Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/537299.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DCU_-_Comicverse, Young_Justice_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Tim_Drake/Kon-El
  Character:
      Tim_Drake, Kon-El
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-16 Words: 4194
****** Tangled ******
by thewhitestag
Summary
     Kon doesn’t want to be that person, always waiting, wondering if the
     next time will be more than just two friends messing around.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Tim’s breaths are even but effort-heavy, like the way he gets when he’s running
on the treadmill or doing one of his fancy kung-fu tai-chi whatever forms on
the training mats. And it makes Kon wonder if that’s what this is to him, just
another workout. He sinks his two fingers deeper, to the second knuckle.
“You can go faster, you know,” Tim informs him.
Kon adjusts, sitting back on his ankles. The bedsprings jostle a little, but he
uses his powers to still them. Tim is sprawled out on his knees, arms folded
beneath him, presenting his ass like a goddamn porn star. He’s wearing nothing
but sunshine and a pale yellow t-shirt, the hem all bunched up around his
chest.
Despite himself, Kon feels more awkward than sexy beside him, like he’s milking
a Tim-shaped cow instead of playing out a fantasy he’s tried to keep buried
down deep inside. He’s still completely in costume, except for his gloves, and
doesn’t know if he’ll be getting any more naked than that. Tim’s fair, but he
still never expressed any explicit intentions of doing anything for Kon.
Awkward or not, though, Kon’s still getting hard.
He pushes in deeper, all the way. Tries not to moan when Tim squeezes before
relaxing and taking it. He pulls back a few centimeters, friction dragging at
the entrance, even with all the lube. Then in again. Nice and slow. Curls his
fingers back and forth. Not really thrusting, but stroking him from the inside.
Tim sighs and pushes his forehead into the pillow. Nuzzles it. Kon bites the
inside of his cheek, telling himself it’s stupid to be jealous of bed
dressings.
Boy Wonder, he thinks to himself. And the lack of sarcasm in his brain is a
little frightening.
Before he can freak out, he tries focusing on a dent in the wall, waving out
the thoughts that threaten to make more problems than he wants to handle right
now.
This new HQ is way better than their first moldy old JLA hand-me-down. Even
more than the pool and the tennis courts, he’d been happy to get a bedroom. One
that really belonged to him, didn’t feel like space on loan; it’s comforting to
know he’s got a place to crash if he ever needs to run away. ‘Course, this
would be the first place Cadmus would look if he ever did try running, so it’s
a crap thought.
But yeah, right now bedrooms are good, and beds are awesome, because he can’t
imagine doing this in their sleeping bags on the floor of the cave—okay fine,
he’s actually imagined that plenty of times, he’s practically got the pretend-
image burned into his brain from all the times he’s jacked off to it, cum his
brains out to it, and damn, fantasy-Tim will do it just aboutanywhere, but beds
are comfy and that helps a lot right now. He feels so tense he might pass out.
Tim is here, Tim is here in his room, letting Kon finger him.
Kon swallows, but it doesn’t do much for the tightness in his throat.
“God, Rob,” he says quietly, unable to stop himself.
Then Tim’s face twists away from the pillow and oh crap, did he mess up or
something, he should’ve just kept quiet, and Kon wants to crumble, but
then—almost a murmur—
“Um. My name. You can—”
And Kon’s been calling him Tim almost every chance he’s gotten since the Bedlam
incident. But it had been an accident, the way Tim had let everyone know his
name. It was like a precious thing he’d dropped, forgetting it’s worth for just
that moment, when Kon picked it up and decided finders-keepers. This is
different. This is permission. No, more than that, Tim isasking. And Kon’s
gonna deliver, gonna do whatever he can to make sure this won’t be the last
time. Fuck, is he really that desperate. (Yes.)
“Hey, Tim. Can I—can you—uh, three?” That’s about as articulate as he gets
right now, so it’s pretty handy that Tim can usually puzzle him out.
“Yeah. Go ahead,” Tim answers. He hasn’t turned away. He’s still watching Kon,
his hair all mussed out against the pillow from the way he’s got his head
angled. Eyes so focused. Kon doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to seeing that
blue.
With the other two digits still driving in and out at a steady pace, he traces
around with his ring finger, massaging the circle of lube-slicked muscle, then
pressing, sliding closer to the center to join the heat. Tim feels tense around
him, squeezing back against the increase in pressure. He’s even holding his
breath. Kon keeps still, just his fingertips inside, waiting. And then Tim
starts breathing again. Goes soft. Lets Kon get to working him again.
“That okay?” Kon asks. His voice sounds embarrassingly breathless.
