Chapter Text
TIM’S POV
The dim light of the apartment glinted off the Nikon hanging heavy around Tim’s neck, casting jagged reflections across his collar bones.
The camera’s weight around his neck was as familiar as an old scar— memories of hiding on rooftops. But this time, it carried something more: a promise of what was to come.
Tim leaned on the outside of the closed door that led to their bedroom. A slow beckon to where he wanted to go. Of where he wanted to lead Kon.
His shoulders pressed into the wood of the door, grain imprinting through his thin cotton shirt while his fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the camera’s shell.
Four taps. A pause. Three. Another pause. Two more.
The sound was deliberate. A silent count down.
Across the cluttered apartment, Kon’s head jerked up from his cracked iPhone screen so fast his dark curls bounced, the device slipping from his fingers to skitter across the counter.
His body pivoted toward Tim, advancing with eerie fluidity only Kryptonian DNA could gift— not walking but flowing across the laminate, eyes locked on Tim and only Tim.
Tim loved the effect that he had on Kon.
The space between them crackled with static— charged by the unspoken promise dangling from Tim's neck, by the way his throat moved when he swallowed, by the door at his back that led to their bed.
It was obscene, really.
The hunger.
The want that radiated off Kon in waves, thick enough to distort the air between them. His every twitch, every aborted movement forward, screamed it— how badly he needed to press Tim into that doorframe.
Kon invaded his space without preamble, a study in controlled urgency as his warm palms settled on Tim’s hips.
No hesitation, no polite distance.
Tim’s breath hitched, but he refused to let his composure slip, tilting his head just enough to meet Kon’s gaze with a smirk.
"So about our promise," Tim began, the corner of his mouth quirking up. His gaze flicked to the camera, then back to Kon’s smouldering expression. "I've brought my camera. Like you told me to.”
Kon exhaled through his nose, before dipping his head to press a kiss just below Tim’s jaw— warm, lingering, tasting of salt and impatience. Kon’s thumbs tracing the sharp jut of bone through denim, a silent claim.
"And do you remember my part of the promise?" Kon murmured, voice roughened by the edge of something darker.
His lips dragged upward along Tim’s throat, pausing to savour the frantic flutter of Tim’s pulse beneath his tongue. At the same time, Kon hooked his fingers into the belt loops of Tim’s jeans, yanking him forward until their hips slammed flush.
The thick insistent press of Kon’s cock against Tim’s own was already unmistakable, even through layers of denim and cotton.
Tim’s mind stuttered.
How the hell was Kon already this hard?
Their clothes were still on for god’s sake.
They hadn’t even kissed yet.
But the way Kon pressed his hips—
Tim tilted his head back to thud against the door, arching into the contact, giving Kon more room to trace his lips up and along Tim’s throat. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of Kon’s shirt, skating over the hard planes of his abdomen, teasing the faint tremor of muscle as Kon sucked in a breath.
“Hmmm,” Tim teased, dragging his nails lightly down Kon’s side. “Something about…” He gasped as Kon’s knee nudged between his thighs, pressing. “…not walking for three days?”
The words dissolved into a gasp as Kon rolled his hips forward, the heat of him searing even through layers of clothing.
Tim inched the fabric of Kon’s shirt up, revealing the deep V of Kon’s hips where muscle tapered into the waistband of his jeans.
His mouth watered— he wanted to follow every contour with his tongue.
The sound of Kon’s low chuckle sent a shiver down Tim’s spine.
Then Kon moved, his hand tangling in Tim’s hair as he crushed their mouths together. The kiss was relentless, teeth and heat and the faint, bitter tang of coffee lingering between them, a remnant of the cups they'd shared hours ago.
Tim gasped against him, fingers digging into Kon's shoulders as the taste— familiar, intoxicating—flooded his senses.
It tasted sweeter with the press of Kon’s lips.
The doorframe shuddered as Kon wrenched the doorknob, using his full weight to push Tim against the door and propel them across the threshold. The momentum slamming Tim backward into the wall with a thud that rattled the picture frames beside them.
