Hello, friends, my name is Rin ( or suzukiblu; pick your poison ) and I am a queer nonbinary they/them in their forties who writes a lot and also occasionally draws a thing or two. I mostly post WIP excerpts of my writing, links to my finished fics, and writing-related chatter, meta, and "what should I write?" polls on here, and sometimes some random fanart or reblogs of other people's work. I do semi-frequent writing and/or art-related request memes too, depending on my schedule and mood and the position of the moon and sun and Venus and also my dog's mood, as one does. 🧡
I dabble in various fandoms at various times, but my current hyperfixation is definitely a ridiculous superclone and everyone he hangs out with. So like, mostly Young Justice and the Superfam; mostly them, haha. Blorbo-in-law Match is also very present, if you can/do count him under either YJ or the Superfam.
Some of my content is not sfw or is just straight-up porn; my work may include rape/noncon/dubcon, past or present abuse, emotional or literal incest ( typically Supercest or Batcest, with any shared DNA usually being due to a "someone got non-consensually cloned" situation ), and other related themes, and I also write a fair amount of omegaverse and clonecest if those topics are not your cup of tea. I do my best to tag all of the above and also whatever kinks and common triggers I can think of, so knock wood there shouldn't be any unpleasant surprises for anyone, but just so you're aware, those topics are gonna be around.
I also have a Ko-fi, and I'll write thank-you sentences for anyone who tips me and requests something from a specific WIP, minimum one sentence per dollar. Monthly subs are also available for various rewards, including WIP updates and discounted mini-commissions. The 3USD original serial level is currently on hiatus, but the other levels are all active.
relevant links:
AO3 - where my edited and actively updating/fully completed fics go
DC WIP tags list - where my works in progress are sorted for easy-access with chronological and non-chronological links to their individual WIP tags and a link to a master doc with content notes/warnings for each story
DC WIPs tags list - where the tag for the "actually stay on Tumblr" version of my works in progress list is located; yes it DID require multiple posts to contain these multitudes, hahaha jfc self
misc tags - where the miscellaneous meta/WIP tags from other fandoms I have dabbled and/or hyperfixated in go
related works - where delightful people have taken advantage of my blanket permission to make art/fics/podfics and the like, and also where things I've commissioned and works for multi-person events I've been involved in go ( i.e., bangs/reverse bangs, exchanges, zines; things like that ).
writing talk - where I answer asks about/requests for writing advice and similar things
Ko-fi - where I live in a capitalist society and you can make me write stuff!
mirrorverse!Clark and Kon's daddy issues both get some - 150w
Match and Kon and the time magic made them do it - 100w
Clark panic-adopts his teenage clones - 150w
matchbox pockets - 300w
WC total for June 1st: 700w
So I think I'm gonna try to post a tracker of my daily word count/word count breakdowns for the month, see if that helps motivate my brain a little and also give people an idea of what specifically I'm working on. Still kinda burnt out, honestly, but we're just doin' our best to actually give ourselves time to chill out again here, hah. So we'll see how that goes, pretty much!
listen I just need to write SO bad, okay, I have been denied SO MUCH WRITING TIME the past few months-- 😭😭
WIP excerpt for PhenomenalAsterisk; “mirrorverse!Clark and Kon’s daddy issues both get some”.
content notes: clonecest, emotional incest, daddy kink, dubious consent, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unsafe sex, Kon being Not Okay™.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
Clark hums something low and soothing—some song or another that Kon doesn't know—and something about it's . . . something about it's just—he doesn't know what it even is, but . . . but it's . . .
Clark strokes through his hair and cradles him in his arms and Kon just . . . he just doesn't know what to do.
He buries his face in Clark's shoulder, still trying to catch his breath whether he needs the oxygen or not, and Clark keeps humming that same low and soothing song that he doesn't know; keeps stroking through his hair over and over, like he'd do it forever if Kon didn't move; like he'd never get tired of it or bored of it or—anything.
It feels . . .
Kon maybe falls asleep for a while, or maybe passes out for a minute, or maybe just . . . drifts off a little, or . . . something like that. It's not on purpose, just—it just happens, kinda. Clark's stroking his hair over and over in this weird kind of—heavy way, and humming that low and soothing song, and acting like he doesn't . . . doesn't mind him being here, and like he maybe even . . . wants him to be here. Like he actually wants to spend a while just like—this.
Like there's nothing more important he'd rather be doing, and no one more important he'd rather be with.
Kon's whole body feels heavy, so heavy that he can't even keep his eyes open, and he doesn't get why. Doesn't get . . .
He hears Clark chuckle indulgently, and feels the strongest, steadiest hand that's ever touched him draw its fingers through his hair slow and easy, and hears the other's thrumming heartbeat against his ear, the first one he'd ever tried to memorize and the one that'd taken him the longest to learn, and it feels . . . it feels . . .
He doesn't know how it feels, because he's never felt anything like it before.
WIP excerpt for cat behind the cut; “mirrorverse!Clark and Kon’s daddy issues both get some”.
content notes: clonecest, emotional incest, daddy kink, dubious consent, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unsafe sex, Kon being Not Okay™.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
Nobody's ever talked to him like that once in his life. Not—not like—other people he's fucked sometimes, kinda, but not like he was—not like—they'd still talked to him like he was an adult, or at least like he was a teenager. Never—never like—
Clark cups his face in his hands again and says, "Come here, baby," and then tugs him down and kisses him again too.
Kon wants to throw up. Wants to kick the bastard's ass or maybe just fucking kill him. Wants to just fucking die himself.
At least wants to tell Clark to stop calling him that.
The only thing he actually does is kiss him back even more desperately than he did the last time, though, because of fucking course that's what he actually does. Because it always goes like that with Clark, no matter how bad it hurts. Why would this time be any different?
Why's this the only way he's ever been good enough for Clark to actually want?
"Good boy," Clark breathes against his mouth, and Kon's whole body responds to that. Everything in him responds to that. Because his whole body and everything in him is all Clark's, and it's all anything Clark wants it to be, and anything Clark tells it to be.
And what Clark's telling it—telling him—to be is—
"Good boy, good boy, good boy, good boy, good boy," Clark keeps panting out over and over, and Kon fucks him to that rhythm without even meaning to. Clark laughs raggedly, his mouth splitting into a wide smile, and then kisses him again.
Kon kisses back just as desperate as before, and Clark keeps murmuring it over and over and over and—
"Good BOY," Clark comes groaning, his cock spilling all over Kon's fist and his own chest and stomach, and Kon loses any sense of rhythm at all and fucks into him frantically, and Clark lets out a huffed, breathless moan of a laugh before he's even finished coming and winds his arms around his body and just—just hugs him. Just . . . like he wants him here, like he cares he's here, like he just wants to—
Kon comes all clumsy and jerky and messy and inside Clark, and—and—"Dad," he chokes, and can't—and can't just—"DAD!"
"Oh, you really are a treasure, aren't you, Kon-El," Clark murmurs with a smile, and keeps hugging him through every single wave and aftershock and miserable, miserable moment of feeling.
Kon can't even sob about it this time.
He collapses on top of Clark, his whole body a shaking, overwhelmed mess and vision swimming in and out as his chest heaves for air he shouldn't even need, and Clark presses a kiss into his hair and strokes a hand down his back and keeps hugging him—cradling him, really—through it. Keeps holding him like . . . like he's . . .
Clark strokes his back and the back of his neck and the back of his hair, and Kon shakes helplessly in his arms and still can't even sob about it.