“Yeah, I just—” Tim cuts off with an involuntary sigh, pushing his face into
the pillow again. When he turns back, he’s flushing deeper. “Not used to—uh.
Your fingers. They’re bigger than mine.”
“O-oh.” Kon tries to tell his heart to quit wiggling like that, because it’s
making his insides feel all fuzzy, and his lungs don’t appreciate it because
he’s having enough trouble breathing without the extra funny business in his
chest. But it keeps on dancing like a little idiot, thumping hard.
He’s been pretty horned up this entire time, but now he’s really straining in
his pants, probably mucking up the inside of his jock with precum. He lays down
so his body is parallel to Tim’s, stretched out with his feet towards the head
of the bed, hoping the more relaxed position will make him a little less
anxious. At least it’ll be more accommodating to his hard-on.
Tim has been mostly quiet aside from giving instructions and off-handed
comments, but when Kon starts twisting his fingers with his thrusts he suddenly
cries out in a half-strangled voice. And shit, Kon you idiot, you must’ve hurt
him, gotta pull out. But when Kon tries drawing back, Tim moans in protest, his
body following the fingers. He thrusts back, urging Kon’s fingers deeper
inside, grinding down his hips for friction.
Kon’s eyes go wide, listening to Tim. Wonderboy’s all riled up, all frustrated
little grunts in his throat, hips jerking back and forth. That makes it real.
That makes this real.
“You like that,” he says. “You like me doin’ this to you.” And it’s funny, how
it sounds like dirty talk, except he’s actually kind of asking.
The invitation had been so matter-of-fact, after all. Robin telling him to stay
behind while the rest of the team left for their normal week. Making the
proposition in the middle of the living room, like it was just some favor. It’s
funny, the way the whole Bat crew can talk that way. Efficient and quick, but
still roundabout as fuck. Like they’ve said nothing at all. Funny, until it’s
you they’re talking to, and Kon doesn’t have a chance at trying to piece
together any meaning.
And sure, everything about this was explicitly to help Tim get off, but the
idea of Timwanting? Tim’s desires seemed practically irrelevant. Hell, half the
time Kon’s certain that Tim hasn’t got any desires. Tim is just that kind of
guy, can make Kon believe this is just some medical maintenance thing, same as
asking him to help wrap a bandage or hold an ice pack to an ache.
Or it’s a trick. Tim can be sneaky. So sneaky. Kon had been half-expecting Tim
to turn around and yell ‘gotcha!’, up until the moment his best friend had
eased down the waistband of his underwear and started dribbling lube into Kon’s
open palm. And here they are.
Tim’s panting, coming down from the latest peak he’s hit. His eyes are blanked
out, blue-screened and calculating, like he’s trying to rebuild his strategy
under pressure. All freaked out ‘cause he lost control for a second. And Kon
doesn’t remember ever seeing his face that red.
“Kon,” he starts, like he’s gonna apologize, or try to make up some excuse, but
that’s not happening.
“Nah, don’t even worry about it. That was—” He’s trying to decide on a word
that won’t give too much away. But he can’t think of one, so he just ups his
the force of his thrusting by a notch, repeating that twisting motion.
Tim’s eyelids flutter. Bingo. Distraction successful.
The air in the room is getting humid. There’s a sweat-sheen across Tim’s skin,
the damp collecting into the curve at the small of his back. He seems less
self-conscious now. At least enough that he’s started teasing his own nipples,
pinching at them, grazing his nails over them, and letting Kon stare. But
amazing as that display is, it’s the scent that’s got Kon feeling drugged up.
It’s soaking into him, this Tim-smell. He fills his lungs with it, letting it
waft up and make his head soar. He knows this scent, has got it catalogued into
his memories. But it’s never been without the sharpness of chemical-fume, or
smoke, or gunpowder, or blood. Now he’s got a sense for it unfiltered, and
goddamn, this is dangerous, the way it’s messing with him. He goes dizzy as his
nose brushes against the curve of Tim’s hip.
“Kon?” Tim’s voice sounds small and far away.
“This okay?” Kon murmurs, lips touching skin. “I just…whenever I imagined us
doing this…I always…” Can’t complete a single thought, but he knows he’s still
saying more than he needs to. He licks a broad stripe up the side of Tim’s
thigh. Feels the contour of a scar. Tastes the salt. Moans.
Something deep runs through Tim’s body. He shudders, spasming around Kon’s
fingers. Kon moans again.
Tim Tim Tim Tim.
He might be whispering it aloud.
