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The apartment in Gotham's East End was never quiet—sirens, rain hammering the fire escape in uneven volleys, the low diesel groan of a delivery truck idling three floors down, the occasional bass thump from the bar two blocks over that Tim had never once complained about, probably because he'd grown up in a city that sounded like this and had stopped hearing it the way other people did.
Tim had arrived forty minutes before Kon's text. He'd let himself in with the key that had been on his ring for six months now, and Kon had been in the kitchen making something that smelled like garlic and red pepper and had looked up when the door opened with an expression that wasn't surprise—he'd heard the elevator, heard Tim's specific footstep in the hall—and had just said, hey.
They'd eaten at the kitchen table without ceremony, takeout containers and Kon's pasta and two glasses of water. Tim had talked a little—something from work, something sideways about Bruce that Kon had listened to and not commented on, because there were categories of Tim's Batman feelings that Kon had learned simply required an audience rather than a response. Kon had talked about his afternoon, which had involved three separate property crimes and a small structural fire, which in Metropolis terms was practically a slow day. They'd talked the way they did in the apartment: the comfortable, low-traffic way of two people who had been inside each other's orbits long enough that silence didn't require explanation.
After the plates were cleared, Kon had taken his shower. Tim had taken his. When Tim came out of the bathroom in his soft black binder and a pair of sweatpants he'd left here two weeks ago:
tonight?
One word.
Tim had stood in the hallway outside the bedroom door for thirty seconds, phone in hand, heart doing the specific thing it did now whenever Kon looked at him like that. He'd typed a period and sent it before he'd fully decided to, which was either growth or a system failure; he still wasn't sure. Ten minutes of silence, and then Kon's response: ...that's a yes? And Tim: That means yes. And Kon: ok be right there. Which was a nonsensical response given that he was already there, but Tim had understood it anyway.
By the time Kon knocked on the bathroom door—he'd gone back to give Tim a few minutes, which Tim had spent sitting on the closed toilet lid doing absolutely nothing, just being still, just letting himself get there—Tim had been ready. He'd come out to find the room changed: the overhead light off, the LED strip on, the curtains drawn and the TTK already in place. The whole city muffled into nothing.
He'd stood in the doorway in nothing but his binder and a carefully blank expression, and his chest had moved with breaths that were just slightly too controlled.
He'd been breathing like this for the last twenty minutes at least. Maybe since the text. Maybe since the elevator.
But tonight Kon had soundproofed the bedroom with a casual flex of TTK, the field settling into place like a hand pressed flat over a mouth. No sound in. No sound out. The transition was instantaneous and total—one second Gotham, the next a hush so complete it had its own texture. Tim had stopped in the doorway and breathed for a moment, just letting the quiet reach him.
The windows were blacked out. Tim had picked the curtains himself, months ago—charcoal linen, dense weave, smelled faintly of cedar. Kon hadn't been present for the purchase, but when Tim showed up with them rolled under his arm and a faintly defensive set to his jaw, Kon had helped him hang them without comment. Now they blocked the city glow entirely, and the only light in the room came from the single red LED strip taped along the headboard. Kon had put it up half as a joke—ambiance, he'd said, which Tim had received with his best unimpressed expression—and then left it because the first time they'd actually used it, Tim had stood in the doorway and breathed faster just looking at it.
He was doing it again now.
The red light turned everything the color of a darkroom, of warning, of something not quite permitted. It dyed Tim's pale skin crimson and cast shadows beneath Kon's collarbones and along the edges of his jaw. It turned the room into something both of them understood without discussing—a space inside the space, with its own rules and its own gravity.
Tim stood in the doorway in nothing but his soft black binder, sweatpants, and a carefully blank expression, and his chest moved with breaths that were just slightly too controlled. He'd been breathing like this since Kon's text two hours ago.
Kon stood at the foot of the bed in the low-slung gray sweats he'd changed into after their shower—the kind that hung low enough on his hips to be unreasonable in a specific and intentional way. No shirt, of course, because he was Kon-el. His hair was still damp, one dark curl stuck to his forehead like punctuation, and the red light did specific things to the plane of his shoulders and the lines of his stomach that Tim had never been able to look at without something embarrassing happening in his chest. He held two things in his hands. Tim's eyes dropped to them before they'd fully processed anything else in the room.
The first was a matte-black ball gag with a bright blue strap—Kon’s favorite color, because Kon was completely a sap, and they had reached an unspoken agreement never to say so directly. The silicone ball was the right size, smooth and firm, the kind that spread the jaw to exactly the right amount. They'd calibrated this through trial and error, which was a process Tim kept extremely private and which Kon had approached with the same meticulous precision he brought to most things that mattered to him. The strap was already adjusted to the correct notch. It would warm quickly against skin.
The second was a small red clicker—the kind sold at pet supply stores for positive reinforcement training. This one had been modified: the casing replaced with soft rounded silicone, the button repositioned so it sat accessible under the thumb even with the hand curled loose. Tim had tested it in the kitchen two weeks ago with the focused attention of someone QA-testing equipment that mattered to him, which it did. The click it produced was crisp and clean. Unmistakable.
"Rules," Kon said.
The shift in his voice was a physical thing. It wasn't that he got colder—it was that he got more concentrated. Like a lens focusing. Still warm underneath, always warm underneath, but precise in a way that bypassed Tim's analysis and went somewhere more instinctive. Tim's pulse ticked up.