WIP excerpt for whoareyouidonteven behind the cut; “mirrorverse!Clark and Kon’s daddy issues both get some”.
content notes: clonecest, emotional incest, daddy kink, dubious consent, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unsafe sex, Kon being Not Okay™.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
"That's my boy," Clark grunts in satisfaction, and Kon slams a hand straight through the broken bed and mattress and digs his fingers into the metal of the broken floor; squeezes his fingers into a grip into and through that metal, all crushed in and smashed down inside his fist.
And fucks him harder, too, because there's nothing else he can do in response to any of that.
Not for Superman, anyway.
Clark groans appreciatively again, tilting his head back against the mattress with a rough exhalation. Kon tightens his grip in the thick, heavy metal of the floor, and grips—and grips—
He grips Clark's cock, too, and grips it even tighter than he does his fistful of crushed metal flooring.
"There you go, baby, just like that," Clark groans again—again, but lower and louder and even more appreciative—and winds his arms around him tighter and rocks his hips up harder to meet his; rocks his hips up harder to rock his cock into his fist, and . . . and . . .
Clark's cock feels—the grip's reversed, obviously, but—but otherwise—otherwise it feels just like his cock. Just like Kon's jacking off his own cock. Exactly like he's jacking off his own cock.
It's Clark's, though, because of course it's Clark's. Even "his" cock—even that's Clark's, technically.
Everything about his body is Clark's, because if it wasn't, it'd be Luthor's.
Kon hilts up hard, burying himself as deep inside Clark as he can get—as deep as his cock, their cock, Clark's cock can get, their hips fully crushed together, and also as deep as his TTK can get, dug in down to the atomic level—and Clark moans roughly and digs his fingers into his back and his knees in against his flanks, and Kon just pounds into him faster, faster, faster, because the rhythm of Clark's heart is beating faster and faster, and Clark clenches down around his cock harder than anyone else has ever done before, and Kon's whole body jerks and he thrusts in deep, and—
"Kon," Clark breathes feelingly, and Kon strokes his cock harder and fucking fucks him. There's nothing else he can do, and nothing else he can let in his head.
He really, really can't let anything else in his head.
"There you go, baby boy, just like that, don't stop. So sweet for me, so good for your Daddy," Clark croons rough and breathless, moving with and clutched up so tight around him, digging his fingers into his back and holding on to him, and—and talking to him like he's—like he—looking at him like he's—"Daddy's big, strong boy doing such a good job for him, making him so proud. Keep going, just like that, just like—ah, yes, just like—mmmmm."
Kon hates this. He hates this. Clark's talking to him like he's—like he's a little kid or some shit, like he's something he never was, like—Clark's talking to him like that while he's fucking fucking him, for fuck's sake, and it's—it's so—
Clark's talking to him like he's a little kid he gives a fuck about.
WIP excerpt for LexiOakEn behind the cut; “mirrorverse!Clark and Kon’s daddy issues both get some”.
content notes: clonecest, emotional incest, daddy kink, dubious consent, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unsafe sex, Kon being Not Okay™.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
"Now why would you apologize for that, sweetheart?" Clark murmurs, and Kon chokes on a sob so hard that it feels like his throat tries to turn itself inside out.
"I—I didn't—shoulda lasted better, shoulda—shoulda done better, sh-shoulda—sorry, sorry," Kon chokes again, useless and helpless about it, and Clark kisses him again, and he sobs again, and then Clark rolls them over and pins him to the mattress, and Kon clings to him. Clark smiles against his mouth again and rocks his hips down against his.
"You did good, baby. You don't have to be perfect for Daddy; you just have to keep trying for him," Clark reassures him gently with a few more light little rocks of his hips, reaching down to smooth his hair back off his forehead for him and wipe the tears off his face for him too. Kon sobs harder, screwing his eyes shut tight; clings harder, digging his fingers into Clark's thighs. He doesn't even fucking know when he got hard again or even how he got hard again, but his cock throbs viciously inside the other.
It fucking hurts, but not as bad as Clark's voice and expression and hands all being so gentle.
Being so gentle at—him, he means.
It hurts enough seeing that kind of thing when he isn't just, like—just looking at it from the outside. It hurts a lot worse to actually experience it.
"There you go, sweetheart," Clark sighs contentedly, giving his hips another rock as he settles his weight down heavier on top of him. Kon's head slams back into the bed, his eyes rolling back. The noise he makes is definitely not human. "Oh, so sweet. You can give your daddy what he wants, can't you? He'll be patient for you, if you need it."
"Sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorry!" Kon gasps out. He tries to roll his hips up, or at least rock them up, or just fucking move them, but Clark doesn't even shift on top of him. There's not—even with the mattress and fucked-up bed under them that should give, Kon feels like he can't move at all.
Except he really has to, because he has to do something to make up for fucking up like this, because he can't actually make Clark be patient, because—because—
Fuck. Just—fuck.
That's all he can think.
Kon grabs Clark's hips and threads his TTK through the fucked-up bed and the damaged floor and entire room and a whole lot farther than he bothers paying attention to, down through his own body and down through Clark's body all the way down to the damn molecule. That's actually even harder than it sounds, given how dense Kryptonians are on the atomic level. Especially because no matter how alike they look, Clark's a lot more Kryptonian than he is.
All the way down to the damn molecule.
Which—obviously he is. Clark's more of everything than Kon is. More atomically dense; more Kryptonian; more Superman. More of a man at all.
Just—more.
"Mmm," Clark says speculatively, and Kon bucks his hips up into his. Clark's eyes flare and he actually loses his balance enough to pitch forward—actually gasps—and catches himself with his hands on Kon's shoulders, then makes a mildly surprised noise.
"Hm," he says, the sound breathless and punched-out and eyes flicking back down to Kon's face with a speculative expression, and Kon—freezes. Kon freezes, sudden cold nausea twisting in his gut, sudden bleeding ice sloshing through his veins, and doesn't know if that—if he shouldn't have—if—
Clark's mouth curls into a slow smile, and he slides his hands down Kon's collarbones and chest to right where the "S" should be, and always is, even when it's not. Kon's whole heart is trying to beat out of his damn ribcage right under the bastard's hands, and he knows the other can hear what it's doing right now. Can probably feel what it's doing right now, hard as his pulse is going.
"Don't stop now," Clark says, his smile going even wider as his hands splay across Kon's chest and his shoulders roll back. "Show your old man what you can do, Superman."
Probably some other things happen then, but the next thing Kon actually registers happening is the part where he's slamming Clark into the bed hard enough to crush the frame even past his TTK and pounding into him fast and hard enough to crush the floor past his TTK.
And where Clark's already wrapping around and rocking up into him, groaning with obvious appreciation over every single thrust.
don't worry about it. there's definitely NOT another four posts/two thousand words' worth of any kind of mirrorverse whatsoever in the queue for tonight. definitely not. no way. absolutely zero.
don't worry about it.
( and also don't worry about the other 5.5k of mirrorverse that totally doesn't exist and just hasn't had the time to get queued up yet; DEFINITELY that's not a thing in anyone's future. definitely no way ever whatsoever. )
WIP excerpt for Crim behind the cut; “mirrorverse!Clark and Kon’s daddy issues both get some”.
content notes: clonecest, emotional incest, daddy kink, dubious consent, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unsafe sex, Kon being Not Okay™.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
"I can't, I can't," Kon moans, desperately shaking his head as he desperately tries not to come. His cock's throbbing and twitching and aching and fucking drooling pre inside—inside Clark, inside Superman, inside—inside his—h-his—inside—
It's so fucking hard not to just come.
"I can't, I can't, can't—can't do—" he croaks out, and keeps pressed down just as tight against Clark's body as he can get and keeps rolling his hips into his the best he can and keeps—keeps losing his fucking mind, and—and—"D-Daddy, please, I—DAD!"
Clark lets out a breathless, indulgent little chuckle and runs his fingers through Kon's hair, and it takes everything Kon's got not to come right the fuck then and there. He thinks he sobs again, though.