But he’s not listening for his own voice, he’s concentrating on the slick, wet
sound of his fingers driving into Tim’s ass. He slides his teeth against Tim’s
thigh, then runs the path backwards with brushing kisses.
Tim Tim Tim Tim.
He settles his mouth just above the jut of Tim’s hip, lips against the softness
of his waist. Yes, this is a good place. Starts to suck.
“Mmm, Kon,” Tim moans. Tim is moaning his name. Then whispers, “Fuck.”
Kon stills. “Whoa.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Lick. “Never heard you curse like that before.”
Tim smirks. “Fffuck,” he says again, teeth catching on his lower lip, drawing
out the first ‘f’ into the most obscene hiss. Kon chokes. He’s well past his
breaking point.
He yanks down his pants without ceremony, pulling his cock into his grasp, and
hears Tim’s breath catch. He works himself in one hand, Tim’s ass in the other,
while he tongues a patch of reddening, kiss-bruised skin. Don’t say he can’t
multi-task. No time for technique on himself, though, he’s just humping into
his fist.
Tim groans as he stares at Kon’s dick, reaching his arm between his own legs.
He’s not completely hard, but he’s already dribbled precum onto the covers, a
dark spot from Kon playing so much with his prostate. Kon lets up from his
mark-making, the chosen spot already a satisfying color, and shifts his focus
to watch Wonderboy touch himself.
Tim starts with feather-light brushes to the underside of his dick, makes it
jump. Slides his palm against it. Doesn’t take long to get hard all the way,
he’s already worked up. Soon he’s just pumping, like Kon’s pumping himself. And
Kon doesn’t hold back anymore, fingerfucking him relentlessly. Tim cries out,
rocking his hips back and forth between the two sensations, mumbling Kon’s name
between his whimpers.
Tim’s close. So close. Kon can tell by the way he’s clenching his ass, and his
vision blurs a little when he imagines how that would feel around his cock. The
cries get louder and louder, and then Tim’s using both hands, thrusting into
them recklessly.
He shouts Kon’s name, then curses again, except it’s more like a prayer with
the way his neck twists upward. The cum spurts all across his fingers, and the
musky scent is so immediate and strong that Kon breathes in with his mouth and
swears he can taste it.
Tim sighs, slumping down against the pillow, and frantic as Kon feels, he
manages to pull his fingers out gently. Then he lets go of his cock for a
second, grabbing Tim’s hands and slathering the wet against his palm. He goes
back to stroking himself, sliding through Tim’s cum.
He presses Tim down against the bed, throwing a leg over to straddle him. He’s
stroking so fast. His knees are starting to shake. He feels the pressure
building like a burn, puts the head of his cock against Tim’s back, and
explodes over his skin. Light. Spinning shapes. Bright neon colors swimming
behind his eyelids, while he shoots himself out in thick streams. Lungs can’t
catch up. He crouches down, covering Tim’s body, and rakes his teeth lightly
against the back of Tim’s neck.
Tim’s still breathing his name.


===============================================================================
 


Robin disappears by Monday morning, as is expected. Kon stays around for
another few hours, jerking it like crazy until his dick aches. Tim might have
carefully washed the covers, but he missed the pillow. It still smells like his
hair, his sweat.
Then Kon goes back to Cadmus, and jerks off some more.
Lucky for him, there aren’t any big baddies terrorizing the town, and anybody
at the lab that might care about him (Serling) is too busy working on the
latest genetics project to notice him. Something about ribosomes and amide
groups. Whatever.
When he’s not touching himself, he spends his time floating around, unable to
set his feet flat on the ground, because he’s thinking about Tim Tim Tim Tim.
Fantasizing and remembering—and it’s incredible that he can mix the two up now.
But between all of that, there’s a tiny wedge of doubt. And it grows.
They had never exactly established anything about what they’d done. What it
meant.
There’s the full possibility that Tim only asked because he knew Kon would say
yes, because everybody knows he’s a playful, empty-headed perv. And sure, three
for three, all true. But it’s also true that they’re supposed to be best
friends.
Is that a thing that best friends do? Maybe. There’s plenty of shit that can
get chalked up to experimentation. Or are they fuckbuddies now? Doesn’t seem
right. Tim just doesn’t do casual like that, does he? Kon doesn’t think so,
anyway.
Maybe Kon just doesn’t want to believe that he would.
Kon wonders if he can be okay with that. Just two friends who screw around, let
loose because they’re just that comfortable with each other. And his first
instinct is to say yes, he’ll do anything if it means he’d be able to touch Tim
some more. If Tim would keep moaning his name, maybe even let Kon fuck him.
There are people who can do that—who can have sex without getting it all
tangled up with emotions.
