Archive of Our Own ^beta

Intel mission.

Tim repeated the mantra silently, trying to anchor himself to the professional reality of the night as Kon’s large, ring-adorned hands slid sensually up his sides. The black nail polish on Kon's fingers created a vivid contrast against the crimson fabric of the tight red dress Tim was wearing, the slight, intentional pressure of his grip reminding Tim that this was an elaborate facade. He stood with Kon pressed against his back, facing the full-length mirror, coolly admiring the sight of his perfected 'Caroline' appearance. 

The dress was the same—impossibly tight, the defiant slit riding high up his left thigh. The long, black hair extensions hung down, sleek and heavy. The rest of his careful makeup was applied, and he was currently leaning closer to the glass, meticulously applying the final touch: the soft, shimmering pink lip gloss.

Just an intel mission. He just had to get the information, maintain the disguise, and get out.

“Oh, Baby,” Kon mumbled, his breath warm against Tim's ear. His fingers, heavy with silver rings, briefly dipped below the fabric and slid suggestively onto the slit of the dress, pressing against the bare skin of Tim's thigh. Kon deftly moved his other hand to brush away the long, fake hair and pressed small, slow kisses into the sensitive skin of Tim’s neck, being extra cautious of the heavy foundation used to hide the fading purple bruise scars from his last non-costumed brawl. The duality of the moment—intense attraction mixed with careful damage control—was pure Kon and Tim.

“Kon,” Tim sighed, a sound that held both affection and exasperation. He finished closing the lip gloss tube and used his index finger to carefully rub off the minuscule excess gloss at the corner of his lips. “It’s a mission.”

Kon let out a low, drawn-out groan of audible frustration. “Do you have to wear this? I absolutely love when you dress up like this, but I have absolutely no self-control around ‘Caroline,’” he confessed, resting his chin heavily on Tim’s exposed shoulder, his heat radiating through the thin fabric.

Tim adjusted the barely-there strap that rested precariously on his bicep, subtly ensuring the angle minimized attention to the natural muscle definition there. “If Tim Drake-Wayne shows up at a gala, he draws immediate, invasive attention. The last time I wore this disguise, 'Caroline' caught no photo documentation; she’s perfectly untraceable,” he explained with a clipped, professional cadence. He glanced at Kon’s reflection and added a small, wicked smirk. “Besides, I like how you look at me when I’m wearing it.”

“I’m gonna die,” Kon mumbled, his voice thick with desire and distress. “How am I meant to get intel when I’m dead because you’re too hot?” He looked at Tim in the mirror, his eyes wide as he watched his boyfriend meticulously adjust his little side bangs to blend seamlessly with the extensions.

“Well, I’m the one who’s actually going to be flirting with the evil ambassador,” Tim reminded him calmly, turning around in Kon's hands to face him, the hem of the dress swirling around his legs. His elegantly gloved hands—a necessary touch to complete the illusion—moved immediately to adjust Kon’s slightly crooked tie, correcting the minor imperfection with automatic precision. “You’re just there to look pretty and cover me if anything goes wrong. No one will question Lex Luthor’s son at a gala with a girl.”

Kon’s hands slid down to Tim’s waist, settling firmly on his hips, and he began rubbing small circles with his thumbs against the soft skin beneath the fabric. “So, just look pretty on your arm unless I need to punch people?” he summarized, needing the clearest operational parameters.

Tim patted his boyfriend’s hard, firm chest—a reassuring weight beneath the stiff suit material. “Yep,” he confirmed, his eyes lighting up with amusement. "That's your whole job description for the night, Kon-El."

— 

And indeed it was.

They arrived at the high-ceilinged, chandelier-lit gala, walking arm-in-arm, both of them executing wide, perfectly practiced smiles. Kon’s arm was wrapped securely around Tim’s waist, his grip subtly possessive as he felt the hungry gazes of suited rich men linger a little too long on the red dress and the confident way Tim carried himself. They found a tall, strategic table near a main thoroughfare, leaning against it with sparkling water in their glasses, maintaining an easy pretense of people-watching.

People bustled around them in a restless tide of expensive suits and fancy dresses, sipping various vintage wines and nibbling on tiny cheeses that were, individually, more expensive than the entire Kent family farmhouse.