"You're gagged the whole time." He turned the clicker once in his palm. " One click means keep going, you're good. You get scared, feel like it's too much, you click twice fast. I stop everything. Three clicks in a row is yellow—slow down. You remember?"
Tim nodded once. Sharp. His pupils were already blown, the blue of his irises almost gone around the edges.
Kon looked at him for a long moment. Not performing concern—actually doing it. His gaze moved across Tim's face, his hands, his shoulders. Reading. "You had water. You ate."
"Two hours ago. I'm fine."
"I know you're fine. I'm asking anyway."
A short pause. "Yes. Ate and hydrated. I'm good."
"Good." Kon crossed the room and kissed him—slow and deliberate, not building toward anything, just present. His hand came up to the back of Tim's skull, fingers spreading into damp hair, and he kissed him with the patience of someone who had no particular need to hurry, which happened approximately never in the rest of their lives. Tim's hands came up to Kon's chest without deciding to and stayed there, and Kon kissed him until Tim's breathing had evened out and he'd stopped thinking about the red light and started just being in the room.
When Kon pulled back, Tim's lips were red and his brain had gone quiet in a specific way that he'd spent years not knowing was something he could have.
Kon pressed the clicker into Tim's right palm and closed his fingers around it one by one. "Test it."
Click.
Kon's mouth curved. "Good boy."
He didn't give Tim time to overthink. The ball gag went in—smooth silicone settling between Tim's lips, the familiar pressure spreading his jaw to the right amount. Kon buckled the strap with careful hands, sliding two fingers between leather and jaw to check the fit, adjusting by half a notch. His thumb moved to the corner of Tim's mouth, where spit was already beginning to gather. Tim's eyes closed. His lashes were dark against the high color rising on his cheeks.
He breathed in through his nose. Out through his nose. The hush of the soundproofed room made his own breath loud inside his skull—which was part of the point. The world narrowing down to what was in this room, what was in this body, what Kon gave him.
Then the ropes.
Kon had practiced these knots on his own arms over several evenings, working through the cord with methodical focus, learning where the pressure points were, how to tie something that held without restricting circulation. Black paracord, softer than it looked, no metal hardware anywhere. He'd done research. The kind of research that lived in browser histories Tim was politely never going to look at.
He started at Tim's right wrist—looping, cinching, tying off with efficient movements. Tim's hand was loose in his grip; he'd learned not to brace. Left wrist next, drawn out to the opposite corner of the headboard, arms spread wide. Then the ankles, pulled down and out until Tim's whole body was extended in a full starfish across the mattress. Kon tested each knot before moving to the next, sliding two fingers under the cord, checking color and warmth and give.
Perfect.
He sat back on his heels.
The room held them both. Tim's chest rose and fell—quick, controlled, audible in the quiet. The red light found the angles of him: the line of his clavicle, the soft black fabric of his binder, the planes of his stomach going tight with each breath. Below that, everything the starfish position put on display. His t-dick twitched against his lower belly. His thighs trembled once, finely, before he forced them still. The muscles of his forearms stood out as he tested the ropes once, confirming their hold, and then went slack.
The arches of his feet were pale in the red light. His hip bones cast faint shadows. The dark smudge of exhaustion that usually lived under his eyes had gone soft somehow—everything about him had gone soft in a specific way that Kon had never seen outside this room and had never been able to describe to anyone's satisfaction, including his own. It wasn't vulnerability exactly, or not only that. It was more like all the load-bearing walls of Tim Drake had been temporarily suspended, and the structure was still standing on its own, and it turned out the structure had always been beautiful even without all the fortification.
Kon sat there and let himself look. A full minute, maybe more. The city didn't reach them. The silence pressed gently in.
Kon looked at him for a long moment. He didn't move. He didn't perform the looking—he just did it, the way Tim had said once he liked, the specific disorienting pleasure of being fully witnessed by someone you trusted to see and not use it. Tim's eyes met his across the red-lit space and stayed. Neither of them said anything.
Tim Drake had a lot of faces for public consumption. The Wayne Industries face, which was polished and unreachable and faintly bored in a strategic way. The Red Robin face, which gave away exactly nothing and had taken years to develop past the point where only Bruce could clock the tells. The face he wore in briefings where he was the smartest person in the room and had already decided not to make that everyone's problem unless necessary. The face he wore with his siblings, which was softer but still guarded in the specific way of someone who loves someone and is also a little afraid of being loved back too forcefully. The face he wore with Kon in the normal run of things—relaxed, sardonic, genuinely himself in a way that most people didn't get.
This face he wore only here. Kon didn't have a word for it. He'd tried. He'd come up with things like open and present and undefended but none of them caught the quality of it, which was something more like: Tim Drake when he has decided to set down every single thing he carries and found out the floor can hold him.
The thought moved through Kon's chest like pressure.
"Fuck, Timmy," he breathed. "You're so pretty like this."
Tim's eyes snapped open at the praise. Color flooded his cheeks, deep and dark under the red light. He clicked once—clear, deliberate. Keep going.
Kon's expression shifted. Something warm and feral together.
He reached for the wand vibrator on the nightstand—matte black, flexible neck, broad silicone head, charged and ready. He clicked it on at the lowest setting and the sound filled the room immediately; not a buzz exactly, more a thrum, low and heavy. He turned it once in his palm, feeling the vibration travel up his wrist.
