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The quiet in Tim Drake’s high-rise apartment wasn't restful; it was corrosive. It wasn't the peace of solitude, but the hollow, metallic silence that follows total mental depletion. For the last seventy-two hours, Tim’s physical body—a lean, pale sculpture of fatigue— had been little more than a biological anchor for a mind dedicated to the abstract warfare of corporate finance. He had lived exclusively within the zero-sum game of quarterly reports, venture capital risks, and legal maneuvers, fueling himself on lukewarm coffee and the self-destructive mantra that sleep was an unscheduled downtime activity. His world had shrunk to the glowing rectangle of his monitor and the relentless, suffocating rhythm of his own over-analytical thought process.
Even now, standing rigid in the center of his bedroom, stripped of his suit jacket but still wearing the collar and tie, the background noise registered only as failed data: the faint, mechanical whine of the Gotham city ventilation system, the distant, irritating clang of an off-key synthetic Christmas carol being piped up from the street. None of it felt real, none of it demanded the same focused attention as a hostile takeover threat. His nerves were frayed, his body was vibrating with unspent adrenaline, and his soul was crying out for a signal so loud, so raw, that it would force a system crash.
The calendar in his head was stuck in a temporal loop, perpetually cycling through deadlines and board meeting dates. December 25th was not a holiday in Tim’s brain; it was a lapse in productivity. The memory of telling Alfred he’d attend the family Christmas dinner was a faint, irrelevant echo from a life he hadn't fully inhabited in days. He couldn't afford to be functional anymore. He didn't just need rest; he needed to be broken. He needed a sensory overload so intense, so dedicated to the physical, that his higher brain functions would be forced offline, leaving him mindless, present, and utterly consumed.
The solution was not sleep, which would inevitably bring dreams filled with recursive problem-solving, but noise. Absolute, dominating, physical noise.
His phone vibrated on the polished mahogany desk, the sudden, sharp buzz of a notification breaking through the corporate haze.
Kon: ma and pa are celebrating with jon, lois and clark, and i’m bored and need a break, can i come over
Tim stared at the text. Lois and Clark. The names of the Kent/Lane family—the epitome of wholesome, relentless family cheer on the most family-centric day of the year—forced a slow, cold realization into his awareness: It was Christmas Day.
He hadn’t just missed an event; he had missed the entire holiday. The sudden, immense weight of that social failure—the knowledge that Bruce would be giving a disappointed sigh, that Dick was probably texting him gentle inquiries, that he was the reason for a gap at the dinner table—was instantly added to the existing stress. His mind tried to calculate the optimal apology structure, the best time to send a gift.
But the rest of Kon's message was a lifeline: bored and need a break. Kon, a creature of superhuman strength and boundless, kinetic energy, was suffering from the same confinement, only his was a physical restlessness brought on by forced stillness and polite domesticity. Kon was running on fumes of enforced patience.
A wave of intense, animal hunger washed over Tim. Perfect. Kon wasn't just his boyfriend; he was his escape mechanism. Kon’s very presence was a gravitational field of energy, a physical reality so loud, so demanding, that it erased all internal noise.
Tim: sure
Tim: come in like, 20?
He stumbled to the ensuite, turning the shower knob to the highest setting. The scalding water was a physical punishment, stinging his skin, forcing him to focus on the immediate sensation of heat. He rubbed himself raw, scrubbing away the faint, stale scent of expensive paper and desperate, sleepless days, trying to strip the CEO from the person beneath.
When he emerged, his skin was pink, his eyes were still a little too wide, and his heart was hammering against his ribs. The dangerous, beautiful plan had fully crystallized. Kon needed an escape from Christmas. Tim would become the ultimate escape. He would be the perverse, perfectly packaged gift—a partner demanding to be shattered.