“I hate suits,” Kon mumbled under his breath, fidgeting restlessly with the tight, starched cuffs of the rental fabric. The suit felt like a canvas sack over his skin, doing nothing but broadcasting his discomfort. Tim’s eyes were already doing a professional sweep of the area, leaning elegantly on the table. He idly tapped his fingers against the polished tabletop, the movement subtle, waiting for the corrupt ambassador to make his appearance.

“Yeah, I know,” Tim mumbled back, his eyes moving from the crowd to Kon, taking a deliberate moment to look him up and down, appreciating the forced formality. “Suits don’t hate you, though,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress the appreciative grin that threatened to break his composure.

Kon’s face flushed slightly, immediately fueled by the compliment, before a lazy, confident grin surfaced. He leaned in closer to Tim, wrapping his arm more tightly around his waist, pulling their hips together. “We could sneak off to the empty bathroom right now, ditch this until—”

“Mission first,” Tim reminded, his voice a firm, quiet anchor as he moved his eyes back to scanning the entrance of the ballroom.

Kon let out a heavy huff of frustrated air. “Stupid mission. Stupid, evil ambassadors. Stupid—”

“We just have to know his travel details—specifically, when he’s leaving the country. That’s all the Justice League needs. They just didn’t have time to come down themselves,” Tim whispered quietly, pitching his voice low enough that only Kon's focused Kryptonian hearing could pick it up over the surrounding chatter.

“Yeah, and how are you going to find that out? By getting into his hotel room?” Kon muttered, letting his jealousy and frustration bleed into his voice.

Tim had to bite his lip hard to suppress a sound as Kon’s grip on his waist tightened sharply at the insinuation. He actively pushed the smirk forming on his lips back down, trying to maintain his façade of professional cool. “If need be,” he managed to say, the tone laced with plausible deniability.

He could feel Kon's eyes intensify on him, the heat of his gaze a physical presence. Kon's other hand left the glass and moved to grip Tim’s bare arm, just above the elbow, in a way that sent a sharp, pleasuring shiver down his spine. “The only reason you'd end up in his room is if I'm dead,” Kon whispered, low and possessively, right into Tim’s ear. It was a promise, a threat, and a declaration of their new territory all rolled into one.

Tim leaned his head back against Kon’s shoulder, using the intimacy of their huddle to send a serious, non-verbal message. “Calm down, Conner. I’m a professional,” he whispered, though the way he gripped Kon’s hand on his arm told a different story. The protective instinct radiating off his boyfriend was intense, yes, but it was also a glorious, necessary distraction.

“And professionals don’t take unnecessary risks just to prove a point,” Kon countered, his voice a low, gravelly warning in Tim’s ear. He tightened his hold on Tim's waist again, his silent marker of ownership a signal he hoped the evil ambassador—and every other man in the room—could clearly read.

Tim pulled his head away, meeting Kon’s eyes with a calculated, smooth smile—the perfect 'Caroline' smile. “Okay. New strategy, then. We’re drawing too much attention standing still, especially with you looking like you want to put your fist through a support column.” Tim quickly surveyed the ballroom. The floor was starting to fill with couples engaging in a polite waltz. “We’re static. We need to go mobile and centered. Let’s dance.”

Kon blinked, the possessive fire in his eyes immediately replaced by the cold, assessing blue of his tactical mind. He knew Tim was right; a static position made them predictable and limited their sight lines. The center of the dance floor offered the best revolving vantage point.

“Dance? Here? Now?” Kon repeated, though the refusal was purely performative. He hated the exposure the move demanded, but he couldn't deny its efficiency.

Tim let his gloved hand slide up Kon’s chest to playfully, professionally straighten his already-straight tie once more. “It’s expected. We’re supposed to be celebrating. And while we’re cheek-to-cheek, our movements will look natural. I can scan the whole perimeter over your shoulder without attracting a single photo,” Tim reasoned. He held Kon’s gaze, letting the seriousness mix with a deliberate spark of desire. “Besides, it gives me a reason to whisper in your ear.” Kon let out a low groan. 

Tim gave Kon his most persuasive, slightly vulnerable look, knowing that appealing to both his protective nature and his attraction was the key. “Come on, Kon. I need my handsome escort to whirl me around a bit. And you can practice keeping your temper in check while a hundred people watch.”