"So good for me, Kon-El," Clark hums, and Kon still only just manages not to come, and hates the the jerky, desperate stutter in his hips and how tight he's clinging to Clark's body and himself. Definitely himself.
He hates himself so much.
Not even just for this.
Kon sobs harder, or just again, and Clark nuzzles in against his temple again and presses another kiss into his hair, and Kon sobs, and almost comes, and—and it fucking hurts, it feels so fucking bad, it feels so fucking good, it feels so fucking disgusting—
It really, really fucking hurts.
"Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad—" he keens out—keens out all pathetic and disgusting, and keeps keening—and tries so fucking hard to keep his hips moving to a steady rhythm, moving to the beat of Clark's thrumming, thrumming heart—moving at a decent fucking angle, at least, if he—if he can even—
Clark kisses his temple and the arch of his cheekbone and back behind his ear and strokes both big, broad, flat-palmed hands down the sides of his neck and along his shoulders, and Kon's dick throbs and his cunt drips and he's so fucking disgusting, so—
Would Clark have liked him better, if he'd known to offer him this from the start? Would Clark have let him call him . . . ?
Kon really, really hates himself, but especially hates knowing—knowing he probably would've done it, if he'd known that.
Knowing he maybe . . . maybe would do . . .
Kon might be about to come his brains out and might be about to puke his guts out and can't even say which one it's gonna be, or which one would be worse.
"Good boy," Clark murmurs, still nuzzling and stroking; still wrapped around him tight. "So good. Do you need to come, baby? Is that it?"
"PLEASE!" Kon cries, and Clark cups his face in his hands and grips his body with his thighs, and presses a soft, light little kiss to his forehead.
"I really do think you'll make a wonderful mother, Kon Kal-El," he says with a smile pressed against his forehead, and Kon's whole body lights up, and he—"And I know you'll be a wonderful Superman for me one day. You'll do my crest and my name proud."
Kon's brain turns itself inside out and turns itself into fucking mush and he comes so hard his vision fritzes out and goes through more wavelengths of the electromagnetic spectrum than it's ever gone through before and probably more than he even thought existed.
He also bursts into tears and maybe blacks out, but he couldn't even say if he does or doesn't. When his brain's back online enough to think almost coherent thoughts again, though, his body's just this weak, shaking thing collapsed on top of Clark's with his cock already half-soft inside him, and Clark's body is—is—
Clark's—cradling him, almost, and petting his hair and spine and holding him so his face is tucked in against his neck. Kon feels like fucking dying, and for more than one reason.
Mostly he just cries some more, and tries to pull himself the fuck together, for fuck's sake.
"Sorry," he tries to say, though it comes out too slurred and thick to really sound like the word, or any word, or—"S-sorry, I—l—i didn't—"
Clark tucks his fingers under Kon's chin and taps his jaw up lightly and kisses him.
Kon almost pukes up everything he's ever eaten since he first cracked out of the test tube, and almost bolts out of the bed and room and ship and entire hemisphere, and kisses him back more desperately than he's ever kissed a single fucking person in his entire fucking life.
Clark curls his fingers under his jaw and smiles against his mouth, and Kon feels it.
WIP excerpt for Aether56 behind the cut; “mirrorverse!Clark and Kon’s daddy issues both get some”.
content notes: clonecest, emotional incest, daddy kink, dubious consent, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unsafe sex, Kon being Not Okay™.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
"I can't imagine what was wrong with me that I ever wouldn't," Clark hums, pressing another kiss into his hair and stroking a hand down his spine. It's fucking embarrassing, but just that little bit of attention—of affection—makes Kon's cock fucking throb. "Oh, aren't you sweet, baby."
"Sorry, sorry," Kon chokes as he desperately does his best to keep doing even a goddamn mediocre job of fucking him, and he's not even apologizing for anything, but he's apologizing for so much, but he's not even apologizing to this Clark, but he's only apologizing to this Clark, but—but—"SORRY!"
"Nothing for you to be sorry for, sweetheart," Clark murmurs affectionately—just, the fucking affection, again, and Kon hates himself for the way it makes him feel. He buries a strangled sob in Clark's shoulder, and Clark strokes a heavy hand up the back of his neck and hums contentedly—approvingly—before dropping another kiss into his hair. "Why would I be ungrateful over you doing your best for me?"
Kon sobs, and feels Clark smile against his temple.
"There you go, baby," Clark says, rubbing the back of his neck soothingly as he hooks a leg around Kon's waist—hooks it tight around Kon's waist, and squeezes it tight around his waist. Kon chokes again and nearly falls on top of him, which, like—which he basically already is, close together as they already were; as he was already gripping Clark; as Clark's gripping him.
Clark's gripping him so tight he can't even pull out enough to thrust. Can't pull out even an inch. Kon doesn't—Kon doesn't usually—
He almost never actually just—just can't struggle against something. Just—can't make any effort to struggle, because when he reflexively tries to, Clark doesn't move at all; doesn't even have to flex or tense or anything to keep him right where he wants him.
He doesn't even know if it's that Clark's that strong, or it's just that he can't actually put up any resistance when it's—when it's—
"Daddy," Kon chokes helplessly, and buries his face back in Clark's shoulder and winds his arms as tight around him as he can and just—just stutters his way into rolling his hips into his the best he can without being able to pull out enough to actually thrust his hips. "Daddy, Daddy, I—I—"
Clark nuzzles his temple with an affectionate little hum, and rolls his hips with his. Kon moans. Or—sobs, maybe. He can't tell the difference anymore, really.
"Just so determined to do well for me, aren't you," Clark hums, stroking the back of his neck again and smiling against his temple as he does. "That's my boy."
They're pressed together as close as they can get from neck to knee, and Clark's body against his feels nothing like anyone else's ever has. Just too—too—like it's gravity pulling him in, like it's—like he's—
Gravity, actually, wouldn't have even half this strong a pull on him.
Thank-you sentences for Ezra behind the cut, who gave me dealer's choice but mentioned being fond of Bernard and Kon, and is getting "Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it". You are all SHOCKED by the direction I went with that mention, I am sure, lol.
content notes: Dom/sub, pet play, subspace.
(( chrono || non-chrono || AO3 ))
"Fuck, you're cute," Bernard mutters as he squeezes his ass again, and Kon's cock throbs. "Seriously, Tim, why is your boy this cute?"
"Because I like him that way," Tim replies reasonably, like it's just the natural thing to say; like it's just the natural answer to give. Kon feels his face turn red and ducks his head to hide it against Bernard's shoulder, one of his hands fisting in the back of the other's robe and the other stuck locked in place on the sink.
Just—Tim just saying that like that . . . like it's just . . . like the way he acts is about what Tim would think of the way he acts; like Tim thinks he'd try to act . . . to act—"cute" for him, or . . .
Like it's just—like it's reasonable, that Kon would be trying to do that.
Which, well . . .
Well, it is, like . . . "reasonable", that he'd be trying to do that. Because he would be trying to do that, if he actually knew how to. So he thinks—he thinks, does that mean Tim knows he'd be doing that, if he knew how?
Does that mean . . . ?
"Oh, so you just trained him up for maximum cuteness?" Bernard jokes, and Kon tightens his grip on his robe and shivers. Bernard tugs his thigh up a little higher against his own hip and Kon wants his dick in him so fucking bad.
He doesn't know how to act fucking—cute, or whatever, or whatever Tim would think counted as "cute". But Tim could . . . Tim could just . . . if Tim wanted him to act like that, he could just . . .
He could—Tim could . . . "train him up", if he . . .
