as long as there's light we got a chance

"Tim, you fucking—" Bernard cuts himself off with a strangled hiss, and Kon pants raggedly against his collarbone, and just—just—

"In me," he begs stupidly, curling his fingers in against the other's back; curling his TTK through the other's body. "Need him in me again, please, pleasepleaseplease, feels so good but—but need him in me, need—need—PLEASE!"

"Tim, I hate you," Bernard seethes, and Kon can hear his heart pounding and feel his heart pounding and hear and feel his breathing picking up, and feel and feel and feel his dick, but not feel it—not feel it where he—

Bernard's cock is thick and heavy under the silky-satin fabric of the robe, warm and throbbing against Kon's hip in time with the same pulse that sounds so good with Tim's, and he's in so damn close that Kon can't feel any space anywhere between them, even while still grinding and squirming and rutting down against the other's thigh, and it feels so—is so—

"Good boy," Tim hums in that same light, easy way. "So sweet and obedient for me, aren't you, pet. Are you close?"

"Please," Kon gasps, and feels Tim smile.

"Aw, pet," he says. "Don't worry. Bernard's gonna take care of you. Right, babe?"

"Tim, I swear—" Bernard groans as he presses his whole body and all his weight into Kon's, and Kon feels dizzy and heady and sososo good.

"Robin!" he chokes, and Bernard buries another strangled sound against his hair, and Kon curls around him as much as he can and feels like he could evaporate right into the steam from the shower and only come back if Tim told him to. "Robin, Robin, please, m'so—m'so close, I—pleasepleaseplease, I need, I—Bernard, Bernard, BERNARD, I NEED you!"

"Jesus," Bernard says roughly, fisting his hand against the back of his head and gripping the sink harder, and Kon really doesn't mean to tilt his hips the exact way he does, just . . . just he does, and . . . "Hell. You need—?"

"You, you, you," Kon begs desperately, because that's as close to an answer as he can get—because his hips are already tilted for—for what he needs, and—and—

"You're still wet enough for him, right, pet?" Tim asks idly, and Bernard's heartbeat spikes, and—

"PLEASE!" Kon cries.

"Tim, I swear to Nemesis and Nyx, you'd better have—" Bernard grits out raggedly, switching his grip on the sink to brace a hand against the tiled wall past Kon's shoulder.

"Mm?" Tim says. "Oh, condoms and lube are in the medicine cabinet. Though I don't think you'll really need much of the lube right now. Right, boy?"

"S'right, you're right, you're always—fuck, fuck—!" Kon chokes pleadingly, burying his face in tighter against Bernard's shoulder again as his body tries to shake apart and his cock grinds clumsy and jerky over silky-satin softness and his hole just feels fucking empty, and Bernard swears extremely colorfully and takes his hand off the wall to fumble at the medicine cabinet behind him. Kryptonian bees could not see the fucking colors Bernard's swearing in right now, Kon's pretty sure. Hell, probably Signal couldn't.

And Bernard picked taking his hand off the wall over taking his hand off him, Kon can't help thinking. Trusted all his weight to him, and kept his hand cupping the back of his head. Kept his hand there like he wanted to make sure Kon kept himself right where he was.

"What am I right about, pet?" Tim asks as Bernard gets a hand inside the medicine cabinet and accidentally knocks over a few of the bottles inside, and Kon fucking trembles.

"M-me," he croaks. "You're right about me. Always right. Don't need prepped any more. Don't need an-anything. Just need him to fuck me—ah—again, need his fucking cock again, need—I'll be sweet, be so sweet, figure out how to be fuckin' cute if I gotta, just please lemme, lemme prove it, lemme have it, I can be so—ah, ah—I'll be anythin', anythin' you want, if you just fucking let me—AH!"

They're not even really touching him. Like—he's not not getting touched, but he's the one holding onto Bernard and grinding against Bernard; Bernard's just leaning his weight into him and cupping the back of his head, and Tim—Tim's just talking.

Kon seriously doesn't know if he's embarrassed to be this easy or just even more turned on over how easy Tim keeps getting him to be easy.

Though he guesses it could be both, really, 'cuz either way he really doesn't have the fucking brainpower to work that one out right now. It's not like he's that good at that shit anyway—he probably wouldn't have the brainpower to work that one out if he didn't already feel like—like—

"Let you give Bernard a nice tight place to fuck, or let you be cute?" Tim asks mildly, and Kon almost comes. Almost comes from the silky-satin-soft rub of smooth fabric and practical muscle and warm skin and soft fat, but also almost comes from hearing that. "Or do I get to pick?"