He started on the inside of Tim's left thigh. Not where Tim wanted it—high, but not high enough. He dragged the head upward in a slow, unhurried arc and watched goosebumps rise in the vibe's wake. Tim's hips tilted by degrees, involuntarily, trying to angle toward the sensation. The ropes held them in place.
Click. Yes.
Kon moved the vibe up and pressed it firmly right against the base of Tim's tdick—broad head sitting flush along the length, nudging up against the hood. The effect was total and immediate. Tim's back came off the mattress, the ropes snapping taut, and the sound around the gag was muffled and deep, something knocked loose in his chest. Spit gathered at the corner of his mouth.
"Easy," Kon murmured. He kept the pressure steady, the vibe exactly where it was. His eyes moved over Tim's face, reading the data. "You're already so wet, baby. Can see it shining on your thighs."
Tim's fingers tightened on the clicker. One click.
Kon dialed up two speeds. The thrum deepened into something heavier—resonant, insistent—that he could feel from his wrist through the toy and out the other side. He angled the flexible neck, pressed the head down between Tim's folds, coating the silicone in slick that caught the red light when he drew it back up. Then settled the head back against the most sensitive point and held it.
Tim's toes curled. His heels found no purchase against the mattress. His stomach went tight. His thighs strained against the ankle ropes in small, involuntary pulses that the starfish position made completely visible, nothing to hide behind.
Kon leaned down. He pressed his elbows into the mattress on either side of Tim's spread thighs—close enough to feel the heat radiating off him—and dragged his tongue in one long, flat stroke right up the center of Tim's cunt. Tim tasted like salt and slick and something specific that Kon had long since stopped trying to describe. He groaned against him, the sound vibrating through the contact.
"Gonna keep you here for a while," Kon said, conversational, the way he commented on weather patterns from altitude. "Gonna make you come on this vibe until you can't remember your own name. Then I'm gonna fuck you while you're still shaking." He glanced up along the line of Tim's body. "Sound good?"
Click.
Kon laughed, low, the sound vibrating against Tim. "Thought so."
He settled in.
The first orgasm arrived in under five minutes— less, probably, though Tim had stopped being able to assess time around the three-minute mark. The vibe sat steady and relentless, and Kon added his tongue at irregular intervals: not enough to tip Tim over any faster, but enough to keep every nerve online and jangling. Tim's thighs trembled first— fine shaking, made impossible to hide by the starfish position. His stomach pulled tight. His breathing changed in quality through his nose, faster and shallower.
Kon watched his face. He always watched his face. Tim had eventually stopped trying to school his expression during this because Kon read it better than Tim read threat assessments, which was information Tim had declined to examine too closely.
When Tim came, his head snapped back, and the sound around the gag was strangled and high— not a scream, something without a clean category— and his whole body seized in the ropes, thighs fighting the paracord. Slick pulsed over the head of the vibe, warm and immediate.
Kon didn't move it.
He dialed back one speed— from brutal to heavy, a slightly more sustainable register— and kept it exactly where it was. Tim's eyes were glassy, post-orgasm hypersensitivity already arriving. "Breathe through it, baby. You can take more."
Tim clicked once.
Kon's chest did that thing. The private warmth, the helpless fondness. He was deeply, embarrassingly gone on this man in a way that had long since stopped being news.
He edged him for the next twenty minutes.
It was not a passive activity. Edging required more ongoing calibration than anything else they did—more careful reading, more sustained attention. Kon watched the specific rhythm of Tim's hips, the way his breathing changed quality rather than just tempo in the seconds before an orgasm. He watched Tim's hands. He counted the intervals between clicks. He'd learned the particular pitch Tim's breathing hit around the gag when he was thirty seconds out, which differed from ten seconds, which differed from right now. He knew the way Tim's lower stomach pulled tight five seconds before the edge. He knew how Tim's toes would start to curl and then suddenly flatten when his body decided it was too much. He'd learned these things the way you learn a city: slowly, by moving through it until the streets stopped surprising you.
The first denial was gentle. Tim had been close— genuinely close, hips rolling against the ropes in small searching arcs, breathing hitching toward something inevitable— and Kon had watched the approach and pulled the vibe away a full eight seconds before the edge. Tim's body went rigid in a different way. A muffled sound came out around the gag, wordless and annoyed, and Tim clicked once.
Kon set the vibe back down before Tim's body had fully come down from the peak. Watched him arch back into it. Waited.
The second denial was harder. Kon had been watching more carefully this time, learned from the first, and he waited longer—let Tim get closer, let the orgasm actually begin its approach before he lifted the vibe away. Four seconds. The effect was immediate and specific: Tim's breath hitched in a particular way, a broken exhale that wasn't quite a sound, and his hips chased the toy for a full second before the ropes caught them. His fingers squeezed the clicker so hard his knuckles blanched.
He clicked once— deliberate, furious, endlessly patient underneath the fury.
Kon brought the toy back and let it sit at medium speed for thirty seconds— enough to keep Tim at a simmer, not enough to push him higher— and watched Tim's body work through the frustration, the want, the specific terrible pleasure of being kept right at the edge of something and not allowed over. He watched Tim's face go through several things in quick succession— something like anger, something like desperation, something that settled into a particular kind of surrender that Kon recognized as the moment things shifted. The moment Tim stopped fighting the dynamic and started falling into it.
That was what Kon was waiting for.