Kon hesitated for one final, tense beat, his jaw clenched so tight a vein pulsed at his temple. He let out a short, resigned sound that was half sigh, half groan. “Fine. But you’re sticking so close to me that if anyone else even looks at you, they’ll have to look through me first.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way,” Tim replied, his genuine smile finally breaking through the disguise. He linked his arm through Kon’s, the subtle contact immediately grounding Kon’s restless energy. The touch was a signal that their proximity was both crucial for the mission and deeply, deliciously wanted.

Kon led Tim straight onto the dance floor. A slow, deeply romantic melody began to play, and Kon effortlessly pulled Tim into the tight, intimate embrace they had established outside of the mission parameters. Kon’s arms were iron bands around his waist, and Tim’s hands settled securely on his broad shoulders. Their swaying was minimal, their connection maximal.

“Okay, Baby,” Kon murmured directly against Tim’s ear, the heat of his breath sending a familiar jolt through him. “Where’s our ambassador? I see some people by the champagne fountain, but I can’t get a good view.”

Tim tilted his head slightly, letting his eyes sweep the room in a smooth, professional arc, using Kon’s height as his perfect vantage point. “Ambassador confirmed. He’s calm, checking his watch every minute, though. He keeps looking towards the mezzanine, far left. He’s moving.” He paused, then added in a quieter, less professional tone: “You know, your grip is even better when you’re worried.”

Kon chuckled, the sound rumbling against Tim’s chest, causing Tim to feel the warm vibration right down to the floor. “You’re just so nice to hold, Sunshine. Which direction is he going?”

“Toward us,” Tim murmured, pressing himself even closer to Kon, allowing the intimacy of the hug to appear casual as they swayed in the middle of the crowd. His eyes darted to the right. “Close your eyes,” he said quickly, signaling they were about to be approached.

Tim and Kon executed their best impression of an utterly absorbed, oblivious couple. They didn't pretend not to notice when the tall, stocky Ambassador tapped heavily on Tim’s bare shoulder, his finger thick and unpleasantly rough against Tim's skin.

Tim pulled back from Kon just slightly, placing a gloved hand over his mouth for a moment in a practiced gesture of surprise, though their hips remained subtly touching. “Oh, good evening,” he said, his voice instantly elevating to the higher, slightly breathless pitch of 'Caroline,' laced with the same faux confidence he’d used on Kon during their first meeting.

“Good evening, Miss. I was hoping you could spare a dance?” the Ambassador asked, executing a slight, stiff bow. He was a good head taller than Tim, radiating an unpleasant, heavy masculinity that sent an instinctive, professional shiver down Tim’s spine.

“Oh, she’s currently busy,” Kon said, raising a challenging eyebrow, his voice dangerously low.

Tim moved his hands and placed them firmly on top of Kon’s, gently but deliberately prying them off his waist. “I can spare a dance, Darling,” he told Kon sweetly, leaning in for a brief, staged peck on the cheek. As he pulled away, he casually adjusted the long hair extensions to flow behind him, exposing his collarbone and, most importantly, turning on his comm relay with a quick tap of the hidden device in his ear.

Kon said nothing, but Tim noticed the way Kon’s jaw clenched—a visible ripple beneath his skin—before the Ambassador nodded, taking Tim’s extended hand in his own large grip.

Tim let himself be smoothly pulled away, the transition professional and seamless. The Ambassador immediately placed a thick hand on Tim’s waist, right where Kon’s wonderfully possessive hands had just been, and Tim’s arms moved up to settle formally on his broad shoulders.

“What is your name?” The Ambassador asked, his eyes traveling over Tim's visible skin with proprietary interest.

“Caroline,” Tim said, glancing coolly over the man’s shoulder to see that Kon had retreated to their standing table, his eyes fixed on them, pure fury etched onto his face. “What’s yours?”

“I am the new ambassador for Bialya,” he announced, puffing his chest slightly. “Caroline is a beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he drawled, his grip tightening.

Tim pretended to shy away from the compliment, dipping his chin slightly. “An honorary compliment coming from a man of your status,” he murmured, laying the flattery on thick.

He immediately heard Kon snort audibly through the comms. Control yourself, Superboy, Tim thought, struggling not to smile.