“Good.” Kon punctuated the word with a final nip to Tim’s lower lip before withdrawing. “Don’t forget it,” he murmured, holding Tim’s gaze just long enough to make his pulse skip.
Tim exhaled, steadying himself as Kon’s fingers went to the hem of his own shirt. The fabric stretched taut over his shoulders, the worn cotton clinging for a desperate second— jesus fuck they were huge— before yielding, riding up inch by torturous inch.
Golden skin emerged like sunrise over a ridged horizon— the dip of his sternum, the shadowed valley between his pecs, the sweat-damp trail of hair leading south.
The shutter clicked. A sound like a held breath released.
Tim barely registered his own hands taking the picture, muscle memory guiding the lens as he framed the moment.
At the sound of the camera, Kon grinned, rolling his shoulders as his biceps flexed in a flawless bodybuilder’s pose.
The absolute dork. Tim huffed fondly.
But.
The ripple of his abs as he twisted.
The ropey veins in his forearms.
The way his ribs expanded with every breath.
The sharp V of his torso disappearing into his jeans.
Tim traced the path with the lens.
"Kon, you can’t keep posing for them," Tim said, but the laughter in his voice betrayed him. He adjusted the focus anyway, capturing the curve of Kon's biceps first, then the defined ridges of his abdomen, the sweat damp hollow of Kon’s collar bone, before finally settling on his face— those bright, laughing eyes, the playful smirk.
Click
"No can do," Kon shot back, fingers working his belt loose with theatrical slowness. The leather slithered free with a soft snick. "Gotta pose for my number one fan. Give you more stuff to add to that shrine."
“You’re insufferable,” Tim muttered, but the lens didn’t lie: Kon’s grin was worth the eyeroll, all white teeth and crinkled corners.
“Gonna tell me to stop?” Kon’s voice dipped.
The jeans sagged low on his hips as he pushed them down, the denim catching briefly on the jut of his thighs before pooling at his feet. Tim's breath hitched— he didn't realize he'd leaned forward until the viewfinder fogged slightly.
Tim exhaled through his nose. The camera clicked again.
Kon paused then, head lifting. His gaze flicked up, searching for Tim’s behind the camera.
Kon arched a brow. “Still not telling me to stop.”
Tim didn't lower the camera. He watched, pulse hammering in silence, as Kon hooked thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.
Tim’s throat tightened.
“Shut up and pose.”
The fabric slid down in one smooth motion, revealing the thick line of his cock already half-hard against his thigh.
Click. The sound punched through the quiet.
Kon stood up straight, shoulders squaring, as if he was presenting himself to Tim.
The lens focused, narrowing the world to a single obscene point:
The way Kon's palm dragged lazily along his length.
Click.
The slick drag of foreskin.
Click.
The precome glistening at the tip.
Click.
Tim’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip.
His grip on the camera turned vicious, knuckles bleaching bone-white against the black casing. The shutter’s rhythm matched the frantic pulse in his throat— each mechanical snick syncing with the hammer of his heart.
When he finally tore his gaze from the viewfinder, lifting his eyes to meet Kon’s, the room seemed to tilt. Kon’s smirk was molten. Tim’s own pulse throbbed in his fingertips, his lips, his thighs— everywhere.
The hunger in Kon’s stare mirrored his own: dark, bottomless, ravenous.
Kon nostrils flared, closing the distance between them in three purposeful strides, his fingers already tangling in the fabric of Tim's shirt as their mouths collided— tasting of coffee and impatience.
"Your turn," Kon breathed against his lips, hips rolling forward to grind the unmistakable ridge of his cock against Tim's denim-clad groin.
Fuck. That had to hurt for Kon. Tim thought, before he quickly remembered the invulnerability of Kon's skin.
Shit. That was hot.
A knee nudged between Tim's thighs, insistent, as fingers made quick work of the buttons on Tim’s shirt. The fabric parted, revealing flushed skin beneath, but Tim caught Kon’s wrist before he could push it off entirely.