Between the second and third denial, the quality of the room changed. Tim's breathing went from controlled to something more helpless—still through his nose, still measured by necessity, but the spaces between each exhale were different now. Longer. Looser. His hands had stopped clenching around the clicker and started holding it with an easy grip. His thighs had stopped trying to snap shut against the ropes and were simply trembling, which was different—a body accepting its own state rather than fighting it.
By the third denial, Tim was sobbing quietly behind the gag.
It was soft—swallowed by silicone, contained by the soundproofed room—but Kon heard it. The hitch, the wet quality of Tim's exhale, the way the sound shook on its way out. Drool had soaked into the pillow beside his ear, spreading a dark patch in the fabric. Tears had gathered at the outer corners of his eyes and were tracking sideways into his hairline, which was dark with sweat. His cheeks were a deep, sustained red that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with two hours of sustained sensation. The vibe had been pulled away again and Tim's whole body was trembling with effort.
Kon pressed a kiss to Tim's knee. The muscle in Tim's thigh jumped under his mouth.
"I know," Kon said quietly. "I've got you. You're okay."
He kept going.
Between the third and fourth denial the smell of the room had changed—the specific warm salt of exertion and arousal and the clean cedar undertone of the curtains, the faint rubber of the gag, the scent of Tim's skin running hotter than usual. Kon was close enough to smell all of it and cataloged it without thinking, the way he cataloged everything that mattered. The vibe hummed under his hand. Tim's body shone with sweat in the red light.
The fourth denial broke something open in Tim— not in a bad way. In the way of a knot releasing. The sob was louder than the others, raw and unguarded, pulled from somewhere deeper than the ones before it, and his hips rolled uselessly against nothing when Kon pulled the vibe away. The starfish position held him there— spread and helpless and empty— and he had absolutely nowhere to put any of what he was feeling except into the gag and the rope and the steadiness of Kon's hand still resting warm on his inner thigh. Fresh tears tracked down his temples and into his hairline. His jaw worked around the gag. His chest heaved.
And then the vibe pressed back down, and Tim's breath hitched into something that wasn't quite a scream, and Tim Drake— Red Robin, genius, the person who had contingency plans for his contingency plans and who had once spent four days working through a mission on two hours of sleep and a protein bar while simultaneously running three separate cover identities—clicked once.
Kon's cock had been aching for most of this, and he set that aside with the patience of someone who had accepted that the wait was entirely the point.
"One more," he said softly. Warning and promise together.
He clicked the vibe to its highest setting.
Tim's body went rigid—every muscle engaging at once, back lifting off the mattress, the ropes snapping taut. The sound around the gag was raw, long, and resonant in the quiet room, filling every inch of it. Kon kept the vibe steady and ground it in small circles against the head of Tim's t-dick, and Tim came so hard his vision went briefly very bright—he found out later because he described it to Kon, who confirmed it with an expression Tim refused to let him repeat. His whole body pulsed through it, cunt clenching, thighs straining, slick running down the back of his thighs and pooling on the already-soaked sheets.
Kon kept the vibe on through the aftershocks. He gentled the pressure but didn't remove it, milking every tremor out, watching Tim's body ring through the last of them. Tim's clicks turned shaky and uneven, and then three came in quick succession.
Instantly the vibe was off. Set aside. Kon crawled up Tim's body with careful hands and unbuckled the gag with gentle fingers. The ball eased free. A thin string of spit broke when Tim's lips moved.
Tim gasped. His first full breath was ragged; his second was better. "Fuck," he rasped. "Kon—"
"Shh. I've got you." Kon pressed his lips to the red indentations the strap had left at the corners of Tim's mouth. To his cheekbones, where the tears had tracked. "You did so well. Color?"
"Green." Immediate. Without ambiguity. "Green. Just— second."
"Anything for you."
Kon loosened the wrist ropes—slack, not untied, circulation improved—and the ankles the same. He reached for the water bottle without looking away from Tim's face, uncapped it, and held it to Tim's lips. Tim drank in long swallows, throat working, some of it spilling at the corner of his mouth. Kon caught it with his thumb.
When half the bottle was gone, Tim turned his head away. Kon capped it and set it down.
He lowered his forehead to Tim's. They breathed together. Tim's exhale warmed Kon's mouth, and Tim's eyes, half-open, caught the red light and threw it back.
For a moment, Kon just stayed there—foreheads touching, noses almost touching, Tim's warm exhalation moving against his lips. He could feel Tim's heartbeat gradually slowing from its frantic peak. He could feel the tremor in Tim's limbs working its way out in small stages. He'd seen Tim Drake debrief from missions in less time than it took him to come down from a scene like this, and the difference between those two things—the mission debrief, crisp and professional, and this, the slow blinking return of Tim's eyes to full focus—was something Kon found privately staggering. That Tim had a version of himself that looked like this, that existed like this, and that Kon got to be the person who knew about it.
"Still not done," Kon said. Quiet. An offer, not a declaration. "You want to keep going, I can gag you again and fuck you. Or we stop here and take care of you." He pulled back just enough to look at Tim's face. "Your call. Either one is the right answer."
Tim's eyes held that quality— the one that surfaced when his filters dropped away. The mischief and the wanting, sitting right on the surface, nothing between them and the air. He raised the clicker without hesitation.
Click.
"Good boy." Kon kissed him once more— slow and deep, tasting salt and the faint ghost of rubber and the specific particular Tim of it— and reached for the gag.