He walked back into the room, his eyes snagging on the spool of thick, deep-red satin ribbon. It wasn't the flimsy stuff of gift bows; this was a substantial, double-sided weave, chosen for its duality. The crimson was festive, ironic, a flag of surrender. The satin was sleek, promising luxurious pressure, but the weave was coarse enough to chafe, to torment. He let the towel drop, the chill of the room raising goosebumps on his damp, pink skin.
His hands, usually so adept at code or the weighted balance of a bo staff, moved with the focused, ritualistic precision he reserved for disarming a bomb. He started with the wrists, looping the ribbon into figure-eights high on his spine. The knot was secure, the tension agonizingly loose—just enough to allow for tiny, frustrating movements, just enough to feel the bite of confinement, but tight enough to lock him in a posture of helpless offering. The first bolt of electric anticipation shot through him, overriding the background buzz of anxiety.
Next, the midriff. He circled the ribbon twice just below his ribs, pulling it taut. The pressure drew attention to the shallow indents it carved into his pale skin, already flushing from the shower's heat and burgeoning arousal.
The chest was the critical step, the nexus of sensory input. He threaded a longer length under the ribbon at his waist, bringing it up and over the mounds of his pec tissue—tissue that was exquisitely sensitive, deeply affirming. He criss-crossed the ribbon in a tight 'X' over his heart, knotting it high near his collarbone. The design aggressively bound the tissue inward, but most importantly, it forced his already erect nipples into painful, continuous prominence. The smooth satin, despite its finish, rubbed and chafed with every shallow, anxious breath. The sensation was a constant, demanding thrum, already blurring the edges of his exhaustion.
Finally, he took the last length, threading it through the midriff ribbon from behind. He pulled it tight, creating a distinct, inescapable barrier between his thighs. The tension was perfect; it pulled gently at his sensitive area and pressed the slick, damp flesh of his inner thighs together. It wasn't for immobilization, but for a constant, grinding reminder of his vulnerability and the wet, frantic hunger already pooling in his groin.
He was done. He stood naked, crisscrossed and tightly constrained in aggressive red against his pale skin, slick with steam and desire. Every part of him felt labeled, constrained, and screaming for Kon’s attention. He stood perfectly still, waiting for the crash.
Click. The low, heavy thump of Kon’s landing on the balcony was a seismic event. His heavy footsteps approached, and then stopped dead in the bedroom doorway. Kon looked utterly undone, his dark hair windblown, his t-shirt wrinkled, the lines of stress around his mouth and eyes a testament to hours of forced politeness. But the moment his gaze landed on Tim, everything about him snapped into terrifying, absolute clarity. The scattered restlessness vanished, replaced by an intensity that was palpable.
His eyes—deep, electric blue, radiating heat—trailed the ribbons like a map, lingering on the constricted shape of Tim's chest, the painful prominence of his bound nipples, and the vulnerable tightness of the crotch restraint. The festive red was a brutal contrast to Tim’s pale, exhausted skin. Kon let out a low, rough exhale that held the suppressed violence of a sonic boom.
“Holy Rao,” Kon finally whispered, his hand instinctively going to the back of his neck. He moved into the room, slowly, deliberately, every step chewing up the remaining space until he was inches from Tim. Kon's presence was a furnace, and Tim, already simmering, began to boil.
“I came here to get away from Christmas,” Kon said, his voice a husky, dangerous heat that had Tim trembling.
The embarrassment hit Tim like a cold wave. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I—I literally forgot what day it was. I mean, we don’t have to. I can untie it. I’m an idiot.”
Kon reached out, enveloping Tim’s jaw, his thumb stroking the curve of his cheekbone. His touch was instantly grounding, a tether in the sensory storm Tim had conjured. “Don't apologize for being smart, Tim. Or for knowing exactly what I need,” Kon said, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. He leaned in, his mouth hovering close to Tim’s ear, the heat of his breath a sudden shock. “This can be about us. And we definitely have to.”