The shower curtain's still shut, and Tim isn't even watching them from behind it. Hell, Tim isn't even doing anything behind it. Kon can feel him just standing there under the spray—standing there naked under the spray, which is really hard for him not to feel, actually—and apparently just sorting through the weird amount of shampoo and body wash bottles he started collecting a while back. Kon's teased him about it a few times, and Tim says Robin needs to not smell like Tim Drake, which is kind of a crazy-person thing to think about, much less actually do, and also doesn't explain the sugar scrubs or the three different loofahs or—
Oh, Kon realizes, because his nose is right in the crook of Bernard's neck, and he can smell . . .
Like—yeah, obviously Bernard smells like Tim's bath stuff right now, because obviously Bernard just showered with Tim's bath stuff, but . . . Kon wonders, kinda, if Tim actually started collecting all the extra products and whatever either because they're all stuff Bernard usually uses, or just all stuff Bernard likes. Like . . . he doesn't know, maybe the way they lather, or how they make Tim's hair and skin smell, or how they make Tim's hair and skin feel, or . . .
Kon buries his face in a little tighter against Bernard's neck and thinks about Bernard doing Tim's laundry like it was something he did all the time.
Thinks about Bernard doing—his laundry, technically, and feels . . . and feels . . .
If they give him a "bath"—if he uses Tim's bath stuff—will Bernard like how it smells on him? Will Tim like how it smells on him? Like he—like it's actually—like it was up to Tim when he took a shower and what soap and shampoo and whatever he used for it. Just—same as it's been up to Tim when and what he's eaten and whether or not he puts his clothes back on this weekend and if he gets to suck his cock or get kissed.
Because all that is up to Tim right now.
So it's up to Tim how Kon's gonna smell after he takes his shower and if Bernard will like it and if he's gonna smell like Tim or—
Or if—or if Tim will let him smell like Robin.
"Mm, didn't really need to," Tim replies with a dismissive little shrug. Kon can feel him rearranging the last few shampoo bottles in the shower and can't stop obsessing about which might be Tim's and which might be Robin's. "No reason to waste time training him how to be something he already is when we can spend it on something new, right?"
Kon completely forgets about the stupid shampoo and his entire nervous system lights up like it's on fucking fire.
"What, you wanna teach me some new tricks, Rob?" he tries to joke, feeling overheated and weird and just trying to, like—catch his breath about it, a little. Or maybe more like catch his balance about it. Like, just while he—just while they're—
"Just the usual," Tim says. "You know, field signs, combat strats. How to be patient and wait for me. Since Bernard beat me to the cocksucking tips and all."
Kon's nervous system spikes up a few hundred degrees hotter, and his face flushes red. That—that's really—
"And how to be sweeter with yourself, too," Tim adds.
"Red" is not a strong enough word to describe the color that Kon can fucking feel his face turning.
"Tim," he says into Bernard's shoulder, because that's all he really can say, and tightens his grip on the other's robe and the bathroom sink again. It comes out pleading and quiet, and he feels . . . he feels like . . .
"Something you want, pet?" Tim asks, and that's all Kon feels. Just—he feels like Tim's pet. Tim's boy, Tim's Superboy, Tim's—just Tim's.
Nothing but Tim's.
"Dunno," he manages to rasp out against Bernard's shoulder as he rocks down—ruts down, more like—more urgently against the other's thigh, because Tim asking him something like that just makes it too damn hard not to. "I—I don't—dunno what I want."
"You don't?" Tim asks, and Kon feels him tilt his one to one side. "Why not, pet?"
The answer to that question's really . . . really obvious, Kon thinks. Though the fact that he's currently grinding against Bernard while Bernard isn't really doing anything but kinda holding on to him makes it feel . . . makes saying it feel . . .
"'Cuz—'cuz you haven't—you haven't t-told me," he stammers, burying his face in tighter against Bernard's shoulder and fisting both hands in the back of the same silky, satiny robe he's currently grinding his dick against.
"Fucking hell," Bernard mutters very feelingly, tightening his grip on him in return. "How do you even do that that quick, babe?"
"Practice," Tim replies matter-of-factly. Bernard groans through his teeth, and Kon shudders. Just—"practice".
Fuck, what a fucking answer.
"Rob," he mumbles roughly, tightening his grip on Bernard's robe again; grinding his dick in tighter again. He wonders if it's actually Tim's. He wonders if it's Bernard's, and the guy just keeps it here.
He wonders which one of them did the laundry the last time it needed washed.
"You need me to tell you something?" Tim says, and Kon's face burns, because he literally just told him that, so . . . so Tim just wants him to really say it, then. Like . . . that's what that means, right?
"Yeah," he croaks. "I—I need you to tell me—tell me what I want."
"Fucking hell," Bernard mutters even more feelingly, gripping his ass with one hand and cupping the back of his head with the other. Kon squeezes his eyes shut and remembers—remembers pinning Bernard flat to the bed and getting him off with his TTK. Remembers how Bernard had made those little noises into his shoulder like it was—like it was someplace safe for them, like . . . like he . . .
He'd cupped the back of Bernard's head too, he remembers. He doesn't . . . he doesn't know if Bernard remembers that, or . . .
He's been making little noises into Bernard's shoulder, though. He's been . . . been . . .
"You want to be my good boy," Tim replies, mild and easy, and Kon feels every splinter and nail and speck of dust in the entire fucking boat.
Feels all that, and feels all that before Tim decides to just keep talking.
"You want to behave for me, and you want me happy," Tim continues lightly as he starts shampooing his hair. Kon's whole gut throbs with heat. "You want to do every single damn thing I tell you to, and you want Bernard to like you."
Bernard makes a weird little strangled noise, for some reason, and tightens his grip on Kon. Kon's a little too busy muffling a moan in his shoulder and riding his thigh to actually figure out what the "some reason" is, though. The silky-satin drag of sleek fabric over soft muscle and against his aching dick is fucking overwhelming and suddenly the only thing he can think about, especially with Tim talking about—
"You also want to hump his thigh 'til you come all over that nice silky robe he's wearing and we both tell you how good you are for it," Tim says, because apparently Tim just has a whole-ass list of shit for him to want right off the top of his head, and Kon chokes, and—"And you want me to put your jacket back on after I get out of the shower."
"Robin," Kon whines, his body jerking. Probably the only reason he doesn't break the sink behind him is because his TTK's wrapped around it, and probably the only reason he doesn't knock Bernard over is because his TTK's wrapped around him. And then he realizes—
Tim ditched all of his clothes on the floor when he got undressed, come-stained shirt and all. They're all crumpled into a scattered, tangled pile, kicked off into an already-damp corner next to a slim plastic laundry basket that Kon can feel the tangled pile of Bernard's own abandoned clothes inside, along with a few other scattered pieces of dirty laundry. None it's really been treated with any particular care, because it's, like—it's just fucking laundry, so why would any of it be? It's just dirty clothes, and only really something to care about because it's proof of Tim and Bernard finally getting undressed too, even if they haven't actually let him, like—see them yet, really.
So . . . so it's all just crumpled and scattered and tangled, and all left in the basket or on the floor. There's nothing weird or even notable about that, because what the hell else would they do with any of it? Like—seriously, what?
But . . .
But his jacket is hanging neatly on the back of the bathroom door.
Kon gets a very sudden and very weird head rush as his knees go a little weak, and swallows roughly. His jacket's the only piece of his clothing that he knows the location of right now. His suit and boots and belts and gloves and thigh bag are all who even fucking knows where. And like—it doesn't actually matter where any of them are, because Tim's already told him he's not getting any of them back 'til Monday anyway.
But his jacket—that location suddenly really, really matters. Which—Tim's not gonna let him wear that either, obviously. Tim's not gonna let him wear anything at all.