Tim opened for it without being asked. His jaw dropped slightly, making room, and Kon slipped the ball between his lips and buckled the strap with the same careful attention as the first time. Checked the fit. Wiped new drool from Tim's chin with his thumb. Tim's eyes stayed on his face throughout, hazy but anchored. Like Kon was the fixed point in a spinning room.
"Good," Kon said. Rough. "So fucking good for me."
He sat back on his heels again and shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy against his stomach—thick, flushed, dark, already leaking at the tip. Tim's gaze dropped to it instantly, pupils flaring wide, and Kon wrapped a hand around himself and stroked once, slow, spreading precome with his thumb. Making sure Tim could see every inch of it.
Kon had thought about this sometimes— what it looked like from Tim's side of the restraints. Tied down and spread open, completely immobile, watching Kon stroke himself in the red light. He'd thought about what that did to someone like Tim specifically. Someone who operated through information and control, who always had the full picture, who had learned that knowing things and anticipating things was the mechanism by which you stayed safe. Everything else— the city, the work, the weight of being who they both were—temporarily suspended. Just this room. Just this.
He thought Tim liked the narrowing down as much as anything else. Maybe more.
"See what you do to me?" He thumbed the head of his cock, spread precome deliberately. "Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna fuck you so deep you feel me for days."
Tim moaned around the gag— a full, wet sound, all the air in his lungs at once. His hips rolled against the ropes, instinctive and futile and so specific to Tim that Kon's chest went tight with it.
Kon warmed the lube thoroughly between his palms before using it—Tim had said once, with the vehemence of someone who'd been surprised by it before, that cold lube was genuinely one of the worst sensations he could imagine, and Kon had filed this away as a permanent operating parameter. He slicked himself up with long, deliberate strokes, then poured more directly onto Tim's cunt and watched Tim shiver hard at the temperature shock, the cool cutting through the heat that had been building for half an hour.
He picked up the wand. This time, he suspended it in TTK, the head held exactly against the underside of Tim's t-dick at a low pulsing setting. The flexible neck curved naturally. The toy held perfectly still in Kon's invisible grip, grinding in tiny, relentless circles without slipping.
Tim's eyes went wide when the toy started moving on its own. Then half-shut.
"Hands-free tonight," Kon said. "Need both of mine."
He lined up.
The first push was deliberate and agonizingly slow—just the head breaching Tim's entrance, and holding. Tim's back bowed off the mattress. A broken, muffled cry vibrated around the gag. The clicker stayed quiet. Kon watched Tim's face like a weather system: the crease of his brows, the flush crawling down his throat, his bound fingers flexing twice around the plastic.
"Feel that?"
Tim's exhale was a yes.
Kon pressed deeper. An inch. Two. He watched the stretch—Tim's body opening for him, slick and hot and present, the pull of him tight around Kon's cock while the TTK-held vibe kept up its pulsing pressure from the other side, driving sensation from two directions at once. When he finally bottomed out—hips flush against Tim's spread thighs, fully seated—both of them made a sound. Kon's was guttural and involuntary. Tim's was muffled and long and wrecked.
Kon stayed still. Let Tim adjust. Let the vibe do its work. He could feel the buzz transmitting through their joined bodies—a faint, living vibration. Tim's walls fluttered around him in small rhythmic clenches.
Then he started to move.
Long, deep strokes at first—pulling almost all the way out, feeling Tim's body try to follow, then sliding back until his pelvis pressed against the vibe head and Tim's t-dick. Every thrust pushed the toy harder into the most sensitive spot. The position forced Tim to accept each one exactly as Kon gave it, nothing to close around, nothing to brace against.
Drool soaked the pillow beside his ear. Tears tracked steadily from the corners of his eyes—not pain, not distress, just the overload of sensation finding the only exit available. Tim's face was completely undone— cheeks flushed dark, jaw stretched around the gag, eyes open and glassy and fixed on Kon with an expression that had no strategy left in it at all.
Kon picked up the pace.
Hand braced on the headboard, hand on Tim's hip, and he fucked him harder—the wet sound of it filling the soundproofed room, Tim's body rocking in the ropes. He could feel Tim's third orgasm building from the inside: the walls tightening in waves, the stomach going rigid, the tell-tale stuttering of Tim's hips against the restraints.
"God, look at you," Kon panted. "Tied down, gagged, taking everything I give you. You're perfect, Rob. You know that? So fucking perfect."
Tim sobbed around the gag. High and desperate. His whole body answered.
His third orgasm crashed through him with the force of what had been building— walls clamping down with sudden rhythmic force, back arching, a raw muffled scream tearing out of him while his cunt fluttered and gushed around Kon's cock. Slick ran hot and copious. Kon didn't stop. He fucked Tim through every pulse of it, extending the orgasm past where Tim's body had expected it to end, until the clicks turned frantic—one, two, three.
Kon froze. Buried to the hilt. TTK killed the vibe in the same instant. His hand came to Tim's face—palm to cheek, thumb wiping—and his voice was soft and urgent.
He unbuckled it fast. Tim pulled in air, coughing once. "Yellow—fuck—too much on my clit—green for everything else, just—sensitive—"
"I've got you." Kon kissed him, cutting off the rest. "Vibe's off. Just me. Still want this?"
Tim nodded against his mouth. Emphatic. "Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."
Kon clicked the gag back between Tim's lips—Tim opened without hesitation, trusting and immediate—and started moving again, slower now. Deep and rolling, no urgency, letting Tim's aftershocks guide the rhythm. Tim's breathing evened out over the next minute. And then a click.