Kon pulled back, his eyes burning with an intense, possessive devotion. He dropped his gaze to the ribbons. “You’re giving me a gift, Tim. A beautiful, complicated one. And you know I like to unwrap things slowly, one pressure point at a time,” Kon murmured. His fingers skimmed the horizontal ribbon cinching Tim’s ribs. Tim sucked in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
“I hate Christmas, Kon,” Tim admitted, the words shaky, the admission raw. “I need you to be louder than my brain.”
Kon smiled, and it was a devastating flash of teeth. “Loud, Sunshine? You have no idea how loud I can be.”
He didn’t touch the knot holding the arms, or the main bow at the ribs. Kon knew exactly where the most exquisite tension was held. He found the vertical ribbon that ran between Tim’s breasts, pulling the fabric taut, making the nipples beneath scream in anticipation. With a quick, decisive snap that echoed in the quiet room, he broke the tension. The ribbon fell instantly loose. The pressure was gone, but the sudden withdrawal of friction left Tim’s nipples agonizingly exposed and tingling. He let out a choked cry, his back arching in a silent request for more.
Kon caught Tim’s hips to steady him. “That was a good sound. I need more of those.” Kon’s hand slid down, cupping Tim’s left buttock. “You’re already so warm and wet. You’re begging for release and you haven’t even been touched yet. You’re just so desperate, huh?”
“Yes, Kon,” Tim gasped, leaning into the hand resting on his hip, the need finally consuming him. “Please.”
Crack. The sound was sharp, shocking. A precise, powerful open-handed slap, hard enough to sting, but targeted to raise blood flow and color. Tim’s breath hitched, the sudden, hot pain instantly dominating the rest of his nervous system, a welcome jolt of reality.
“Tell me what that felt like, Tim. Did it sting? Don’t hold back on me,” Kon demanded, his fingers tightening on the sting.
Tim managed a shaky, breathless, "Yeah. I like it— love it. Give it to me again, Kon."
Crack. Crack. Crack.
A fast trio of slaps followed, alternating buttocks, quicker this time, injecting a relentless, building heat into the pale flesh. The color instantly bloomed, turning the area a throbbing, bright pink that would soon deepen to scarlet. Tim shuddered, fighting against the instinct to clench, only able to whine deep in his throat.
Kon ran his palm over the throbbing warmth. “Beautiful. You’re already starting to color. Let’s see if we can get a matching set of color up here, too.”
Kon’s attention shifted back to Tim’s chest, to the now-free, painfully prominent nipples. He used his thumb and forefinger to pinch the left nipple, hard, twisting the sensitive flesh between his digits until Tim’s vision tunneled. The exquisite pressure was a knife-edge of pleasure and pain.
“Look at you,” Kon murmured, pulling the nipple taut and observing the tight, desperate gasp Tim failed to swallow. “So good for me.”
Kon leaned in, his mouth open, and drew the peak of the right nipple into his hot, wet mouth. He sucked hard, the suction perfectly calibrated to pull the nipple taut and sensitive. Between the fierce, twisting pinch and the wet, demanding suction, Tim was completely overwhelmed. The duality of pain and pleasure was immediate, total, and glorious. He leaned forward instinctively, trying to press into the torture Kon was delivering.
“Is this too much? Say ‘stop,’ Tim, and I’ll stop,” Kon challenged, his voice dangerously low, his mouth still latched on the nipple.
Tim shook his head frantically, the words finally tearing out, louder and clearer than he expected. “No! It’s not enough! I need you, Kon.”
Kon released the pinched nipple with a final, hard tweak that made Tim cry out, then released the sucked one with a wet pop. He caught Tim’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You’re so good for me, Tim. You’re exactly what I needed.” Kon’s eyes were molten now. “But you’re still wearing too much.”
Kon reached down, his fingers finding the ribbon, and with a single, fluid movement, Kon ripped them down and off. Tim stood completely exposed, his body glistening with slickness.