But with his jacket . . . with his jacket—his jacket that Tim hung up all nice and neat on the back of the bathroom door before dumping the rest of his clothes on the wet bathroom floor—maybe that's just gonna be because Tim's gonna be wearing it.
Fuck, Kon thinks, and his knees nearly give out.
"Gods damn," Bernard groans, pressing his thigh up tighter against his still-aching dick. It feels so good, and also doesn't feel like enough at all. Kon wants more. Needs more.
Tim just hums, light and mild.
"Kon?" he inquires, just as light and mild as before.
"Please," Kon begs, curling his fingers in the back of Bernard's robe and trying so fucking hard not to rut down too hard against the other's thigh—not to bruise the other's thigh, because it'd be way too fucking easy to do that right now. "Pleasepleaseplease, lemme—please lemme—"
"Hmmm," Tim says. Kon can feel him dragging his fingers through his soaped-up hair and massaging shampoo into his scalp, and has the incredibly weird experience of being jealous of Tim for, like . . . getting to get his hair washed by himself, basically? Which is definitely not a normal-person thought to think, but . . . "'Let' you what, sunshine?"
Kon immediately can't think of anything else but what Tim did to him after the last time he called him that.
"Rob," he croaks again, voice shaky and cracking, and fumbles his way through grinding down faster and clumsier against Bernard's thigh as he buries another whimper in the other's shoulder; as Bernard curls his fingers in the back of his hair and they both press in as close as they can get to each other. The robe's slipped off the shoulder Kon doesn't have his face buried in, and Bernard's chest is half-exposed and keeps brushing against his, and it's so much skin compared to what he's gotten from either of them so far, because he's still the only one who's gotten naked through all this outside of the damn shower, and getting it now is . . . the contrast between warm skin and silky fabric and being close enough to a heartbeat that complements Tim's heartbeat just right is . . . is . . .
Fuck, Kon doesn't even know what it is, but something about all that is doing something to him.
"Tell me, pet," Tim says, and it's just . . . it's not even an order, really. It's just a—it's just—it's just what's going to happen.
Just a fact.
"Well great, cool, cool cool cool for me, 'cuz I already know I am not gonna survive him telling you that, babe," Bernard mutters under his breath even as he nuzzles into Kon's hair—nuzzles gently into Kon's hair. Kon buries another whiny little whimpering sound in his shoulder, because—because Tim trusts Bernard, because Tim trusts Bernard with him, so—so it's safe to do that.
And Bernard's been . . . been so nice, so . . . so maybe that's why it's safe to too.
The guy really, really doesn't need to be this nice to him.
"Tim," Kon whines, his hips stuttering, and Bernard's nails curl against his scalp and his fingers dig into his ass again. Kon might be obsessing a little bit over how bad he wants those fingers in him right now. Or that cock, in an ideal world.
But first—first he knows there's a fact that has to happen, because Tim said it was gonna.
"Lemme be good," Kon begs into Bernard's silky-satin shoulder, his whole spine feeling like it's plugged into a damn power plant, and Bernard huffs out a rough breath against his hair and digs his nails and fingers into him, and—and it's so—and it's so—""Tim, Tim, lemme be good for you, lemme be—b-be cute for you, lemme learn a new trick, lemme do whatever'll make your boyfriend like me—"
"Hell," Bernard groans, and there is literally no way a baseline human civilian could ever pin Kon against anything without fucking up his powers first, but Bernard just—just does it, and Kon would literally rather swallow green kryptonite than resist that pin at all. "Tim, I swear to fuck, if you say a single word right now—"
"You really want me to leave my boy hanging, babe?" Tim "asks" mildly, and Bernard curses.
"Good, lemme be good, lemme be so good, I'll do anything, anything he'll like me for, just let me—" Kon begs, winding his arms around Bernard a lot tighter than he probably should, but it's fine, because he's already wrapped his TTK around and through him—because Tim's not telling him he can't, because Tim's not telling him not to, because—
"FUCK," Bernard chokes, fumbling up closer against him and grabbing the side of the sink too as he leans his weight into him—trusts him with his weight—and Kon buries a whimper in the guy's shoulder and hooks a leg across the back of his thighs, and Tim's not watching, not even looking, but—but—
WIP excerpt for Cheshire behind the cut; “Match is malfunctioning”.
content notes: omegaverse, “only Kryptonians have omegaverse genders”, mating cycles/in heat, internalized dehumanization, objectification kink, degradation kink, unprotected sex, dubcon due to identity issues, roleplay. Also, idk, what’s the good cop/bad cop version of praise kink/degradation kink?
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
It buries its face in tight against the pillow, and does not know what it can be. What it can do, or give, or . . .
There is nothing it can give.
Its body does not belong to it. Nothing belongs to it. And even if it did, its body was not designed to perform to superheroes' expectations.
It . . . it was not . . .
Subject Match would not be concerned with what it is "not", typically, but—it would not be concerned with what it is "not", but what it is not are all things that Impulse and Robin would obviously prefer to what it is. If it—if they—
It is not an ally; not a weapon they would care to use. Not a weapon they need to use. Not useful or vital or in any way singular. Not—it is not—
Not—Superboy.
"It'll be good for you," it begs helplessly, even though it does not even know what it could be for them at all. Even though it—even though—it has nothing they would want, it is nothing they would want, but—but it—"It'll be anything for you, anything, just—just please—please, it'll be anything."
"Grife, I really can't believe what a slut it is," Impulse mutters under his breath, and rocks his hips just enough to make Subject Match shudder as he drags a hand down its ribs. "Like what level of slut are we even operating at here? What's the alert level on the slut scale?"
Subject Match buries its face fully in the pillow and whines.
"Impulse," Robin says, sounding a little—terse, for some reason. Robin sounds . . . terse. Subject Match's gut twists tightly and it thinks . . . is that its fault? Is it not being good? Or—not good enough? Not being worth the effort, the time, the . . . the . . .
It did not try to hold on to either of them; did not try to touch them either of them without permission. It did not hurt or injure either of them. It—it offered what it had, except it has nothing, it—i-it—
"What, it likes it," Impulse says, then pauses for a quarter of a microsecond with his cock not deep enough inside it and amends: "I mean, it didn't kick me off or cry, so—probably it likes it. Uh."
"Just—give Match a minute, alright?" Robin sighs, stroking his gloved fingers through its hair again, and Subject Match trembles roughly and fists its hands in the sheets again too. "Let—it recover a little. I have a few things to ask it."
Subject Match feels that tight nauseous twist in its gut again and—they had asked it so many questions that it had not had answers for; does not have answers for. If it does not have answers for these questions . . .
"Sorry," it croaks reflexively, keeping its face down against the bed. It says it even though it knows a weapon could never be "sorry" for anything; even though it knows no one would believe it even if it were. It just—says it. Even though it knows. "It's sorry, it—it's sorry, it'll be better, it'll do better, it'll—please, please, it'll be better, it promises, it promises, just—it doesn't know anything, but it'll be anything you want. It'll be anything you want, just tell it what you want."
"That's not . . ." Robin cuts himself off, then lets out another sigh, sounding just barely—irritated? Annoyed? It does not know, and does not know what to expect from . . . whatever it is, exactly. "That's not what I meant, Match."
"Oh, and I'm the one saying the wrong shit here," Impulse grumbles, and Subject Match still does not know if it—
Then Impulse grabs onto the back of its neck again and squeezes it. His grip is nothing; the weight of his hand is nothing.
Subject Match immediately cannot think of anything but that grip and weight.
Or cannot until Impulse rocks his hips into it again, and then his cock is all it can think of.