“What brings you to this gala?” the Ambassador pressed, getting straight to his interest.

Tim smiled, nodding subtly toward Kon, who looked like a thundercloud wrapped in fine Italian wool. “My boyfriend is the son of Lex Luthor,” he said, letting the name hang in the air. “He insists on bringing me along to all the galas.” 

“Boyfriend? He has yet to make an honest girl of you?” The Ambassador asked, his tone paternalistic and utterly repulsive, implying marriage was the only honorable status.

“Well,” Tim said smoothly, maintaining the practiced, soft demeanor of 'Caroline.' He let his hand glide slowly down the man's chest in a casual, intimate gesture—a necessary sacrifice that tested his self-control and required him to hide his intense urge to gag. “We’re young, and our fathers believe we should wait before getting married, considering our relationship has not been long, only a couple of months.”

“How old are you?” He asked with a wide, calculating smile that made Tim’s stomach churn with genuine revulsion.

Tim glanced off, catching Kon tightly gripping the edge of their standing table in his peripheral vision. Kon's knuckles were white as he pretended to examine a stain on the wall, his whole posture rigid with suppressed fury. “I am nineteen, sir,” Tim stated, the "sir" added for a veneer of deference.

“That’s plenty old enough to be married,” the Ambassador countered, his voice dripping with condescension. “In my country, women get married as soon as they’re fourteen.” He punctuated the statement by squeezing Tim’s waist with his right hand before allowing it to slide lower to his hip, resting just a few inches above the dress slit, perilously close to the point of discomfort.

“Well, we’re not in Bialya,” Tim replied, his voice maintaining its sweet, sincere composure despite the sharp flicker of rage in his eyes. He executed the best fake smile he could muster, desperately trying to change the subject. “So, what actually brings you here? Business or pleasure?”

“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to worry about the business men conduct,” he dismissed, tilting his head at Tim with a patronizing smirk, reinforcing the misogynistic angle Tim was using for cover.

Tim hummed, forcing a playful pout. “I’m smarter than most assume,” he said, letting a sliver of defiance show, hoping to lure the man into boasting.

“I’m sure you are,” the man said, laughing a little at the end, the sound oily and dismissive.

Tim bit his tongue, hard, tasting a metallic tang beneath the lip gloss. It took every fiber of his being, every bone and sinew in his superhero body, to resist pressing the small cluster of nerves at the back of the man’s neck and incapacitating him in mere seconds. The mission demanded patience, but the proximity was pushing him to his limit.

“Tim, if he touches you again, I’m calling a Code Red. I don’t care about the intel,” Kon’s voice vibrated through the comms, a low, barely contained snarl that was almost too loud even for a whisper.

Tim’s lips remained curved in that perfect, insipid smile, but his jaw clenched internally. He gently squeezed the Ambassador's shoulder with his right hand—a gesture that looked affectionate—and pressed a button hidden beneath his glove, transmitting a small, barely perceptible clicking noise, non-verbal message directly to Kon. Three quick clicks. Translation: Stand down.

He knew that a small act of defiance would only fuel Kon's rage, but the situation was still fully under his control. The Ambassador was predictable, sexist, and easy to manipulate.

“I’m sure you are,” the man repeated, the patronizing tone making Tim's skin crawl.

"Well," Tim sighed dramatically, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, confiding murmur designed to pique interest. He rested his hand briefly on the Ambassador's forearm. "Since you're so smart about business, you must be here for something very important." Tim made sure his eyes widened slightly, selling the impression of naïve awe. "Something much bigger than charity."

The Ambassador preened, falling for the flattery instantly. He glanced around the room, lowering his own voice, giving Tim exactly what he needed: a sense of shared secret. “Let’s just say there’s an exchange happening tonight. A vital one for my nation’s future. Something that will secure our global standing.” He puffed out his chest, enjoying the attention.

“Oh, a big deal,” Tim breathed, making the two words sound utterly fascinating. He used the movement to subtly guide the man closer to a structural column where the acoustics were poor and their conversation would be harder to overhear without highly specialized equipment— like the kind Kon had. "I bet so many would be fascinated to hear about that."

The man frowned slightly at the mention of others. "This is far above moderners' pay grades. My partners are securing the final details right now. Once my plane leaves the runway tomorrow night, it will all be complete."