Kon gave the bare skin of Tim’s stomach a teasing flick, then dropped to his knees. His gaze fell instantly on the damp, sensitive flesh of Tim’s body—the curve of his smooth hips, the tight pink folds, already swollen and beaded with wetness/
“Kon,” Tim breathed out, desperate. The position was instantly vulnerable.
Kon smiled up at him, a wicked, adoring look. “Hello, gorgeous. What a beautiful sight.” He reached out, his thumb running over the sensitive folds, tracing the line where the trans body met the world. Kon didn’t stop at the surface. He slipped his finger easily into the tight, needy opening of Tim's vagina. The muscle was already clenching around his digit.
“You’re so hot, Baby,” Kon whispered, adding a second finger, slowly stretching Tim open. “So much heat. You were ready for me the second I walked in.”
Tim groaned, gripping Kon’s shoulders for balance, his hips rocking instinctively toward the pressure. “Please, Kon. Just...”
“Yeah, I got you,” Kon agreed, extracting his fingers, which were now liberally coated in Tim’s slickness. He stood, rising to his full height, his t-shirt finally pulled off and tossed carelessly onto the floor. Kon stood naked before him. He was a perfect, impossible blend of Kryptonian and human—a powerful, flawless male body. The detail that made Kon uniquely Kon, was also on display: The massive, beautiful dick—already hard and demanding attention—was fully visible, but nestled beneath it, slick with pre-come, was a smaller, tight opening—a sensitive vagina.
Kon took the hand that was slick with Tim's wetness and, without breaking eye contact, he pressed his wet, glistening fingers towards Tim’s mouth. “Open up, Tim,” Kon commanded, his voice low and absolute. “Taste yourself. Taste the surrender.”
Tim obeyed instantly, his mouth opening wide, swallowing the two fingers Kon pushed firmly against his tongue. The metallic, musky taste of his own arousal mixed with the salt and heat of Kon’s body. The feeling of Kon’s fingers stretching the wet skin of his mouth, the command to swallow his own desire, was the final break in Tim’s mental dam. He closed his eyes, his mind finally, blissfully quiet. All that existed was the taste, the stretch of his mouth, the pressure on his nipples, and the raw, stinging heat on his ass.
Kon leaned closer, pulling his fingers back out, slick and wet from Tim's mouth. “Good. Now we’re clean. Now we start the real celebration.”
Kon took a deep, steadying breath. “On the bed, face down. I need to look at your beautiful ass while I make you forget your name.”
Tim stumbled back, obeying instantly, his exhaustion now totally replaced by pure, directed need. He collapsed onto the cool sheets, his butt raised slightly, waiting. Kon followed, his heavy, hot body pressing against Tim’s backside. He paused, looking down at the red, stinging skin he had created.
“We’re going to be here a while, Baby,” Kon promised, his voice thick with lust and affection. “I’m going to use everything I have to make you forget about every Christmas that ever existed.”
Kon reached down, his large, hot hand covering the entirety of Tim's sensitive, throbbing ass. He began to rub the raw, beautiful skin, slowly at first, then with building intensity, preparing the area for the demanding touch to come.
Tim lay face down on the cool sheets, his torso twisted slightly so his chin rested on his folded arms, offering Kon full, vulnerable access. The remnants of the ribbon lay discarded on the floor, scattered crimson stains against the stark white bedding. The only restraint now was the singular, exquisite pressure of Kon’s intent.
Kon’s hand, hot and heavy, covered the expanse of Tim’s ass. The skin was already a brilliant, tender scarlet, and the friction from Kon’s slow, deliberate massage turned the color deeper, pulling a low, desperate moan from Tim’s throat. Every stroke was a calculated assault, replacing complex thought with simple, overwhelming sensation.
“I can feel how much you need this,” Tim’s voice was a low growl, positioned right next to Kon’s ear, the vibration sending shivers of heat down his spine. “All that energy, all that boredom. You’re about to burst. Let me be the one who takes it.”