"Please, please, please," it gasps desperately, tilting its own hips back for him as it digs its knees into the bed and claws senselessly at the mattress. Robin had said—Robin had said that—it had promised to be whatever they wanted it to be and Robin had said, That's not what I meant, but Impulse—
Robin had said that was not what he had meant, but Impulse had gone back to fucking it. So it does not matter what Robin had meant, because Impulse is fucking it, because Impulse's cock is moving inside it, because Impulse is fucking into the mess he made of its pussy and making it loud—making it gasp and pant and keen and moan, and making its pussy squelch.
Impulse has come inside it too many times for it to have any idea how many times Impulse has come inside it, but all it wants is for him to do it again.
Or—almost, it thinks. Almost all it . . . wants.
Maybe it can be good enough for Robin to fuck it again, at least. It already knows Robin will not . . . will not do anything else it might have—thought about, or—
It knows Robin will not do anything else it might have thought about, but maybe if it is—is good enough, somehow—maybe if it is good enough, Robin will come inside it again too.
It wants him to. It wants them both to. It wants—it—
It is not supposed to want things.
"That is not you giving hi—it a minute to recover," Robin says, sounding just barely disapproving, and Subject Match instantly feels like it just crash-landed directly into Arctic water. That—Robin sounds—does Robin sound like that because of—?
"Please, like it's even gonna recover before its cycle's over anyway," Impulse huffs, rolling his eyes, and Robin sighs in—frustration? exasperation?—and Subject Match buries a choked whine in the pillow. Robin sounds—displeased. It does not—it has no—is Robin displeased with—?
"I-Im—Impulse," it croaks, its hands fisting in the sheets again and—twisting in them, its shoulders hunching. It—needs to be good for them. It needs to perform to expectation, whatever their expectations are. It needs to be good.
It needs to not displease them.
"Huh, that's funny, I just figured it'd keep calling me 'Inertia' after all that," Impulse observes thoughtfully, leaning heavier over its back, and his cock slides in so deep, and Subject Match keens desperately over it. Does not mean to, but—does. "Anyway, if you actually wanna get it to calm down, you should just fuck it again. Duh."
Subject Match forgets what it was thinking, and keens.
Ugh finishing touch got me thinking about kon laying on his belly,just doing something on his phone while match desperately fucks him ,trying to make him cry or even just Moan but obviously not succeeding
Kon only even looks at him when he wants to taunt him about how his big dick is wasted on him since he clearly doesn’t know how to use it
Guess Match'll just have to try harder there? 🤔🤔 Since definitely he doesn't want Kon doing anything like THAT to him. Like, definitely he doesn't. For suuuuure. For, like, SUPER sure.
content notes: clonecest, Supercest, D/s vibes, unnegotiated kink, degradation kink, consensual-but-unnegotiated dubcon of the “no means yes” variety, overstimulation, and I dunno how to tag for “low-key bullying” as a kink but basically this is “experienced partner deliberately overwhelming/picking on unexperienced partner”.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
"I didn't," Match says unevenly, his voice cracking and hands fisting in the sheets again as he shakes his head against them desperately over and over. "I—I didn't, I—let me up, fuck, lemme up, lemme up, l-lemme up, I cleaned up m-my m-m-mess, I did, pleasepleaseplease just lemme up, I—!"
"Bitch, you know damn fucking well that's not the only place you left a mess," Kon snorts derisively.
"Whu—h-huh—?" Match stutters, and Kon feels the other's expression change, which is real fuckin' obviously the moment that the stupid slut remembers that he'd also fucked two loads up his ass.
Meaning, that's the moment that the stupid slut comes all over the mattress all over again and makes a whole new mess of it, and Kon bursts into disbelieving laughter.
"Oh my fucking god!" he says in delight, and Match bursts into tears. "Are you fucking serious, you fucking loser?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Match wails, sobbing harder and still shaking through his aftershocks, and Kon just laughs again and pins him down down flat against the mess of the mattress to fuck him deep.
"Like I give a fuck if you're 'sorry'," he snorts. "'Sorry' doesn't get me off, you selfish bitch."
"I—I'm not—I can't—" Match croaks hoarsely, the words all broken up by sob after sob. "Just—get off me, get off me, just—fucking get off me!"
"You came in me twice," Kon reminds him, and Match freezes up underneath him again and whimpers. Kon gives literally zero percent of a fuck about the reaction. "And I told you what was gonna happen if you came before you cleaned up your mess, moron."
If he had to take two loads of such blindingly incompetent dick up the ass tonight, he's sure as shit counting that as part of this stupid little creep making a mess, and sure as shit he's getting the favor paid back.
"You can't," Match says roughly, his voice spiking up into panic again. "You can't, you need to—you need to—get off, get off me, you need to get off me—"
"Why the fuck would I?" Kon says.
"I—I can't!" Match chokes again. "I can't, you have to stop, I can't, can't feel like—can't feel—I'm not—m'not allowed to—to—!"
Match slams his face down into the mattress and fists his hands tight against it instead of finishing whatever he's trying to say, his whole body shaking the hardest it has so far, and Kon feels the other's face twist into a stupid, screwed-up mess of an expression. He digs his fingers into the mattress himself and stares at the back of the other's neck, and thinks . . .
Well, he's pretty sure he knows what Match was trying to say.
He's also pretty sure he's going to fucking hurt somebody for what Match was trying to say, and Match is still the only other person here.
Not that Match even thinks he is a person, the fucking idiot.
First things first welcome back!! I hope your life has calmed down somewhat and you find some room to breath ✨️
Second thing: I'm following several wip tags of yours, but while trying to re-read one of the fics today I realised that some of the tags show me a "there's no posts with this tag" message? And I wanted to ask if you took them down? (or if it's a tumblr-not-working- properly thing if you didn't)
Ty! ❤️
I haven't taken anything down, so it's def either Tumblr being Tumblr or maybe the "mature" filter acting up, depending on which WIPs they were. To the best of my knowledge everything should be where I left it, though.
Reading "the finishing touch" makes me think about Kon using a fleshlight to teach Match how to fuck properly. Maybe a cock ring too - just edging the poor bastard because he doesn't get to cum until he's met Kon's standards
(incidentally that feels like something Tim would do too. You know, the whole 'training his sub (Kon? Match? Bart?) to fuck better' play)
Listen if Match makes it NECESSARY . . .
( though no comment about any "training" any Tim's I've been writing may or may not be up to over in their own WIPs. )
content notes: clonecest, Supercest, D/s vibes, unnegotiated kink, degradation kink, consensual-but-unnegotiated dubcon of the “no means yes” variety, overstimulation, and I dunno how to tag for “low-key bullying” as a kink but basically this is “experienced partner deliberately overwhelming/picking on unexperienced partner”.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
"Yeah, sure you don't, you selfish slut," Kon says, rough and satisfied, and pins the stupid fucking loser's thrashing body down hard into the mattress and just buries his dick inside him. Match shrieks at the top of his lungs and Kon wants to hear him do it all night. "Our hole likes a good hard jackhammering way too fucking much for me to buy that shit. So try and fucking learn something for once, huh?"
"Stop, stop, please!" Match shrieks again, his TTK clinging to him, and Kon's whole body fucking burns about it, and burns even hotter when Match shoves his own face back down into the mattress and desperately, frantically tries to lick the rest of his own come off it 'til he's actually sucking at the sheets.
Kon groans in satisfaction.
Groans in satisfaction, and fucks the fucked-up little freak to the hilt.
"Fuck, fuck, you're so fucking pathetic, you're so fucking gross, I don't know why I even bother with you, you pathetic fucking slut, you useless fucking whore," he pants roughly, fucking him even harder. "Feels good, right? You like it? You're selfish enough with this shit, right, you must be lovin' just havin' to lay there and take it."