Jesus Christ. Someone was excited today.
Tim laughed into the kiss—a breathless, knowing sound—before pressing a palm flat against Kon's chest to push him back just enough to speak.
"I can undress myself," Tim murmured, his fingers lingered on Kon’s wrist for a moment longer than necessary. With deliberate slowness, he lifted the camera strap from around his neck and looped it over Kon’s instead. The leather cord settled around Kon's neck like a leash, the weight of the Nikon heavy between his pecs.
“I can do it faster,” Kon responded easily.
“Hmm,” Tim agreed. Kon had taken to ripping Tim’s clothes off so he couldn’t argue with that.
Tim's hands migrated to Kon's shoulders, kneading the taut muscle there before dragging him back in. Their mouths moved in unhurried sync— Kon's lips yielding against his own, tongues sliding together in a slick, filthy rhythm that sent heat pooling low in Tim's gut.
He broke away with deliberate slowness, savouring the way Kon's body lurched forward instinctively, chasing the loss of contact. A dark thrill shot through him at Kon's impatient growl—low, rough, vibrating through the scant space between them.
Tim arched a single eyebrow, letting his smirk bloom slow and wicked as he retreated step by measured step toward the bed. His gaze never wavered from Kon's blown pupils, the rapid flutter of his pulse visible beneath the sweat-damp skin of his throat.
Kon wanted fast?
Kon would get precisely what Tim decided to give him.
He smiled to himself as he commenced the slowest striptease Gotham had ever witnessed.
Tim let the shirt slip from one shoulder, then the other. Pausing to let the fabric slither down his arms and pool on the floor. Revealing the lean muscle of his torso, the faint sheen of sweat along his sternum.
Kon stepped forward readily.
“Stay.” Tim ordered. His voice dropped into that particular tone—the one that curled around Kon's spine and left no room for argument. “I want pictures.”
Kon's jaw worked, a muscle feathering along his clenched teeth. But he obeyed, rooted in place even as his breathing turned ragged.
Every discarded garment was a provocation. Each revealed strip of skin a silent taunt.
Kon lifted the camera reflexively, the shutter clicking in rapid succession as Tim's hands trailed down his own chest slowly, fingers finally hooking into the waistband of his jeans.
When only denim remained, Tim turned without warning. His back towards Kon. His shoulders flexed as he bent forward, peeling his jeans and boxers down inch by torturous inch until they pooled around his ankles.
Presenting the curve of his ass towards the camera. Towards Kon.
A sharp inhale from behind him told Tim everything he needed to know.
Tim glanced over his shoulder, eyelids heavy, lashes lowering in a look that was equal parts challenge and invitation, lips parted just enough to be tempting.
That should do it.
That should drive him insane.
Then, straightening, he stepped out of the discarded jeans and sauntered to the bed with a deliberate sway in his hips.
He could feel Kon’s heated stare, right on his ass.
The mattress dipped beneath Tim's weight as he reclined, propped up on his elbows. Every arch of his back, every flex of his thighs was calculated—a silent dare, a promise—all for the person behind the lens.
He wanted to drive Kon wild.
He dragged one knee up, then the other.
The shutter clicked again, capturing every inch of him: the flush creeping down his chest, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly under Kon’s unwavering attention.
Then Tim let his legs part with agonising leisure— knees bending, thighs spreading, entirely focused towards the camera. A languid invitation, a performance meant solely for Kon’s hungry gaze and the lens of the camera.
Tim could practically taste Kon’s focus unravelling— the way his fingers flexed around the camera, the bob of his throat as he swallowed hard.
A bead of sweat trailed down Tim’s sternum, and he watched, rapt, as Kon’s gaze tracked its path like a man starving.
He let his teeth catch his lower lip—just for a second—and watched Kon’s grip on the camera falter.
He revelled in it.
In the control.
In the way Kon watched him with naked hunger, body strung tight as a bowstring, waiting.
This was fun.