"You're so fucking embarrassing," Match says, curling his lip in disgust. Superboy stiffens, and bristles, and—

Swallows, and doesn't take his eyes off the belt. Doesn't take his eyes off Match's grip on the belt.

So definitely a fucking embarrassment, yes.

Match could say something else about that, but the bitch isn't actually running his mouth for once, so why bother?

He grabs the stupid garish "S" on Superboy's chest and yanks him forward by it, shoving into his space at the same time. Superboy tenses up and moves to either grab onto or push away from or shove him off. Match doesn't give even half a fuck which; he's not giving Superboy permission to do anything either way.

So he just says "No," low and rough and rumbling, and snaps his belt around the bitch's neck with a bolt of super-speed. Superboy goes dead still and his pupils instantly dilate to near-completely eclipse his irises.

And he looks right, again, for just a fucking moment.

Then the idiot braces his hands against Match's arms and tries to jerk back and away from him after all, because he's still an idiot. Match is irritated, but not exactly surprised either. He just wraps his tactile telekinesis through every inch and millimeter and atom of the belt around his throat and yanks it tight around the other's neck.

It's still not actually tight enough to restrict Superboy's breathing, but the bitch still makes a breathless sound that goes straight to Match's knot.

"No," Match repeats, lower and rougher and rumbling. Superboy freezes up again, his spine going stiff and hands locking against his arms and eyes blown wide and pupils dilated, dilated, dilated. Match has never seen Superboy's eyes this wide before. He looks stupid and clueless and useless and like every single one of the most annoying experiences of Match's life all rolled up into a single personification of idiot.

He also looks right. Just—actually fucking right.

Match is going to do whatever it takes to keep him that way.

"This isn't coming off 'til I come," Match informs Superboy as he twists his grip on the belt to tighten it just the slightest bit more. Superboy just digs his nails into his biceps and stares blankly at his face. He doesn't try to shove away or hit him or even grab the belt, and he keeps looking right.

So—positive reinforcement, definitely, Match decides, and kisses him.

Superboy makes a strange, pitchy noise and melts right into the kiss—acts right, just for a moment—and then belatedly tenses and freezes up again. The stupid bitch won't stop doing that, no matter how right he looks. But if freezing up instead of acting out is the closest the stupid bitch can get to behaving, then fine, Match thinks. He'll just get him the rest of the way there himself.

He kisses Superboy harder, slow and dragged-out and demanding, and licks up the line of one of the other's lip piercings, and then up the line of one of his fangs, and then up the line of all of his tongue piercings. They're the same set of diamond-sharp barbells again, because even if Superboy's a stupid lying bitch, he's at least that good of one.

Whether he'll admit it or not.

Superboy hisses into the kiss, and reacts to and returns everything Match does just a beat slower than he should. His hands fist in Match's sleeves and his muscles tense and flex mostly purposelessly, and his tactile telekinesis grips him. Superboy's kissing back like he doesn't even know how to do it, which Match knows isn't even remotely accurate. Usually Superboy's the one who won't stop kissing him; the bitch likes it too damn much for any reasonable person to like anything, much less anything that's such a pointless waste of time as kissing.

He's also, unfortunately, one of the only people Match has ever kissed who's actually good enough at it to almost make him willing to waste the time.

Almost.

But positive reinforcement, so Match will waste a little time, if that's what it takes.

Superboy moans, stilted and cracked, and Match's skin prickles and his gut burns, and he kisses him with his fangs in it. Superboy whines, and barely even manages to kiss him back at all.

So the positive reinforcement angle is still working out, Match decides. Then he grabs Superboy's jaw and sticks his thumb in the other's mouth and presses down on those piercings, just to make the point. Superboy makes that strange, pitchy noise from before again, his body strung up somewhere between melted and frozen, and Match presses his thumb down harder and leans back in to bite the other's lip.

And pulls the belt tighter around his neck, too.

Superboy makes a noise that nearly makes Match blow his knot right there, his nails digging in almost hard enough to actually scratch him. Match thinks about biting Superboy's jaw to the blood and bone, deep enough to scar, and thinks about Superboy's nails scratching up his back. They're not as sharp as they should be, he can't help thinking. They should be sharper.

They should cut him.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry—" Match sobs harder, shaking his head over and over as his voice cracks worse and worse. Kon thinks about how Match usually acts, and thinks about what it must've taken to get the bastard to react like this—to panic like this.

He also thinks about what it must've taken to make Match act the way he usually does, if this is the kind of shit the bastard panics over.

"Yeah, you should be," he says. He doesn't let Match up off his dick at all, but rolls his hips under the other's to make sure he really feels it. From the way Match chokes, he definitely does.