"No, no, no," Match chokes out pleadingly, his voice going high and cracked as he tries to shake his head against the mattress again. "I don't, I'm not, it's not—n-not—"
"Not what?" Kon asks raggedly, rolling his hips in deep. "You keep comin' back for more, moonbeam. You really must like fucking my ass, huh? Or you just been waitin' 'til I felt like bothering to stick my dick in yours? Didn't know you were shy like that, Matty."
"No no no, I don't, I wasn't, I'm not, I don't—I don't I don't I don't—!" Match wails, clawing harder at the sheets and then fisting his hands in them, his ass bucking up into Kon's hips all off-beat and fucking useless about it—because fucking of course Match is fucking useless about anything he tries to do in bed. Kon fists his own hand in the back of the other's hair and shoves his face down harder into the sheets and bears down on him again, because otherwise this fucking idiot is going to make it impossible for either of them to get off here.
Then again, Match has such a hair-trigger he'd probably still manage it, the selfish prick.
"Stop squirming, you impatient fuck, you're already getting what you want," Kon snaps in exasperation, and Match buries a whine in the sheets.
"I don't, I don't want it, don't like it, don't need it, don't—" he gasps out hoarsely, and Kon's ears—prick.
"'Need'?" he repeats reflexively, and Match's body stiffens underneath his, and he just . . . "Who said 'need', Matty?"
WIP excerpt for 🦄 behind the cut; “obligatory sugar baby Kon”.
( also, fyi, I rewound a few paragraphs at the start to include some minor rewrite/adjust-y bits; no real major changes or anything, I just thought it read better this way. )
(( chrono || non-chrono || AO3 ))
"He tends to take things into his own hands when he feels like it's necessary," Tim replies with a little shrug, which is a true statement but also not a "yes". Either way Cassie goes dead-white, then jumps to her feet so fast that she knocks the kitchen table and half the chairs over and tears off for the hallway without even appearing to notice.
Tim spares a moment to set the table and chairs back upright, then follows after her. He doesn't actually think Kon would come get them; he's ninety-two percent certain that if Kon did get annoyed waiting he'd either A) bitch about them until they showed up and then bitch at them some more, or B) just start it without them and say something snide when they get back instead. Even if Kon would come get them, Bart probably would've gotten a lot more annoyed and impatient than he had by then and already just grabbed them himself.
But saying all that wouldn't have put the fear of Aphrodite into Cassie and gotten her up from under the table and sprinting down the hall for him to hide behind, so Tim is just going to forgive himself that little bit of proto-supervillainy.
Tim approaches the entrance to the meeting room a minute or two after Cassie does. Obviously he does, since he took the time to fix the table and chairs and also didn't run down the hall like a Bat out of Tartarus, but mostly just since he very deliberately wanted to get here after she did and deliberately arranged things so he would. Hopefully no one is going to pay any attention to him coming back in—or, ideally, even notice him coming back at all.
He just really, really needs to not be perceived right now, okay?
Or ever again, at this rate.
"Where is your jacket?!" he hears Cassie sputter from the other side of the doorway, which seems like a bad sign, and then walks into the meeting room to find the furniture all rearranged and couch and chairs all shoved up into a haphazard half-circle in front of the viewscreen. The snack pile has migrated to an unexplained inflatable beer pong table that's currently laying on the floor in front of them. The table is Superman-themed, because again, the general population clearly does not have as much respect for Superman as Tim has always assumed that it would. Or at least the marketing department of the general population doesn't, he guesses, which . . . well, he has met Rex Leech.
Tim's just going to assume that someone had an "Impulse" moment there.
Though the fact the entirely respect-less Super-themed inflatable beer pong table is Super-themed is a little weird, though. He would've expected Bart to pick—
"I dunno, Imp took it," Kon says with a shrug, and Tim is viscerally reminded of . . . several reasons Bart might've decided to go with "Super"-theming right now. "Why, you cold too?"
Cassie makes a strangled noise. Tim sympathizes. From a safe distance, obviously. A very safe distance.
Very, very safe.
God, the shorts might actually be even shorter than Tim remembered. Really, how are they that short? How can any shorts be that short and still count as shorts?
Jesus. Just . . . Jeeeeesus.
Jesus.
"She's fine," Bart says as he tugs Kon's jacket tighter around himself and Suzie and gives Cassie a disgruntled look. Tim really doesn't know how he feels about the fact Bart is actually still in Kon's jacket. Or back in it, at least. "We don't have any more room in here anyway."
"I mean, we might," Suzie says, peering down at the jacket thoughtfully. "Superboy's shoulders are really big. And his arms. And his chest. And he's got a really big—"
"Stop talking, Suzie," Cissie bites off through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of her nose with an aggravated expression.
"Why?" Suzie asks with a puzzled frown.
Cissie just stares up at the ceiling with obvious spite in her heart, even more obviously seething. Tim isn't sure if he's still sympathizing, but . . . well, he's not not sympathetic, at least.
"Everyone ready to start the movie?" he asks, making a show of looking around the group as he does. He just really needs the excuse not to look at Kon right now. Just—very much so does he need that excuse right now.
"Let's, yeah," Cissie says to the ceiling.
"Please let's," Cassie groans into her hands.
The team sort of fumbles through everyone grabbing their preferred shares of the snacks—Kon takes a very large preferred share, but still definitely does not take enough, Tim can't help noting—and getting seated and bickering about who wants to sit where and who doesn't want to sit where and some brief grappling for the remote between Kon and Bart, which Tim absolutely cannot watch happen and Cassie very literally hides behind the inflatable beer pong table for a full thirty-eight seconds over.
Somehow this results in Kon sitting on the floor in front of the couch with Bart sitting behind him still wearing his jacket with his arms folded on top of his head, and Suzie curled up in Kon's lap with his chin on top of her head, which . . . tactile, Tim reminds himself, suffering. Kon's tactile. So that's definitely what that's about, not that Kon's trying to personally destroy anyone's brains or specifically his brain with his sudden shameless amount of willingness to be physically clung to/cuddled up on.
At least, sixty-forty that's what it's about, Tim figures.
Well, maybe it's more that Bart and Suzie are finding excuses to cling to/cuddle up on Kon, but—
Tim needs to stop thinking about these things, yeah.
Kon gets the movie started and spends the entire opening credits rambling on about the lead actress while Suzie asks him curious little questions and Bart attempts to sneak a box of Twinkies into his hands, because Bart is apparently actually evil and now Tim actually understands the reports about Inertia he's read, because there is clearly a genetic predisposition to malice there.
Cassie'd ended up sitting on the couch next to Bart extremely stiffly. Cissie, who has an actual survival instinct, had taken one of the armchairs. Tim'd taken the other one less because of having an actual survival instinct and more because he needs to not have an anxiety attack. The armchairs are the closest thing to being out of Kon's personal bubble available, except for how Kon's "personal bubble" is technically at least the size of a mall, which Tim is trying very hard to forget as being a thing he knows.
It's not really working out for him, to be honest. Basically the opposite of working out for him, in fact.
God, why are those shorts so short, and why did he buy them? More importantly, why does Kon have thighs?
The thighs are really the most unfair part, Tim can't help but feel. The other things probably could've been avoided, but the thighs were going to happen to him no matter what. Was Cadmus not already bad enough, they had to decide Kon should have thighs?
. . . well, that's technically Superman's fault for looking the way he looks, actually, which means it's technically Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van's fault, given Krypton's the apparent taste for eugenics/designer babies, so really it's more that—
Kon leans back against the couch as he stretches his legs out in front of himself and crosses them at the ankle, somehow without knocking Suzie over—or, uh, spilling her, given her typical level of physical tangibility—and Tim's subway train of thought crashes head-first into a supervillain deathtrap. Cassie falls off the couch. Kon doesn't appear to notice either of these things, because Kon is a literal menace.