Kon’s thumb found the sensitive ridge beneath the curve of Tim’s left butt cheek, pressing hard. “Thank you, Sunshine. You take everything I give you so well, huh?”
He pulled his hand away, and the sudden chill where his heat had been was a shock. Tim instinctively whined, lifting his hips slightly, chasing the touch, a pathetic, animal sound that pleased Kon instantly.
Thwack! The sound was louder, sharper than the previous slaps, delivered with a targeted, focused strength that made Tim gasp and bury his face into the sheets.
Thwack! Thwack! A relentless series of blows followed, ringing out in the apartment. Tim’s body bucked with each hit, the pain traveling instantly up his spine, short-circuiting every analytical pathway in his brain. All he could focus on was the fire on his skin, the rhythmic beat, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of Kon above him.
Kon chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound. “So loud, Baby. So good for me.” He paused the spanking, his hands returning to knead the throbbing, raw flesh, stretching and pulling the skin until the pain subsided into a deep, heavy ache, a pleasant residual warmth that promised more.
Kon used the pause to lubricate, but not in the standard way. He leaned down, his mouth tracing the midline of Tim’s back, sending his hot breath over the ridge of Tim’s spine. Kon’s tongue dipped, delivering a stripe of warm, thick spit right down the center of Tim’s back, wetting the skin before his fingers followed, spreading the moisture down to Tim’s hips. It was primal, intimate, and entirely focused on making Tim feel utterly used.
Kon’s left hand settled on the base of Tim’s spine, anchoring him. His right hand, slick with their combined heat, slid down Tim’s inner thigh, finding the tight, slick entrance of Tim's folds. He pushed two fingers in slowly, deliberately stretching the tissue that was already tight and needy, meeting the involuntary clench of Tim's internal muscles.
“You always clench for me here,” Kon murmured, his voice now gentle, almost devotional, in sharp contrast to the punishment he’d just delivered. “You’re so responsive.”
Kon worked his fingers deeper, finding the muscle wall, pressing, and circling. Tim groaned, the sound raw and uncontrolled, pushing back onto Kon's hand.
As he worked Tim's opening, Kon simultaneously used his free hand to explore himself. Tim could feel Kon’s body shift behind him. Kon reached down, his large fingers first tracing the rim of the smaller, tight vagina, then slowly slipping a single finger inside. The muscle wall immediately contracted around his own digit, tight and needy, just like Tim’s. Kon pressed against the highly sensitive tissue just inside the entrance, feeling the same sharp, involuntary clench Tim was currently exhibiting.
Kon pulled his finger out of himself, drawing a slick, glistening rope of pre-cum and slickness. He then pulled his fingers out of Tim’s hole, the wet pop of release making Tim cry out, chasing the sensation. Kon mixed the lubrication from both bodies on his palm.
“I want you to take this,” he said, his voice now back to a sharp, uncompromising command. Kon’s hand gripped Tim’s chin, tilting his head back slightly, and he forced the three slick fingers into Tim’s mouth—two wet from Tim, one wet from Kon. Tim gagged slightly, but Kon held his head steady, forcing him to keep his mouth open, sucking and tasting their shared arousal.
“Swallow it, Tim. Swallow the noise. All of it. Taste the silence you’re begging for,” Kon demanded, his face close, his intensity overwhelming. The feeling of the fingers pressing down on his tongue, stretching the roof of his mouth, was intensely overwhelming, perfectly blocking the analytical part of his brain. Tim was utterly consumed by the taste, the stretch, the sheer, absolute command. He finally swallowed, pulling the fingers back out with a wet, heavy suction.
Kon moved, pulling Tim up slightly, shifting him so Tim was kneeling on his hands and knees, ass lifted, eyes still swimming from the finger play. Kon was behind him, hard and heavy, his cock a huge, demanding presence.
“Look at me, Tim. Look at what you do to me.” Tim struggled to lift his head, his focus scattered. Kon reached out and slapped the right buttock again, hard, making the scarlet skin jump, a renewed burst of heat. “Focus. Look at me, or I’ll use my belt.”