Tim had to suppress a victorious gasp. Tomorrow night. That was the crucial information the League needed. Now he just needed to find out his temporary location. 

He lifted his hand from the man's forearm, letting his fingers brush the man's lapel as he pulled back, a slight frown touching his brow. "You mentioned 'partners,' but you look so worried about it all. Are you sure they're taking care of you? Sometimes men are so mean to each other about money." He finished the sentence with a soft, trusting look into the Ambassador's eyes, selling the vulnerability of a concerned girl.

“Tim, I swear, if you bat those fake eyelashes one more time, I’m switching this suit out for my other one and joining your dance,” Kon hissed across the comm, his voice laced with the heavy static of suppressed Kryptonian fury.

Tim smiled his sweet, perfect, utterly fake smile, completely ignoring Kon's threat. He was almost done. The necessary information was right there, tantalizingly close. He could do this.

The Ambassador, interpreting Tim’s thoughtful silence and lingering concern as an opening, lowered his head closer. “Are you offering to take care of me?” he asked, the question heavily suggestive.

No. Tim's mind screamed the absolute rejection.

“Perhaps,” Tim said instead, his voice breathy and acquiescent. The single word tasted like bile, but it served its purpose.

“What a kind offer, Caroline,” the man said, beaming with self-satisfaction. “Are you sure your little boyfriend wouldn’t mind?” He glanced over Tim's shoulder, fixing his eyes on Kon, who had moved toward the bar and was sipping a club soda with the rigidity of a statue carved from pure rage.

He’ll kill you, Tim thought with absolute certainty.

“Not particularly,” Tim said instead, keeping the lie going. “It’s not hard to slip away from him.” He completed the seductive farce by dragging his hand down the man’s chest one last time, hiding his profound self-disgust behind a mask of feminine interest.

The man pulled his hand away from Tim’s waist, reaching into his inner pocket. He produced a silver hotel keycard and, in a gesture that made Tim’s entire body lock up in revulsion, slid it right into the top of Tim’s dress, pressing it against the hidden push-up bra that provided the necessary padding. It took every reserve of his training—every bone and fiber in his vigilante body—to not punch the man through the ballroom wall and throw up immediately.

“Room ninety-seven C at the Jefferson across the street,” he whispered, his voice thick with expectation. “Anytime between tonight and tomorrow, feel free to come.” He allowed a slow, predatory smile to spread across his face. “I’ll be waiting.” He slipped away from Tim, winking crudely as he vanished back into the crowd, leaving Tim standing alone, the keycard a hot, offensive weight against his chest.

Tim let himself take a full, shuddering breath, the air tasting suddenly stale. He immediately clicked the communicator tucked in his ear, ready to call for Kon and relay the vital intel. Before he could speak the first word, Kon appeared from seemingly nowhere, moving with a silent, hyper-focused speed that betrayed his rage. 

He didn't say a word, didn't spare a glance at the surrounding guests; he simply grabbed Tim’s gloved hand and pulled him through the bustling crowd of people. Kon’s movements were quiet, efficient, and fueled by a barely contained violence. He pulled Tim directly into the nearest empty stairwell, slamming the door shut behind them, plunging them both into the sudden, cool silence.

The door slammed shut, and before Tim could fully register the cool change in temperature or the silence, he was slammed against the cold wall. Kon’s hands were everywhere, moving with a desperate, frantic speed, claiming every inch of him in seconds. Kon’s lips were on his, not in the cautious, playful way of their date night, but roughly, possessively, a primal declaration of ownership. 

Tim moaned into the kiss, the sound swallowed by Kon's mouth. One of Tim’s elegantly gloved hands moved to tug at Kon’s hair, pulling his head closer, driving the kiss deeper, while the other reached instinctively for the buttons of Kon’s suit, desperate to strip away the suffocating formality.

Kon’s hand, searching Tim’s body for reassurance, immediately found the silver keycard tucked into the top of the dress. His fingers tightened around the metal, and he let out a choked sound of pure rage, ready to snap it in half.

Tim pulled away sharply, breaking the seal between their mouths for a critical moment. “We need that to give to the League,” he mumbled, his voice breathless, his mind barely hanging onto the mission parameters.