Problem is, Kon’s already been tangled. Practically hog-tied. No use lying to
himself about it now.
Maybe, maybe, he thinks with almost delirious foolishness, they could keep
doing what they’ve started, and Kon could wait. Could work at it. And
eventually Tim would feel the same way.
He entertains the idea, tries to keep it afloat, but he knows it’s wrong. Knows
he’d be hurting himself. Knows that kind of thing never works out, and
probably, they wouldn’t even be able to be friends anymore if he tried
something that stupid.
And so the answer is no. He can’t be with Tim, not if Tim doesn’t feel the same
way. He’d always be wondering about the next time, whether it would be the
moment that Tim finally starts to care for him. Or Tim could just decide to
call it quits one day, and well, if it wasn’t supposed to mean anything, Kon
couldn’t call it unreasonable.
He goes from constant flying to barely hovering, trailing through Cadmus’
hallways like a week-old balloon, grazing the linoleum with his toes.
He’s in the cafeteria Thursday night, shoveling cold lime jell-o into his mouth
when he slams his fist into the table, leaving an indent in the polished steel.
The scientists and lab techs around him are a combination of scared shitless
and morbidly curious. What else is new. The important thing right now is Tim.
Kon needs to know. Now.
The decision’s barely come to him before he’s leaping out a window, heading
south. Even with the sun having set an hour ago, he can see the billow of
Gotham smog in the distance, lit from under with an orange glow, and rising
like a ghost on the horizon.


===============================================================================
 
 
Robin finds him, like he always does, ready to shoo him off before Big Bad Bat-
Daddy comes to make kryptonite threats. And like always, he doesn’t slow a
beat, just keeps up his swinging and lets Kon catch up.
“Just happened to be in the neighborhood, Superboy?”
“Something like that. Holy hopscotching aliens, Batman!” Kon exclaims,
flourishing with a loop.
Not to be outdone, Robin counters with a triple pirouette, landing lightly onto
a ledge on the next building.
“Well, technically, alien-clone,” Kon adds.
Robin flicks the side of his head, mid-swing. “If you start calling me ‘old
chum’…”
They manage to keep up a steady game of joking insults, but eventually Kon
notices the way Robin’s face is molded into that tight intensity, regardless of
the words coming out of his mouth. He’s really working hard for his city. Being
a hero. Meanwhile Kon’s been stuck in moody, hormonal teenager mode. And all
the dread and suspicion and self-pity Kon has been feeling the past few days
suddenly seems so small and insignificant. Petty.
But, even realizing that doesn’t make it suck any less.
“So what’s up?” Robin finally asks.
Kon plays dumb. He probably does that too well. “Huh? What do you mean?”
Robin comes to a sudden stop on a rooftop and Kon has to swerve a tight hairpin
in the air to turn back.
“Hey, Wonderboy. Don’t you have somewhere to get to? People to save?”
“It’s just a surveillance route,” he answers, much to Kon’s dismay. “I’ve got a
few minutes for now. So. Talk.”
Kon’s lips twitch, his voice in his throat, ready to start. For a moment, he
thinks he might have the balls to do this, but then, nope.
“Right, never mind, see ya on Friday, say hi to Bats for me.” He’s winding up
to shoot off super-speed, but then there’s the sound of something whipping
through the air and he turns to see a grapple hook heading straight for him.
Before he can change course, the cord loops around his left calf, and Robin is
hanging below, like it’s some action movie air-lift rescue, except annoying and
not at all heroic. And okay, maybe a little bit endearing.
“You wanted my time, Superboy. I’m giving it to you.”
Stubborn dick.
“Fine.”
Kon slows to a stop, hovering over an old red-brick in the industrial district.
Robin drops down and TTK takes care of the line, unraveling it and winding it
back into the grapple gun.
“Well, are you gonna come down here?” Robin shouts, hands on his hips.
Kon lowers a few feet.
“We need to talk. Or at least I need to talk.” He bobs in the air, self-
consciously. He reallyhopes Batman isn’t lurking around close by. “About what
we did.”
The boy below tilts his head, like he’s swishing his thoughts around inside his
skull. It’s a Tim-thing to do, and not a Robin-thing. And the fact that Kon can
tell the difference now, it just guts him.
A slow smirk spreads on Tim’s face. “That impatient. Couldn’t wait for the
weekend?”
The implication—that he’d been expecting Kon to want more, had been expecting
to give more—it sends a blue spark down Kon’s spine. And that only makes this
harder.
“Rob, I—I dunno about this,” he finally spits out.