Tim swallowed hard and locked his gaze on Kon, who was now kneeling, his massive erection straining towards Tim. Kon’s sex was fully on display—the dominant, ready cock, and the small, wet opening beneath it, both glistening with desire.
“I need you, Kon,” Tim breathed, the words a raw, open plea.
“I need you, too, Baby,” Kon replied, his voice thick with lust. “I’m going to ruin you for a while, and you are going to forget your name.”
Kon used his other hand to find the rim of Tim’s vagina, pulling the lips apart slightly, then slicking the entrance again with his own, combined fluids. Tim gasped, bracing himself, his arms shaking from the exertion of holding himself up.
Kon didn’t bother with a slow, agonizing entry. He had built the anticipation to a breaking point, and Tim was vibrating with need. He positioned the head of his cock and, with a single, powerful surge, drove himself completely home.
Tim screamed—a sharp, piercing cry that was instantly swallowed by the sheets. The sudden, total fullness was overwhelming, displacing the air in his lungs and forcing a choked sob from his throat. The sheer, impossible size of Kon was always a shock, even when prepared. Kon paused, buried to the hilt, his grip on Tim’s hips absolute, letting Tim adjust to the total occupation of his core.
“Breathe, Sunshine. You’re fine. You’re perfect.”
“Too much, Kon,” Tim managed, trying to push back, but Kon’s hold on his hips was absolute.
“It’s exactly what you asked for,” Kon corrected, pulling back an inch, then driving forward again, slow and deep. “You wanted me. This is all of me. You know what to say if you really want me to stop.”
Kon established a slow, powerful rhythm, pulling back almost fully, then thrusting forward with a heavy, grinding power that shook the bed. The sensation was dominating every nerve ending in his body, successfully destroying any semblance of rational thought. Kon began to speed up, using his incredible strength to control the angle and depth. The thrusts became deep, relentless slams, driving Tim’s body forward onto the bed. Tim was crying out now, the sounds high and frantic, totally outside his control, a symphony of need.
Kon leaned forward, his massive chest pressing against Tim’s back, his arms coming around to cup the breasts that Tim had bound earlier. He pinched the already sensitized nipples, hard, twisting the tissue with each deep thrust. The combination—the sharp, twisting pain on his chest, the total, violent fullness in his core, and the raw, pounding rhythm of the backshots—drove Tim to the edge of comprehension.
“You’re mine, Tim. You’re my only quiet space. I’m giving you the noise you need to finally rest,” Kon whispered fiercely into his ear, driving one final, shattering thrust deep inside.
Tim screamed again, the sensation exploding inside him, his body spasming violently around Kon’s length as he came, a total, devastating release that shattered the last lingering traces of his exhaustion and the Christmas chaos. Kon kept thrusting through Tim’s climax, the intensity of his own need now absolute, using the tightness of Tim's spasms to push himself closer to the edge.
Tim’s body was still trembling, the aftermath of his climax a deep, vibrating hum throughout his muscles. He was limp, pressed down onto the sheets by the weight of Kon’s chest against his back, his mind finally, beautifully blank. The heat of the spanked skin, the stretching fullness in his core, and the lingering ache in his nipples had successfully drowned out everything else.
Kon was still buried deep inside him, but the thrusts were no longer violent. They were slow, heavy, grinding pulls, seeking his own release. The tightness of Tim’s internal muscle spasms around Kon’s length was already too much, the sensation threatening to undo Kon prematurely.
“Tim, you’re so tight,” Kon groaned, his voice ragged, laced with a raw, struggling power. “Every time you clench, it’s… I can feel it everywhere.”
Kon leaned back slightly, finding the purchase on Tim’s hips again, lifting Tim’s body and pressing him down just enough to shift the angle. The movement changed the friction, sending a fresh, overwhelming rush of sensation through Kon’s own body. Kon let out a choked sound, halfway between a roar and a plea. His breathing became erratic, shallow bursts of air that whistled in his throat.