Kon practically growled, the sound vibrating in his chest, before violently shoving the keycard into his own trousers pocket, saving it from destruction. “He had his fucking hands on you,” Kon articulated, his voice thick with unadulterated fury. He rubbed his large hands firmly over Tim’s back, squeezing the hard muscle there before moving lower, grasping his lower back and pulling him flush against him. Kon slotted a knee forcefully between Tim’s legs, pressing him back into the wall, demanding contact.

“For the mission,” Tim gasped out against Kon’s lips, trying one last time to use logic.

“If the words mission or league come out of your mouth again, I’m gonna find a way to gag you,” Kon muttered, his voice dropping into a dark, possessive octave that sent a thrill through Tim. Kon abandoned Tim’s mouth, moving his attention to his neck, placing a trail of hot, hard kisses and sharp nips along the sensitive skin.

Tim gasped, the sound a mixture of pain and pure arousal. His hands dug fiercely into Kon’s broad shoulders as his knee pushed against Kon’s thigh, grinding against the palpable erection that was growing beneath the expensive trousers.

“Fuck,” Tim mumbled, his hands falling from their ministrations of unbuttoning Kon’s shirt, having only managed to get halfway. He admired the view of Kon’s exposed upper chest, the hard muscle that Tim loved to lay his head on now visible and twitching with tension.

Kon’s right hand moved to the slit of the dress, sliding upward and over Tim’s hip, giving the flesh a possessive, tight squeeze before cupping his ass. Kon let out a low groan, instantly recognizing and savoring the feeling of the woman’s underwear beneath his palm. “Can’t believe he thought he could touch you,” he whispered against Tim’s neck, his voice rough. “Can’t believe he thought he could ever have you,” he punctuated, sinking his teeth gently but firmly into the junction of Tim’s neck and shoulder.

“Never,” Tim gasped out, pulling Kon impossibly closer, grinding hard on his thigh in desperate reciprocation.

“Oh, I know,” Kon said, his anger momentarily overridden by possessiveness. The hand that wasn't groping Tim’s ass moved up to his jaw, forcing his head back slightly to look at him. “You’re mine,” he declared, nipping at Tim’s jawline before finally connecting their lips once again in a consuming kiss.

Kon pulled back from the kiss, his eyes dark, glittering with intent, the remnants of rage transformed entirely into hungry desire. He kept one hand firmly locked around the back of Tim’s neck, maintaining the proximity, while the other—the one that had been cupping Tim's ass—retreated. The movement was slow, deliberate, and entirely focused.

"I need to fuck you," Kon rasped, his voice raw.

Before Tim could question the cryptic command, Kon drove his index and middle fingers beneath the cherry-scented lip gloss and deep into Tim's mouth. Tim gasped around the sudden intrusion, his tongue instinctively darting to examine the texture and taste of Kon’s skin, a familiar ritual of intimacy. Tim nodded, moaning around them. Kon didn't rush, letting his fingers slide against Tim's soft tongue, saturating them thoroughly with saliva.

Kon held his gaze, his thumb wiping away the excess moisture that escaped Tim's lips, a gesture that was somehow both rough and deeply tender. "Good," he murmured, before pulling his fingers free, the sound a wet schlick in the silence of the stairwell.

Tim, breathless and slick, watched as Kon brought the lubricated fingers down, sliding his hand beneath the hem of the red dress. Kon’s eyes never left Tim's face as his fingers deftly navigated the silky woman's underwear. Tim inhaled sharply, his hands digging into Kon’s shoulders, bracing himself against the cold wall.

The first finger pressed against Tim’s tight entrance, slow and probing. Tim arched against the contact, a small, involuntary gasp escaping his lips.

"Relax, Sunshine," Kon whispered, his voice shaking with effort. "I’ll take care of you."

"I know," Tim whined, legs shaking, arms clutching onto Kon. 

Kon chuckled, a low, triumphant sound, and pressed his forehead against Tim's. "I'll make it so good." He kissed Tim—a deep, slow, reassuring kiss that drew Tim's attention back to his mouth—and used the distraction to slide his first finger fully inside, stretching gently.

Tim let out a muted moan into the kiss, his hips instinctively grinding forward onto Kon's thigh, desperately seeking pressure and relief.

