, but it’s true. It can’t be anything else, when he only feels at home against his boyfriend's skin, with his canines full of exchanged fluids, with his heart overflown.
He loves him like a senelophile loves the moon and stars. Loves him like Ma loves Pa Kent, like Clark loves Lois. Even loves him as Bruce loves Selina despite it all.
Tim whines, upset at how lost Kon seems in his head, begging him to pay attention to him again. He smooches him in apology. A timid gesture, mesmerised by the calculating wet sapphire eyes, his wonderfully pink lips.
He is breathtaking, his red sun-kissed face impossibly redder, his strong arms bracketing his throat in a hug, squeezing him in, imprisoning him against his tender heat. The mumbled yeses, the throaty moans, the thin exhales.
Almost shy in the way he splits himself, the way he tries to find his perfect place without any help, the nerves that make him see stars on good days.
He feels it when Tim finally touches that spot, he trembles in his hold, a calculated path reached. He quickens his pace, hasty jumps, face covered in pleasure, back arched, Kon’s hands unmoving, enamored by the perfect picture his boyfriend makes. His dick bouncing against Kon’s stomach, frotting against the blue of his suit, searching for the culmination.
He can’t help himself, lost in the unmoved urgency, bites down on the bat’s shoulder, a gasp in response, the tight heat of his inner walls contracting. Leaves kisses behind, licks the affected zone, and rests his head against the mark.
Tim tries with all his might, his face changing, making a journey on itself, eyes closed, deeply concentrated on coming undone. He does so well, so good, Kon can't help but compliment him, can't help but kiss the ground he walks on.
It's driving him crazy, it feels amazing, the movement, his slick insides, how much of an expert he is at squeezing him in. “Love, you are doing so great.”
It seems to be the encouragement he yearned for. Pace going crazy, legs shaking with strain, nails digging in Kon's back. Mouth falling open with filthy sounds, naughty sounds that go straight to his dick. He could combust on the spot if Timothy Drake asked as much.
It transforms into a sort of hug, it’s a frenzied dance still. Tim can’t hold himself back anymore; his pupils dilated to black eyes. “Kon - c’mon… Just take me, please. However you want.”
He doesn’t need more, overwhelmed by the sensations, grabs him and flips them over, a whimper falling behind bitten lips. He cares, he swears he does, but still, he sinks deeper, harder, faster.
“You are so good, baby, so perfect,” He has to have him scream, have him oversimulated and spent. “My beautiful boy.”
He punishes his spot with precise, fast strokes, punching and hammering against it in a feverish manner. Tim holds him closer, lost, in another plane of existence, opening his legs and wrapping them around his hips to have him buried inside.
He folds himself up in such a cute pretzel, his acrobatic lessons having great results, saliva drooling out, tears falling without fear. Such a perfect image, having him utterly broken under his grip.
Kon must have been a really good citizen in his past life, to be this lucky, lucky enough to be now allowed to have Rob like this, limp, relaxed, under a clouded gaze of pure lust.
He feels animalistic, painfully worked over, needing to fill him up with his seed greedily, pushing into him so hard that he could rearrange his organs, aching to make Tim pregnant. Something to show.
Hungry possessiveness, awful urge to tie the third Robin to himself for eternity, even when it isn't possible in their reality.
Tim moans a throaty little scream, the bed shaking against the wall, they could make a seismic disaster if they put their minds to it. Kon is almost sure that a whole square can hear them, it is loud, and sweaty, and it smells. He wants to lick it, fill his stomach with all of it. Craves to have this moment permeate his skin.
Wishes it could be something anyone could see in him, mortified faces, jealous ones, everyone being made aware of how easily he can have Tim, however he wants.
Needs to bring up the idea of filming them fucking nasty to the man before him soon. The idea makes him grunt, his hands gripping Tim's hips painfully hard, most surely leaving bruises behind. It's a must for next time, he needs the world to see, needs to make everyone aware that Tim is his, his to mold, his to kiss, his to fuck stupid.
Finally grabs his boyfriend's needy dick between his fingers, he doesn't need much. It's long overdue. An ending in sight. He strokes him, once, twice, and lets him fall apart all over his toned belly. Kon lets himself search for his own fulfillment quickly after, following Tim to the end of the earth if he could.
Cum drips out, a soft sound leaving his precious boyfriend's cheeks, he reaches for his hand full of Tim's spent and licks it clean, seeing how Tim's throat bobs at the sight.
He grabs the other's shorts from the floor and proceeds to clean his cum from his boyfriend with them, despite Tim's little complaints about how they were his favorite.
Kon looks at him, really looks at him, the spread on his bed, hair damp against his forehead with sweat, his red skin from the sunburns, his shoulder with a bite mark, neck full of hickeys, hips covered in blueish hues. Breathtaking sight.
“Cuddle,” Tim says, making grabby hands. Kon knows he is falling out of subspace little by little, a childish signal he wouldn't ever do on a normal day otherwise. Kon agrees easily to his demands, not looking at the teeth of a gifted horse, finally stripping himself out of his clothes.
His dick makes a valiant attempt at the realization, a light twitch, it's so fucking hot, the concept of having made his boyfriend fall apart this badly while still almost fully clothed.
“Kon,” He hears the little whine, a soft pout.
He settles behind him fast, cleaning his head out of impure thoughts; it was enough. He shouldn't have fallen into the trap to begin with. He is sure Tim must be pushing through the uncomfortable feeling on his burnt skin.
It's not something he needs to deal with now, a yawn escaping him, a tiredness settling on his bones. Then, his worries are solely something for the Kon of tomorrow to concern himself about.
They try finding the most comfortable position, legs tangled, naked skin against naked skin, his hands tightly wrapped around him, a comfortable sigh, leaving a little kiss on his cheek in apology for making him wait. “Okay, sweetheart, go to sleep.”
“You too.”
“Yeah, me too.” He answers fondly at the sleepy soft tone, it's not long before Morpheus claims them both.