Chapter Text
For the record: Con hadn’t had the intention of stealing Tim’s plushie.
He’d shown up to the gala and (impressively) lasted about a whole hour before he was positively itching to smoke a joint with Tim. Then the weed had made everything pleasant and funny and he’d managed to steal Tim’s phone. He was caught between recording Tim’s (unfairly adorable) giggling as he was ruthlessly tickled or messing with Tim’s phone. Ultimately, he couldn’t resist fucking with Tim- and so he’d changed his contact name to something vaguely to extremely sexual, (he barely remembers). He’d opted to stay behind when Tim went back to the party, and it was because he wanted to snoop and NOT because he didn’t want to watch other people talk to Tim, put their hand on his arm, chat him up, think they had a chance. He wasn’t about to entertain the notion of sharing. And that was fine, up until Tim told him to be good and wait. Not asked. Told. And goddammit, did Con feel some type of way about that. A part of his brain that was woozy with the weed had his fingers scrambling out a painfully honest response: if you keep talking like that I might just jerk off in here.
And then they’d texted more and Tim had called him good again and Con was so hard it hurt and had to sit on his hands. No. Tim did not mean it like that. Still, Con guiltily looked around at Tim’s plushies. The bat family looked at him, (disappointment somehow etched across their adorable faces) strewn across the mattress.
I’m sorry, Mr. Batman, he thinks. I didn’t mean to get hard in your son’s room.
It’s not Con’s fault Tim’s room smells like Tim. And Tim smells like ‘I wanna be good for Tim’.
Not Con’s fault. He should probably get off of Tim’s bed, not get off ON Tim’s bed. Hell, maybe Tim kept his jacking material around here— nope, nope. Con was not going to snoop around in hopes of finding- what? What was he even searching for? He grabbed the Red Robin plushie and buried his head in it, equal parts exasperation and desire to smell Tim. Stay here. Be good. Con was about to explode.
Super-hearing meant Con heard Tim’s footsteps coming up the stairs. And Con was NOT ready for that. He hadn’t calmed down yet, and the thought of Tim walking in on Con with an erection was extremely embarrassing. He ignored the part of him that wanted to wait and sit pretty and be so good for Tim. He took off, throwing himself out the window. He was halfway home before he realized he was still clutching the Red Robin plushie. Fuck.
He put the plushie on his desk and flopped onto his bed. God dammit. He was achingly hard, sensitive to the material of his boxers. Tim was still in his nose, his head. He was drowning in Tim. And because he was still high, and ONLY because he was high, he let himself imagine.
Imagine he’d stayed, he’d been good for Tim. That Tim had opened the door, still in his stupidly flattering suit, with his stupidly dangerous eyes. That his eyes had landed on Con’s erection and flashed with excitement, that he’d been impressed even. That he’d sat down next to Con gently and told him he was so good for staying, for waiting, even for matching his shirt to Tim’s tie. He imagined Tim’s voice dropping, in a way that it might during sex. He imagined Tim’s hands brushing his neck, murmuring sweet praise. He imagined Tim’s well-manicured hand sliding lower and lower, brushing by his pecs, maybe whispering something about how handsome he was. Sliding lower until it reached his navel, slowing before slipping under his boxers, freeing his cock.
How Tim’s hand would gently circle Con’s dick, making him whine just the tiniest bit, slipping through his slightly parted lips. He imagined Tim smiled at the noise, rewarding him with a kiss under his jaw. He imaged Tim tightening his hand, stroking him slowly until Con bucked into his hand and groaned. Tim would tell him to be patient. To be good and wait. And so Con would wait, held on the edge of not enough until Tim decided to speed up his hand. Tim licking the shell of his ear, telling him how good he was being. Con would be caught between loving how good he was being for Tim, how praise spilled out of his lips, and needing to cum. And because imaginary Conner don’t give a shit about the consequences, Conner whimpered and moaned Tim’s name and barely stopped himself from bucking needily.
Now Tim’s rewarding him with a twist of his hand, making Con moan loudly. Con can hear Tim’s blood rushing south, can see just how hard Tim is for him. And he feels pride, knowing he’s doing well. And oh shit, that’s his perspermatozoisus making a fucking mess of the bedsheets. Tim’s hand is still moving, pushing him closer and closer. Just before he reaches orgasm, Tim’s lips brush his ear. He heard the words “so good, baby” and “handsome” and “Kon-El” and “Conner”.
Conner’s still in his room. Tim still isn’t there. Con came all over his hand. He looks downward, noting he was still half-hard. Damn his Kryptonian body, because he was fucking horny again and that meant he’d be thinking about Tim more, and— fuck. The Red Robin plushie sat on Con’s desk, forgotten. It sat facing Con, as if it’d seen everything and was forever scarred. Con pushed down the urge to apologize profusely to the plushie and took deep breaths.
And his mind was gone again, because now he was picturing a filthy make out with Tim, pulling Tim flush against him, feeling his dick harden against him. Knowing he did that, that Tim was hard because of him, sent sparks down his spine. This time, maybe Con gets to kiss down Tim’s body, hear Tim lose himself to pleasure. Maybe Con can find out just how gone he can make Tim look, just how loud he can make him be. Maybe he’ll be so good for Tim that Tim’s eyes will roll back and he’ll make those small, choked little moans kinda like he did when he was being tickled half to death, but with an undertone of need bordering desperation. Tim undone, panting, flushed, desperate, all because of Con. Maybe Tim decides to do something about all the shit Con texts him, takes one of his sexual innuendo not-jokes too seriously and comes to collect. Con’s too far gone to argue with his brain against the onslaught of images- Tim with Con’s dick in his mouth, looking up at him through his shaggy black hair. Tim looking out of breath, more flushed than he is after missions. Tim shuddering as Con dragged his fingers down Tim’s toned and lean torso.
Con realizes at precisely this moment he wants to see Tim’s dick. He’s never seen a human dick, and he’s not about to go ask Clark for the similarities and differences. It’s mere curiosity, he’s not, like, gay. It’s just Tim is a guy his age and he wants to compare- for science. Tim would be up for that, no? Maybe Tim would make a Venn diagram, the fucking nerd. He’s not about to look it up, because then it’d just be a random dick, not Tim’s dick. God, just thinking about it- was it long and slender, with the same pink tint at the tip that Tim’s cheeks caught whenever Con said something a little too R rated when he wasn’t expecting it? How would it taste?
Con can’t help but think about the grapes. How encouraging and challenging Tim had been. Maybe Tim would be the same with his own dick, coaxing Con to push his limits.
This is all crazy. Con blames the weed. Con likes girls and girls like Con. It’s the weed. It’s because Con likes weed and weed likes Con and Tim also likes weed so Con’s brain is just mixing it all up. That’s all it is- a brain mix-up.
Is there a “no homo” way to ask a coworker/superhero partner for a picture of his dick?
He’s just about to take care of his raging returned erection when his phone dinged.
Timmy
I know you stole my fucking Red Robin plushie.
Con reads the message. Tim is in his room. Maybe he’s stripped off his suit and is in pyjamas. What kind of PJs does Tim wear? Con guiltily hopes Tim sleeps naked, or maybe in shorts and a tank top that shows off the muscle he’s woven throughout his body. God, Tim. Tim is thinking about him right now, even if it’s with annoyance. Tim’s remembering his time with Con too, if only to pinpoint when exactly the theft of the plushie happened. Con gets up and turns the Red Robin plushie so it faces the wall. He’s still not giving it back.
He’s so fucked. So, so undeniably fucked. Dammit, Tim.