Kon waited only a moment for the initial resistance to pass before pushing his second, now fully slicked finger in alongside the first, stretching Tim open with deliberate care. The pain was sharp but quickly faded into a deep, intense fullness.

"That's it, Baby," Kon praised, pulling back from the kiss to watch Tim's face, his eyes dark with devotion. "You are so good for me."

Tim could only nod, his breath coming in staggered gasps. He let his head fall back against the wall, utterly lost in the sensations Kon was expertly controlling.

"Tell me," Kon demanded, his face inches from Tim's, his voice husky.

"What?" Tim managed to gasp out.

"That you're mine," Kon said, his fingers beginning to move inside Tim, slowly, building a deliberate, measured rhythm.

Tim let out a strangled cry as the movement intensified, the pleasure overwhelming the pain. "I'm yours," he managed, his fingers digging into the hard muscle of Kon's shoulders. "Always."

Kon smiled, a pure, feral expression of satisfaction. "Good." He kissed Tim once more, a sealing kiss before he began to move his fingers with a focused speed that promised a rapid release.

Kon pulled back from the kiss, the intensity of their heavy breathing echoing off the concrete walls. Tim was a wreck in his arms, utterly pliable, lost to the sensations Kon was building inside him. Kon felt the moment Tim’s body tensed, the involuntary spasms of muscles indicating he was right on the precipice.

With a final, deep thrust, Kon pulled his two slick fingers out with a wet, vacuum-like sound.

Tim cried out, a strangled, guttural sound of frustration and longing, his hips bucking uselessly against Kon’s thigh, desperate for the lost pressure.

"Not yet, Baby," Kon whispered, his voice rough with need and total control. He needed this to be perfect, safe, and entirely about them reclaiming this intimacy from the ugliness of the mission.

He shifted his grip, one arm wrapping around Tim’s shoulders for support, the other moving to his legs. Kon gently lifted Tim, breaking the contact with the cold wall, and carefully laid him back onto the first step of the staircase, treating the hard, dusty surface as if it were a mattress. He braced Tim's head with a hand, activating his Tactile Telekinesis, just enough to create a small, warm, slightly padded field of comfort and protection around Tim's body, shielding him from the cold, rough stone.

"You're beautiful," Kon murmured, looking down at Tim, whose eyes were still glazed over with arousal, the red dress hiked up and twisted.

Kon’s hands moved with focused intent. He slid the long, red dress up to Tim’s waist, exposing his smooth legs and hips. He paused, his breath hitching slightly at the sight of the silky, lacy women’s underwear. He caught Tim’s gaze, a question in his eyes.

Tim nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, giving permission.

Kon carefully hooked his fingers into the waistband and, with a smooth pull, slid the silk down Tim’s thighs and off his ankles, tossing the piece of evidence onto the landing below. He used his tactile telekinsis again, settling the fabric of the dress higher up to ensure maximum access and comfort.

Kon pulled back his suit pants, unzipping his dress trousers just enough to reveal his hard erection, letting it spring free into the cool air. He reached into his pocket—the same pocket now holding the Ambassador's keycard—and grabbed a condom and a small packet of lube. His movements were careful as he gently tore open the condom wrapper and rolled the protection onto himself, his eyes never leaving Tim's face. He then used his teeth to rip open the foil lube packet, tearing it quickly before spreading the cool, slick gel over his length.

Kon then slid his body over Tim, settling between his open legs. He braced his hands on the stairs beside Tim's head, leaning down until their foreheads touched, the heat radiating off his body a blazing contrast to the cold stairwell. The slight, internal hum of his tactile telekinesis comfort field enveloped them both.

"You're mine, Tim," Kon said, the words a low, possessive vow that settled deep in Tim's chest. "Every part of you."

He didn't wait for a reply, using the momentum of the moment to position himself. With an agonizingly slow, controlled push, Kon entered Tim, burying himself deep with a powerful, consuming thrust that made Tim cry out his name.

“Kon,” Tim’s voice echoed through the stairwell, a raw, desperate sound of pleasure and surrender.

“Say my name, Baby,” Kon commanded, his voice hoarse, beginning to thrust slowly, deliberately.

Tim whined, his eyes squeezed shut, the pleasure overwhelming the remnants of his mission focus. “Kon, Kon, Kon,” he repeated, gripping Kon with all his strength. 