So then he does it a few more times, obviously.

"Now don't you feel fuckin' stupid for not takin' me up on the 'brother' thing the first time, baby boy," Kon pants breathlessly, rolling their hips together harder and nuzzling rough into Match's throat. "Might be bein' nicer to ya if y'had."

"Yes, yes, stupid, I'm so stupid," Match keens pleadingly, still just making a clumsy, greedy embarrassment of the mess of himself. "Shoulda—shoulda when you—shoulda already known, shoulda known I—I was your—"

Kon's gut burns.

"My what?" he prods, and Match's breath hitches.

"Y-your—baby boy, your—baby, y-your—your m-m—" Match stammers, staring straight ahead at the wall and not looking back at him, and Kon rolls his hips up hard.

"Mmmmm?" he says. Match whimpers.

"Your—match, I'm—they made me to be your—for your—for your match, I'm your match, please please please, I can't—" he babbles at the wall, and Kon's whole body burns.

"Can't what, Match?" he asks, giving a sudden, sharp little buck of his hips. Match whimpers.

"I can't, it's too good, I—I—stopstopplease—" Match babbles even faster, back to shaking his head in panicked desperation and still not looking back at him. Though it's not like he needs to, really. Neither of them needs to "look" to see somebody who's close enough to touch. Especially not this close.

Kon still wonders how bad the selfish prick would embarrass himself right now if he just called him "Matty" again, though.

"Naw," he breathes, going back to long, slow rolls of his hips and not stopping. Match's breath hitches harder, an obvious tremor going up his spine. "You're not gettin' out of this, dipshit. Not 'til I get sick of your ass, anyway. Better hope I don't, since it's the closest thing you've got to a redeeming quality. Why would I bother with you otherwise?"

Match chokes on a sob, and his hole clenches so hard it practically chokes Kon's dick. Kon buries an appreciative groan in the other's shoulder and rocks his hips up hard, and Match's cock twitches violently and spits enough pre to almost pass for him having another orgasm.

And his hole clutches up even harder, too.

"Aw, look at that, you stupid fuckin' bitch, finally figured out something that'll make your 'match' feel good for once?" Kon coos mockingly, dropping a hand to pinch the other's ass sharply, and Match chokes again.

"M-my—?" he stammers stupidly, and Kon presses a rough kiss against the corner of his jaw and pinches his ass harder.

"Superman could hear virtually anything we said in this entire solar system if he bothered to listen," Match reminds him anyway. Speaking of Thirteen being fucking stupid. "Why the hell would it matter if we spoke about him in his immediate presence or not?"

"I don't know, man, it's like—it's fucking manners or whatever!" Thirteen sputters indignantly, gesturing more expansively and nearly knocking a lamp off the wall in the process. Match has no idea how anyone's spacial awareness can be so terrible, but especially has no idea how the spacial awareness of anyone with tactile telekinesis can be so terrible. "People have those!"

"Irrelevant," Match says, because—

"We are people, you fucking wannabe zombie!" Thirteen fumes, and throws his arms out wide enough that he actually does knock the lamp this time, the fucking idiot.

He really is so stupid.

Match reinforces the lamp to keep it from either breaking or ripping off the wall, because Thirteen is insane if he thinks they can damage Superman's bizarre little—set, or whatever this is. The human version of a doghouse, maybe. Maybe when Superman says he has human parents, what he actually means is that he has human pets.

It'd make more sense if that was what he meant. A lot more.

Match doesn't understand why Superman does anything he does, much less anything that doesn't align with previously-displayed behavior, but this place might be what he understands the least. He's still not going to be stupid enough to damage something of Superman's, though.

Thirteen, clearly, has not made it through that extremely basic thought process yet. Though that would require some form of actual thinking, obviously.

"We're not people," Match retorts in irritation. "Stop embarrassing yourself about it."

"'Embarrassing'?!" Thirteen demands indignantly, because he's fucking embarrassing.

"Boys—er, kids," Superman says, clearing his his throat. "Inside voices, please."

". . . what the fuck is an 'inside voice'?" Match asks blankly before he can think better of it, his eyes already reflexively snapped over to Superman.

"Uh—sorry, man, I—we'll shut up. Sorry," Thirteen mutters, his shoulders stiffening just enough to make it obvious how hard he's trying not to hunch them. Superman frowns. Match's spine prickles warily.

"Wh—no, I just mean—don't shout like that in the house, please," Superman says with a frown. "That's all, Kid. You don't need to not say anything at all."