Tim freezes. Then his mouth melts for a few seconds before hardening again into
a sharper line.
“Holy awkward silences, Batman,” Kon says, for a moment hoping that he can
backpedal their conversation into humor. But the words come out so flat, it
only makes him seem more sad and pathetic.
“You don’t think this is a good idea,” Tim eventually says, very evenly.
Kon’s reaching inside, trying to search himself for an answer, a way to make
Tim understand. But apparently it’s not needed.
“If this is what you want,” Tim says, shrugging into a slouch. “Then that’s
it.”
Well. That was quick. Maybe even careless. And with a crushing finality, it
seems to answer all of Kon’s questions.
He turns toward the skyline, its giant pipes poisoning the sky. Gotham. God, he
hates this city. He’s sick to his stomach, can’t be here another second. He’s
ready to escape, but Tim mumbles just loud enough for him to hear without
super-hearing.
“What did I do?”
Tim’s jaw is clenched tight, shoulders hunched. Is he mad?
Kon could pretend not to hear. Pretend not to see. Could leave right now and
spare himself any more embarrassment. But he stays. He needs to be clear.
Anyway, it’s the reason he had to come now, tonight. He doesn’t want this to
drag on forever.
“You didn’t do anything, Rob,” he says, feeling drained. “I just can’t do this,
is all.”
Tim answers like he’s sifting slowly for each word. “And what do you think this
is?”
Kon feels a flash of heat rip through him.
“That’s just it!” He yells, louder than he’d intended, but he means it anyway.
“I don’t know. I don’t ever know with you!”
“Kon, you’re my best friend,” Tim says. He’s trying to grab onto something
steady between them. And he finds it, but Kon doesn’t know if that’s enough.
“And you’re my best friend, Rob. As long as you want to be, but,” Kon shuts his
eyes, because he feels like he’s messing this up so badly, stirring up all the
crap he’d been trying to avoid, “we can’t just mess around. Not…not when I feel
this way about you.”
And he’d never said a word about it to Tim before now. Made hints when he
couldn’t help himself, sure, and flirted like a champ, but never in exact
language. Still, Tim’s gotta know.
“You think I’m just messing around,” Tim responds, voice going back to that
even tone, the one that says nothing, and makes Kon want to punch through a
brick wall until it’s nothing but powder.
“Dude, what am I supposed to think? You never tell me anything. And then you
ask me to do that for you—with you. You disappear before I can even try to
figure you out.” He throws his arms up in frustration. “It’s like another one
of your shadow tricks, always trying to convince people you’re not even real.
How am I supposed to know a thing about what you’re feeling? Or if you even
have feelings.”
“But you know I’m real, Kon.” Tim doesn’t sound too sure. “I wouldn’t have
asked if…I mean…What I’m trying to say is…”
Eventually, Kon’s brain catches up. Realizes that if Tim is fighting him on
this, it means—
“I’m real. And yes, I have feelings,” Tim insists. He balls his hands into
fists, clenching them nervously. “And I have feelings for you, you jerk. I care
about you. Thought it was obvious. But I guess it wasn’t. I’m sorry.” Tim’s
forehead wrinkles, and he smiles like he’s going to cry. “That plain enough,
Kid?”
There’s so much to process there that Kon thinks his heart quits beating. Or
maybe it’s time that’s stopped.
“Hell,” he says, then drops out of the sky.
Tim scrambles to where he’s landed pretty solidly on the roof. He didn’t slam
down hard enough to make any cracks in the concrete, and he hasn’t hurt his
back, but he probably still should’ve at least tried to use his powers to catch
himself. Especially in nasty old Gotham. Building might’ve collapsed in on
itself, the way everything here seems like it’s rotting on the inside.
Tim’s not rotten at all, though. Nope. He’s kneeling over Kon, face blocking
out the night and the clouds and the moon, not that Kon minds the change in
view. Tim Tim Tim Tim. Tim’s eyebrows wiggle under his mask, like they’re
deciding between worried or amused.
“Kon? Are you okay?”
Yes, okay. Very okay. So okay that he thinks he might have to call up Webster
to make their definition of ‘okay’ a little more robust. Or he can just pick a
different word for how he’s feeling right now. Like stunned, euphoric, jaw-
droppingly spectacular.
“Holy heartache, Rob,” he says, wistfully, and pulls Tim down to him, pressing
their lips together for the very first time.
End Notes
     I wrote this last December, just when my TimKon obsession was getting
     chronic. One of my most fun fic writing experiences to date (and not
     just because of the smut, okay?!). In any case, even though I've
     drifted from the pairing, this fic will always be a personal
     favorite.
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