Kon ramped back up. Hard, deep, rhythm turning punishing, chasing his own pleasure now with the full intensity of someone who had been patient for a very long time. He reached down and rubbed firm circles over Tim's t-dick with his thumb—skin only, no vibe—while he fucked him. He could feel his orgasm gathering at the base of his spine, electric and inevitable.
"Gonna come inside you," he growled against Tim's ear. "Fill you up. Mark you so deep you'll feel me every time you sit tomorrow. You want that?"
Tim's answer was a broken, gagged moan and one emphatic click.
Kon lost it.
He buried himself to the hilt and came hard—hips stuttering, cock pulsing in heavy waves, a groan that rattled through the TTK field. He kept grinding through it, short and deep, fucking his come in deeper, until every last drop was wrung out of him.
For a long moment, only breathing. Kon's ragged. Tim's wet and muffled around the gag.
Kon softened inside Tim slowly. He pressed his lips to Tim's forehead, his damp temples, the corner of his mouth around the gag. Then eased out, slow and careful, watching. The mess between Tim's thighs caught the red light. A low, possessive sound left Kon's chest.
"Fuck, baby," he whispered. "My beautiful, perfect mess."
He loosened every rope to improve circulation—not untying, not yet—and crawled up, pulled Tim half into his lap. The gag came out. Tim's jaw worked silently for a second.
"Water," he rasped.
The bottle was ready. Kon held it, let Tim drink in careful sips, then wiped his face with the cool cloth he'd prepped earlier—damp with clean water, run along his cheeks, his jaw, the corners of his mouth. Tim's eyes were heavy-lidded, subspace settling around him like temperature, soft at all the edges.
"Color?" Kon asked.
"Green," Tim managed. Hoarse but steady. "Fucking amazing. You?"
"Golden." He kissed the tip of Tim's nose. "You've taken four. Think you can handle one more before I untie you completely?"
Tim's lips curved—that exhausted, mischievous smirk he only wore after Kon had thoroughly wrecked him, the one that meant he was still in there, still himself, just softer around all the edges. He raised the clicker.
Click.
Kon laughed, low and warm, already reaching for the lube. "Good boy."
Tim's body was still buzzing when Kon eased the ball gag back between his teeth. The silicone was warm now and Tim opened for it without having to think about it. His jaw ached in the specific good way that had taken him years to recognize as something he was allowed to want, and even longer to stop apologizing for wanting. Kon buckled the strap gently and pressed a soft kiss to the bridge of Tim's nose.
"Last round," he promised. His voice was gravel over something warmer underneath. "Gonna push you right to the edge and hold you there till you're shaking apart. Then I'm taking care of you." He pulled back just enough to look at Tim's face. "Ready?"
Tim clicked once.
Kon's smile went slow and wicked in the red light.
He didn't reach for more lube—Tim was soaked past needing it, come and slick pooled on the sheets, his thighs shining when the light caught them. Kon sat back and looked at all of it for a moment. Tim's t-dick still hard and flushed, twitching with every heartbeat. The swollen, used state of his cunt. The tear tracks on his cheeks. The dark puffy red of his lips stretched around the gag. The way his chest heaved with each breath, the black fabric of his binder damp with exertion.
He picked up the wand. This time no TTK. He wanted it in his own hands.
Medium speed—the setting that built slow and merciless, the kind of pace that felt like patience and was actually cruelty. He pressed the broad head right against Tim's t-dick, no approach, no teasing, just immediate and firm. And at the same moment, he leaned down and dragged his tongue in one long, wet stroke from Tim's dripping hole all the way up to where the vibe was grinding.
Tim's whole body lurched. The sound around the gag was raw and immediate—pulled from somewhere deeper than before, vibrating around the silicone. His hands clenched simultaneously around the clicker and the mattress edge.
Kon groaned against him. He kept the vibe steady with one hand and used his tongue without mercy— fucking into Tim, sealing his mouth over the hood of his t-dick and sucking while his tongue moved across the head, the vibe throbbing in rhythm underneath his jaw. Tim's hips fought the ropes, angling toward him. The ropes prevented it absolutely.
The tears came freely now. Tim was a person who constantly, skillfully deflected things, who had learned very early that wanting was a vulnerability. This room was the one place he'd fully negotiated out of that. Handed it over to someone he trusted with a specific, terrifying completeness.
He cried because it felt too good to process through his normal channels. Kon understood this.
"You're gonna come like this," Kon pulled back just enough to say, lips shining with slick and spit. "My mouth and this toy. Then I'm going back inside and making you come one more time on my cock while you're still tied down." He looked up along the line of Tim's body. "Think you can handle it?"
Click.
He went back in.
He sealed his mouth over Tim's tdick and sucked hard—vibe still grinding right against the underside—and Tim's body, worn down and oversensitive from everything before it, needed very little. The orgasm built fast and crashed with a full-body convulsion; back arching so hard the ropes creaked, a hoarse, gagged scream ringing through the soundproofed room. Slick pulsed over Kon's tongue. He drank it down and held the vibe in place through every aftershock until Tim's clicks came rapid and overlapping—three, fast—
Kon crawled up Tim's body, kissing every inch of skin he passed. The hip bones Tim always tried to hide under layers of civilian clothing—Kon had noticed them the first time Tim took his shirt off and had never made it strange, just quietly noted and moved forward.