". . . we have to shout outside," Match repeats incredulously, giving him a doubtful look.

"That's . . . also not what I meant, Lara," Superman sighs, his own shoulders slumping a little as he rubs the back of his head. Match refuses to notice any of that. He really doesn't have the bandwidth to process Superman looking awkward, of all the damn things. The logical fallacy of what he's saying isn't helping either. "Just—we're guests right now, alright? Please be . . . unintrusive about it."

Match only barely manages to refrain from glaring at him. It's much harder to do than usual.

He's been trying to be "unintrusive", damn it. Superman's the one who keeps doing stupid, senseless things like wasting medical supplies on him and making up "names" to use on him and dragging him here to begin with—dragging them here to begin with, like "here" makes any more sense than any of that did.

Superman's the one who keeps refusing to make sense.

"Uh, yeah," Thirteen says, looking restless. Match almost empathizes with the feeling. There's something—crawling, it feels like. Inside his skin or his gut or just—something. He doesn't actually feel things—and would very definitely know better than to ever get restless even if he did—but that crawling sensation makes him think of the look on Thirteen's face, somehow. "Sure, man. Uh—so like—so we—"

Thirteen cuts himself off, visibly struggling for words. Match glowers at him. Superman won't care if he glowers at Thirteen, and Thirteen's too soft and pathetic to do anything about it. Hit him, maybe, depending on his mood, but nothing actually concerning.

Match doesn't know what Superman would do if he glared at him, though. He knows he needs to figure that out, but . . .

It's different from learning a handler's preferences. Different from learning the directors' had been, even. That's all. The Agenda could do anything they want to him too, but at least the Agenda had invested time and money into him, and he'd proven useful to their goals before. There's a very clearly laid-out cost-benefit analysis to Subject Match's continued existence and always has been, and Match was born knowing exactly what it entailed. He's known exactly what kind of behavior and what kind of results would keep him worth keeping as a fully operational asset and not just a dissected sample specimen since before he'd even opened his eyes for the first time.

None of that is something he can say about the cost-benefit analysis that Superman has decided to start asserting. He's responded poorly to almost every single behavior that the Agenda would expect from a worthwhile asset, but also hasn't provided clear alternate operating standards or objectives.

Match doesn't think even Thirteen knows all that much about what Superman would do in any given situation, much less this situation. He might give a cliché answer like "the right thing" if Match actually bothered to ask him, but otherwise . . .

And "the right thing" isn't a helpful descriptor. It's an entirely subjective classification, for starters. Match doesn't even know what "the right thing" would entail to the general population of the planet, much less to specifically Superman, who can just make up his own rules whenever he likes anyway.

Seriously, though, Kon doesn't even need weapons or weapons maintenance or body armor or much in the way of tech at all, and his suit is basically just glorified spandex. Cadmus should have the budget to spare to give him a new one every day. Tim has no idea how he actually ran out, no matter how far behind on laundry he may or may not be.

Does Cadmus not even have laundry services? They should, given how much on-site staff they're allegedly supporting.

"Supporting" into never having an actual out-of-lab life, but Tim really can't afford to think about exactly how many clones Cadmus is probably doing that to right now.

Literally. Literally he can't afford it. He's only got the one trust fund, okay?

. . . he'll revisit the issue when he goes supervillain, Tim decides. He'll have a few more revenue streams by then, and it sounds like something Kon would appreciate. Well—will appreciate, if he maybe does some self-reflection or goes to therapy or whatever.

Should he be finding Kon a therapist? Like, just in case he needs one at some point, given just how the vigilante work tends to go?

. . . given how it's maybe gone for Kon a few times, Tim can't help thinking, and then doesn't think about Kon trying to sell—the product to Tim Drake on their last date.

Tim is absolutely going to be revisiting the Cadmus issue when he goes supervillain, yeah.

"If literally anyone even tries to say what they think 'the guy thing' version of any 'self-assessing' might be, I'm going to put an arrow through every screen in this base and the modem," Cissie threatens, jerking her head towards the decoy modem in the back of the room. Tim decides not to mention either the word "decoy" or anything about where the actual modem is. He doesn't genuinely think Cissie is going to shoot any of the cave's tech, but better safe than sorry.

Anyway, it's admittedly difficult to predict what's going to happen when the team gets together, so yeah. Definitely better safe than sorry, when it comes to not having to write up an incident report for Red Tornado. Tim used to think that adults were exaggerating about how bad teenagers actually were, but then they'd started the team and he'd started regularly hanging out with other teenagers without direct adult supervision and he'd realized that actually, they'd been underselling it.

Wildly underselling it, in fact.