“I’m there, Baby. I’m right there,” Kon muttered, his grip on Tim’s hips crushing. He began to speed up, using his superhuman strength to drive an agonizing rhythm. The bed frame groaned under the impact, a low, complaining rumble that was easily lost beneath Kon’s mounting gasps. Kon’s hands shifted from Tim’s hips to his shoulders, pressing him firmly against the sheets. He tilted his head back, his eyes squeezed shut, the veins standing out on his neck.
With a final, shattering thrust that drove Kon’s length so deep Tim felt the impact in his chest, Kon came with Tim’s name on his tongue. The release was seismic. Kon’s body stiffened completely, his muscles locking up in a rigid, powerful arch, and a heavy, thick pulse of fluid drove deep into Tim’s core.
Kon collapsed, a dead weight on top of Tim’s back, his chest heaving, his breath coming in hot, shallow puffs against the back of Tim’s neck. Tim simply sighed, a sound of total, peaceful exhaustion, completely enveloped by the warmth and weight.
“Did so good for me, Baby,” Kon mumbled, pressing a kiss to the nearest patch of skin.
Kon stayed buried inside Tim for a long time, the massive pressure a comforting weight. Slowly, the heat of their bodies began to dissipate, replaced by a lingering warmth and the sticky dampness of the sheets. The feeling of Kon's spent weight anchoring him was the final dose of the medicine Tim needed.
Kon finally stirred, lifting himself slightly. He pulled his length out of Tim with a slow, agonizing slide that made Tim whine a final, lingering sound of protest. Kon gently rolled off, collapsing onto his back, pulling Tim with him. Tim landed on Kon’s chest, his head resting perfectly over Kon’s rapidly slowing heartbeat, his body still slick and trembling.
“Did it work?” Tim mumbled, his eyes still closed, a lazy smile touching his lips.
“It worked,” Kon whispered, his voice hoarse, his hand stroking the sensitive, still-throbbing skin of Tim’s ass. Tim hummed, pressing himself closer into Kon. Kon chuckled, a deep, satisfied vibration in his chest.
Tim reached up, his fingers weakly tracing the line of Kon’s jaw, finding the slight perspiration on his temple. “Sorry I forgot.”
“You don’t even celebrate,” Kon murmured, pulling Tim closer. “You wrapped yourself up for me. My favorite gift ever.” He rubbed his thumb gently over the still-tender pink swell of Tim’s buttock. “Does this hurt too much?”
“No,” Tim sighed, burrowing his face deeper into Kon’s neck. “But you can put that lotion on me after we shower.”
They lay there, entwined, for what felt like an eternity. The apartment was completely silent now; even the distant siren had stopped. The only sound was the gentle ticking of the clock on the bedside table and the deep, steady rhythm of Kon’s breath.
Tim finally pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at Kon. Kon’s eyes were heavy-lidded, his expression soft and content, the lines of exhaustion around his mouth finally eased. He looked like the weight of the world—or at least the Kent/Lane Christmas cheer—had finally been lifted from him.
“Merry Christmas,” Tim said softly, the word feeling utterly meaningless now, a distant historical event.
Kon opened one eye and smiled lazily. “Merry Christmas, Sunshine. Thanks for the gift.”
“We missed Alfred’s dinner,” Tim pointed out, feeling no guilt at all, only a profound sense of justified selfishness.
“We made our own kind of celebration,” Kon countered, running a finger down the side of Tim’s body.
Kon reached out and grabbed the edge of the duvet, pulling it over both of them. He tucked Tim close, pulling his head back down onto his chest. The smell of their spent bodies, of sweat, musk, and shared fluids, was a heavy, comforting blanket.
“I love you, Kon,” Tim whispered into the warmth of Kon’s skin.
“I love you too, Tim,” Kon replied, his voice already thick with oncoming sleep.