"Yellow?" Soft. Checking.
Tim shook his head—hard, tears flying from the outer corners of his eyes—and clicked once.
Kon kissed him through the silicone, tasting himself and Tim tangled together, and said quietly and without any performance at all: "Fuck, I love you." Meaning it with everything he was made of. Then he lined up and pushed back inside in one smooth, relentless motion.
The sound Tim made was somewhere between relief and devastation—his body so entirely overstimulated that every nerve registered the stretch simultaneously, the burn and the fullness and the specific rightness of it layering over each other until they were indistinguishable.
Kon fucked him slowly at first. Deep, rolling strokes that pressed his pelvis against Tim's t-dick with every forward movement. One hand braced by Tim's head, the other reaching down to rub firm circles over his clit with his thumb—skin only, no toy, because Tim was past the point where the vibe would do anything except tip him into three clicks in seconds. He needed this. Just this. The weight of Kon inside him, and Kon's hand on him, and the fact that the ropes still held and he had nothing to do but receive it.
He watched Tim's face as he moved. The expression there had no name that mapped to Tim's normal register—no assessment, nothing held in reserve, nothing performing anything. Just Tim. Fully open to what was happening and making no move to close back up.
"You're gonna come one more time," Kon panted, mouth close to Tim's ear. "Tied up, gagged, full of me. Just like this. Can you do that, baby?"
Tim's eyes rolled back. One click.
Kon picked up speed.
Hard and deep—the rhythm turning punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the quiet room. Tim's body rocked in the ropes with every thrust, nothing to brace against, entirely subject to Kon's pace. His face was completely undone: drool soaking the pillow, fresh tears streaming, the gag shining, his eyes open and glassy and watching Kon with an expression that had no strategic component left in it at all. Just Tim, stripped clean.
When the last orgasm hit it came not with the violence of the earlier ones but with something like a long-held building finally releasing—his walls clamping down in a slow, sustained pulse, his whole body moving through one long seize. A hoarse, broken sound around the gag, barely a sound at all, just breath shaped by what his body was doing. His fingers opened. The clicker fell onto the mattress beside his palm.
Kon followed two thrusts later. He buried himself deep and let it happen—cock pulsing in heavy waves, his whole body emptying out. The groan that came out of him had nothing to do with performance. He ground through every last aftershock until they'd both gone completely still.
For a long moment, only their breathing.
The red LED strip bathed the ceiling in dark pink. Gotham was still out there past the curtains and the soundproofing and the three floors of building between them and the street, doing exactly what it always did.
Kon moved first. He eased out slowly and carefully and watched Tim's face through all of it. He unbuckled the gag with both hands and set it on the nightstand. Tim's jaw worked—finding its own shape again—and then he exhaled through his open mouth, long and shaky. The first real breath without silicone in almost two hours.
"Water," he said. Barely a whisper.
Kon had it ready. He let Tim drink at his own pace—slow, then faster, then slowing again. When Tim turned his head away, Kon capped the bottle and set it down.
Then the ropes.
One limb at a time, the same care as the tying. Right wrist first. Kon held Tim's hand in both of his afterward, thumbs pressing slow circles over the pulse point, watching the red marks fade from white to pink to the color of skin remembering itself. Tim's fingers flexed deliberately, testing. Good circulation.
Left wrist. The same. Both ankles next, each kissed at the indent of the rope before moving to the next. He didn't rush any of it. The untying mattered as much as the tying.
When Tim was free he didn't move. He lay in the exact shape the ropes had held him—limbs still slightly spread, still where they'd been placed—and breathed.
Kon gathered him in slowly, telegraphing every motion. Tim melted against his chest by increments—not all at once, by degrees, the way trust always moved in Tim's body. His face pressed into Kon's neck. His hands came up loose and curled against Kon's sternum, fingers half-curled.
"Color, baby?" Kon murmured.
"Green," Tim rasped. Stripped of every wrapper, just the word. "So green. Best ever."
"Yeah," Kon said, no false modesty.
"Love you."
"Love you more." A kiss to Tim's temple. His hairline. The top of his ear, which made Tim's shoulder hitch slightly—ticklish, still, even now. "Don't argue with me right now, you're in subspace."
"I'm not in sub—" Tim started, then stopped, which was its own answer.
"Mm-hm," Kon said, not unkindly.
Tim's exhale was almost a laugh. Thin, but genuine.
Kon reached over Tim's shoulder and switched off the red LED strip. The room resolved gradually into the ambient grey of city light filtering through charcoal linen—softer now, easier. More like a room.
He stood, and Tim let him carry him.
The bathroom was warm and steamed and smelled like Epsom salts and lavender—the specific brand Tim had started buying six months ago, leaving it on the shelf here without comment, and which Kon had refilled twice when it ran low without mentioning it either. The tub was full—Kon had started it with TTK during the last scene, set the temperature by memory, because Tim ran cold and always wanted it warmer than anyone else felt necessary. The steam was thick enough to fog the mirror above the sink completely. He stepped in first and lowered them both into it carefully, Tim's back against his chest, warm water rising around them and Tim sighing with his entire body the moment it reached his shoulders—all at once, the held tension of hours releasing in a single long exhale. His head dropped back onto Kon's shoulder.
For a while, nothing needed to be said.