Okay, also Tim has gone through Bat-training and is trying very hard to keep his personal reaction unclockable here. At least the bastard could've had the decency to notice Cassie's reaction, though.
Kon cannot be that oblivious to what he's doing right now, Tim can't help thinking a bit accusingly. The shorts, for one thing. And the lollipop. And literally every single thing that Bart and Cassie have both said and done this afternoon, plus a significant percentage of things that Suzie and Cissie have said and done this afternoon and, unfortunately, probably one or two things that Tim's said and done this afternoon himself.
Just—the crop top, for crying out loud. Kon has to know about the crop top. Especially Kon has to know about the crop top in conjunction with the shorts! He'd definitely seemed to know when he'd decided to straddle his lap and sit on him while wearing that particular "conjunction" in the changing room.
. . . yeah, Tim needs to not be thinking about the changing room right now.
Randomly and definitely totally out of nowhere, he is so, so grateful that no one on the team is telepathic. Or another Bat, which would be a different but even more embarrassing issue. Cissie's bad enough, frankly.
"So if Wendy can stalk werewolves in a belly shirt, can you go to the apocalypse in one?" Bart asks, squinting assessingly at the viewscreen. "'Cuz if you wanna I think you could try."
. . . though Bart is definitely the worst.
"I am not getting my ass dress-coded at the apocalypse by Superman, dude," Kon snorts. "And anyway this is a crop top, c'mon."
"There's a difference between belly shirts and crop tops?" Suzie asks curiously, tilting her head back to peer up at him. "Wait, then which one does Arrowette wear?"
"A tactical sports bra," Kon replies, leaning his head back to toss Cissie a leering wink. She rolls her eyes.
"Yeah, well, some of us need those 'tactics', Kid," she retorts dryly, crossing her legs as she leans back in her seat.
"I mean Kon's chest is pretty big, like probably bigger than yours, so he probably could also try a—" Bart starts reasonably, and Cassie lunges back onto the couch and claps her hands over his mouth.
"BART," she hisses shrilly. Tim decidedly does not notice anything about Kon's chest, whether in comparison to Cassie's or not. It would be extremely unprofessional to notice anything about any teammate's chest, especially as the operating team leader.
Unfortunately, while Robin is the team leader, Tim Drake is very definitely not. And while Tim Drake may not be authorized to operate in this situation, that doesn't mean he's in any way not aware of this situation.
Everyone in this situation but Kon seems way, way too aware, actually. If anything Kon seems to be stubbornly not aware of this situation, which given the circumstances makes literally zero sense, because when does Kon ever miss out on soaking up free attention, much less free admiration?
. . . okay, admittedly, there might be some some mixed signals going right now, depending on who's doing said signaling. There honestly might be several sets of mixed signals going.
At this point, Tim's pretty sure this situation covers at least sixty-five percent of the reasons why Bruce hadn't wanted him to join a vigilante team that was going to be operating outside Gotham. And if nothing else, at least sixty-five percent of those reasons make a lot more sense now.
An unfortunate level of "a lot", unfortunately.
Tim makes a mental note about some information to add to Impulse's psychological profile in his personal files, and possibly also Wonder Girl's. He'd also add some to Superboy's, if he had literally any actual idea what Kon was thinking or doing or why he'd decided to come to the base for a team weekend dressed in that outfit. No amount of laundry could ever explain that outfit.
He at least could've worn actual pants, if he'd needed to wear the crop top to have something with the S-shield on it. Tim has no idea why the jacket wasn't enough for that anyway, frankly. Also, who's he kidding; if Kon had worn actual pants, he absolutely would've shown up in the leather ones. Tim is not lucky enough that the bastard would've picked any other option.
. . . or Tim is lucky enough that the bastard wouldn't have picked any other—anyway. Not the point.
His personal psychological profile is fine and needs absolutely no updating whatsoever.
"Wait, shouldn't all of your sport bras be tactical?" Suzie asks with a little frown, putting a hand to the side of her face and looking vaguely concerned. "Because Robin and Arrowette and Impulse aren't bulletproof, and probably Wonder Girl and Superboy would wreck normal ones anyway, right?"
Tim valiantly does not have a single thought process related to that assumption.
"Guys don't wear bras, Suzie, 'tactical' or not," Cissie says with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "That's another one of those girl things."
"They don't? It is?" Suzie frowns again, then looks down at her chest with a worried expression. "Wait, am I supposed to be wearing a bra?"
"Sounds like a personal choice, Suz, but far as I'm concerned you can not wear anything you want," Kon jokes with a smirk, which is almost the least appropriate response possible, especially given she's still in his lap, but at least buys Tim a moment to figure out what to say to Suzie himself. Specifically, what to say to Suzie before Cissie says something blunt enough to hurt her feelings or Bart says something objectively incomprehensible that'll give her a very confused idea about, uh . . .
"Land management", is the phrase he's going to be going with here. Just . . . that'll be for the best, considering.
Definitely for the best.
"That might be something that you'd have the most success with by doing independent research and then self-assessing," he tries, just hoping to keep this conversation as reasonable as possible. And as brief as possible.
"Oh my god, Rob," Cissie says indignantly as Kon bursts into startled laughter. "Don't agree with Superboy about bras!"
"That really wasn't what I was saying," Tim attempts as an immediate sense of dread drops into his stomach like a lead weight. He obviously wasn't agreeing with the phrasing, but any active vigilante's personal equipment should obviously be calibrated to their personal preferences and the best returns for—
Look, In his distress—in his defense—he's just really off his game right now.
Or more succinctly in his defense: shorts.
"Are you sure?" Bart asks, squinting at him doubtfully. Tim fantasizes about the presence of a roof to grapple to freedom off of. "'Cuz it definitely sounded like you were saying that. Like really explicitly specifically it sounded like that."
"Specifically explicitly," Suzie agrees with an emphatic nod.
"Wait, do you not wear a bra?" Cassie hisses under her breath to Suzie, her eyes bugging out in disbelief. "How do you not wear a bra?!"
"Um, by not manifesting one?" Suzie says, looking puzzled by the question. Kon's still too busy cracking up to say anything himself, which is theoretically a mercy, but also means there's more room for everyone else to say things. So Tim really needs to close this subject quickly and move on, because—
And then Cissie doesn't say anything, and just narrows her eyes at him with a suspicious, assessing expression.
Okay, he notes. He clearly underestimated the level of dread-weight that he should be feeling right now.
Well, crap.
"I just meant that kind of thing isn't necessarily, er—a team activity," Tim attempts again, and immediately regrets as Kon cracks up even harder and Suzie wilts.
"Oh my god, Rob!" Kon says gleefully. "A 'team activity'?!"
"Should we not be doing more team activities?" Suzie asks, peering back over her shoulder at Tim with a crestfallen expression. "I thought you said that'd be alright."
. . . oh, dammit, he remembers.
"That particular assessment might be more a 'girl thing' kind of team activity, I think," he says as delicately as he can.
"Then what's the 'guy thing' version?" Bart says speculatively, very unsubtly eyeing Kon as he says it. Tim barely represses the incredulous look he wants to give him. He has no idea if Bart's just remembered that his hormones exist or just discovered that his hormones exist, but given all previous behavior he really would've expected the other to have gotten bored with the concept by now either way.
. . . then again, Kon did wear the shorts and the crop top, and Tim didn't buy him any underwear because that'd felt like a bit too much to suggest doing, so he doesn't actually know what Kon owns that might fit under—
Tim, very calmly, wraps his entire brain in duct tape and dumps it into a vat of acid, seals the top of the vat, and kicks it down a hill into Gotham Harbor to let it sink to its murky, polluted depths and hopefully just wither and die there.
Or at least cool off a few thousand degrees, if nothing else.