Kon was still partially dressed in the stiff suit jacket and button-up shirt, the fine fabric a stark contrast to the raw intimacy of the moment. His broad shoulders bunched and released with every movement, the expensive white shirt sticking to the hard, sweating muscle of his chest, emphasizing his power as he drove into Tim. The silver rings on his large hands dug into Tim's hips, holding him anchored to the steps.

Tim was entirely exposed and glorious in the dim light of the stairwell. His face was flushed, his lips swollen from Kon's kisses, the remaining pink lip gloss smeared across his cheeks. The long, black hair extensions were tangled and spread out on the cold stone steps around his head, framing the look of pure ecstasy on his face. The lower half of the red dress was hiked up to his waist, rumpled and bunched around his torso, the silky inner lining now damp with sweat and tiny streaks of pre-cum, which leaked onto the vibrant red fabric where it touched his inner thigh.

Kon drove his hips into Tim, accelerating the slow rhythm, his control momentarily slipping as he watched Tim’s expression shatter with pleasure. 

Kon watched Tim’s face, the intensity of the moment momentarily sidelining his control. The sight of Tim, beautiful and completely undone beneath him, was overwhelming. Kon felt his body lock up as he found the rhythm that sent Tim arching his back, his fingers digging into the hard muscle of Kon's shoulders.

“Look at me, Sunshine,” Kon commanded, his voice a low, steady rumble of devotion and lust.

Tim forced his heavy eyelids open, the blue eyes that had been so sharp and calculating just an hour ago now swimming with need. He met Kon's gaze, the look between them a raw, physical covenant.

Kon began to thrust faster now, the slow burn giving way to a fierce, consuming pace. The contrast between the rigid, expensive fabric of Kon’s suit jacket—still rumpled around his torso—and the wet, intimate friction beneath him was a powerful, heady rush. He was utterly dominant, and Tim was completely willing, meeting every powerful drive with a desperate upward thrust of his hips.

“This is what you should feel,” Kon gasped, driving deep and fast. “Not that creep. Only this. Only me.”

“‘M yours—” Tim cried out, a high, strained sound that was almost immediately muffled by Kon’s large fingers. Kon pressed his fingers deeper into Tim’s mouth, not to silence him, but to contain the sound, to keep this moment entirely for them. Tim sucked fiercely on Kon’s fingers, the muffled pleas and moans vibrating against his skin.

The pressure built quickly, relentlessly. Kon was focused on Tim, watching the last vestiges of the mission facade crumble away. He felt the muscles inside Tim’s core tighten and pulse around him—the familiar, beautiful signal of release.

Kon let out a final, guttural shout of his own as he plunged into Tim one last time, emptying himself into the condom, the force of the climax shaking his entire frame.

He collapsed, his weight heavy and shuddering, resting his forehead against the damp fabric of Tim’s shoulder, the slick heat of their joining pressed between them. The external tactile telekinesis field he had created hummed gently, enveloping them in a small cocoon of warmth and safety.

After a long moment, Kon pulled his head back, pulling his fingers out of Tim’s mouth, his breathing ragged. He stared down at Tim, whose body was now trembling with the aftershocks of his climax. The black hair extensions were stuck to his damp cheeks, the red dress bunched ridiculously at his waist, and his neck, shoulders, and collarbone were covered in hickies and bite marks. 

Kon reached up and gently wiped the smear of forgotten pink lip gloss from Tim’s swollen lips with his thumb, his movements now slow and tender.

“Mission accomplished, Baby,” Kon whispered, managing a tired, loving smile.

Tim blinked slowly, the exhaustion and pleasure finally winning. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Intel secured.”

Kon laughed, a low, exhausted sound, and rolled off Tim, settling onto the stairs beside him. He immediately began the awkward process of cleaning up— as best they could— and re-dressing, but his hand never left Tim’s hip.

“We are never letting you go undercover in this dress again,” Kon declared, his voice firm, already pulling up his trousers. “This is for my eyes only.”

Tim leaned his head against Kon’s shoulder, utterly spent. “It is effective, though.”

“No,” Kon corrected, pulling him closer. “You are effective. The dress is just distracting. And once the League is done, I am throwing that keycard into the sun. Maybe the ambassador, too.”