Kon washed him gently. A soft cloth, easy deliberate pressure, no urgency to any of it. He started with Tim's arms—the faint red lines of paracord still visible on his wrists, already fading—and moved down in stages, careful and unhurried. Tim's chest. His stomach. The cloth moves in slow arcs, thorough but soft. Between strokes, Kon just held him: arms loose, not confining, just present. He could feel Tim's heartbeat through his back. Felt it slow by increments, settling from the scene's elevated rate into something even and easy.
The inside of Tim's thighs came last—the cloth moving very slowly against skin that was tender and flushed and needed the softest attention. Tim made a quiet involuntary sound at the contact, purely content, and his head pressed back harder against Kon's shoulder.
Kon answered by pulling him a little closer. No words. Just the fact of it.
Tim's eyes stayed closed. The drip of the tap—the one Kon had not gotten around to fixing—marked time in the quiet. The water was warm and salt-mineral and smelled like lavender and them. The mirror above the sink had fogged completely, which made the small room feel even more contained, even more separate from everything outside it.
"You took five," Kon said eventually.
"Mm."
"Had to count backwards. Lost track somewhere in the middle."
"You're very smart."
"Says the guy who couldn't tell you his own name around the third one."
Tim's lips moved against Kon's shoulder. "My name is Click Once For Yes."
Kon laughed—low, genuine, the kind that shook both of them through the water and made the surface ripple. "Click Once For Yes," he agreed.
They stayed until the water started to cool. Kon tracked the temperature through his own skin, which ran warmer than Tim's and registered the shift later. When he stood and lifted Tim out—one arm under his knees, one at his back—Tim made a small token protest and then let it happen. Kon wrapped him in the bath sheet he'd hung on the warming bar while the tub was filling. Tim leaned into the warmth of the fabric. His eyes were half-open, fond, watching Kon dry his shoulders and his back and the curve of his hips.
They walked back to the bedroom. The sheets had been changed while Tim was in the final scene—TTK, folded neatly on the dresser before they were needed, fresh cotton cool and white on the mattress. Tim stopped at the foot of the bed and looked at them for a moment: a small, quiet recognition crossing his face.
"Yeah," Kon said. "I prepped earlier."
Tim sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at his own hands for a moment—the fading red marks of paracord, the indentations already softening. Kon crouched in front of him and opened the small bag from the nightstand: arnica gel, worked into Tim's wrists with both thumbs, slow and thorough. Then his ankles. Tim sat with his eyes half-closed and let himself be tended to, which was not something Tim Drake did without choosing, and he was choosing it right now, and Kon understood what that meant.
"Shoulders okay?" Kon asked.
"Good; kind of tired."
"Tell me if that changes tomorrow."
"I know."
"Tim."
Tim opened his eyes and found Kon's face. "I will. I promise."
Kon looked at him long enough to take the full measure of it. Nodded.
He went to the dresser and came back with the oversized hoodie—his originally, months ago, which had migrated to Tim's side of the closet and then back again when Tim left it here one night and never asked for it back. Kon had washed it and put it on the shelf on Tim's side without saying anything, and Tim had never mentioned it, and here they were. Tim raised his arms without being asked. Kon pulled it over his head, tugged it down to mid-thigh, smoothed the collar where it had twisted. Tim pulled the sleeves over his hands, the cuffs swallowing his fingers down to the knuckles.
He looked down at himself. Then up at Kon.
Something in his face had gone very quiet. The specific quiet of someone who has gotten something they weren't sure they were allowed to want. Tim had a lot of faces—the Red Robin face, the Wayne Industries face, the Bruce-is-watching face, the face he wore during debrief that gave away approximately nothing. This one Kon only ever saw in the apartment. In the dark, in the aftermath, in the places where there was no audience and no purpose except being a person.
"Okay?" Kon asked.
"Yeah," Tim said. And then, slower: "Yeah. Really."
Kon climbed into the bed and opened his arms. Tim fit himself against his chest—back to front, slotted in under Kon's chin with the easy precision of long practice—and Kon's arm went around his waist and his hand found Tim's and held it, fingers laced.
He pulled the blanket over both of them with his free hand. The room settled into a different kind of quiet—not the TTK quiet of before, with its engineered completeness, but the natural quiet of two people who were done with everything except this. The rain on the fire escape kept its irregular rhythm, tapping against metal in the same uneven pattern it had been doing since before they'd arrived. Somewhere below, a car with a faulty horn honked twice and went silent. The city breathed outside the charcoal curtains: muffled, constant, indifferent in the comfortable way of something that would still be there later.
"Sleep," Kon said, lips to the top of Tim's head. "I've got you."
Tim's breathing slowed. It took a few minutes—Tim's brain didn't surrender easily, even now, even after all of this, and Kon could feel the specific quality of not-quite-asleep in the faint held tension of Tim's shoulders that gradually, by increments, released. His fingers went loose around the clicker without releasing it entirely. His feet, which had been slightly cold against Kon's calves, slowly warmed.
Kon stayed awake for a while.
He listened to Tim breathe and thought about the night—specific, concrete, the way he preferred to think. The way Tim had clicked: every single time, clear and deliberate, no hesitation even in the depths of the fourth denial when he'd been crying and three-quarters out of his own head. The click had been steady then too. That was the part that caught at Kon in a way he'd never quite shaken, no matter how many times they did this: the fact that Tim kept choosing. Over and over, in real time, with full information, in a state where he could barely remember his own name. Still choosing. Still yes.