![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Te wanted Tim/Kon, what else is new... I finished a story, that's new...
So, instead of playing the generator game this morning -- i.e., click on the DC Random Pairings Generator or the DC Random Scenario Generator, and write for five minutes or until you get a snippet done, whichever comes first, racing against your partner -- Te and I played the generators ourselves, tossing ideas at each other until something stuck. We also wrote for rather longer than five minutes; Te's Static slash took her closer to forty minutes, and I finished mine in about an hour. I've only made minimal corrections since then, but here it is.
Steeple Height Into the Air
"Tim."
The fact that the voice doesn't fit the setting strikes Tim a split second before he actually recognises it. "Kon...ner?"
He's standing behind the newsstand, which is why Tim didn't see him when he got off the bus... or possibly he wasn't there, before; he has one foot on the ground, but the other is up, the toe of his sneaker not quite brushing the sidewalk, like he can't be bothered to do more than make a token effort at hiding what he is.
Or who. He's in jeans and a henley shirt, which Tim suspects has Kon's super-logo tee underneath, but the glasses are nowhere to be seen. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
Kon takes a step forward, his foot coming down just a shade too hard -- the newsstand trembles, making pages flutter -- and Tim actually falls back a step, because Kon's expression isn't quite angry, but it is... intense. Determined.
Tim stands his ground while Kon continues his advance until he's in Tim's space, in his face. "Kon?"
"You have anywhere you need to be?" Kon's voice is almost flat, low enough to sound growly.
He swallows. "Well... my dad will expect me home by four..."
"Let's go."
And before he can so much as ask where or why or what, Kon's hands are around his biceps and they're flying, so fast Tim almost can't breathe and really can't see where they're going. Before he can begin to struggle in earnest, his back is against a wall, and they're stopped.
He glances around, still gasping his breath back, orienting himself; the sun's there, that's the top of the Wayne Enterprises tower poking up from behind City Hall over that way, gosh they're high up compared to the buildings immediately surrounding this one. Picture it at night, and he knows exactly where they are: the steeple of St Sebastian's. The only thing he's not certain of is whether the belfry windows are above or below.
No time to figure that out before Kon's kissing him. Lips pushing Tim's mouth wider open, tongue thrusting in and licking, and Tim's groaning and kissing back before it occurs to him to wonder whether he should.
He wants to. He decides he can go with that, for the moment.
Pushes his tongue against Kon's and his teeth into Kon's lip, and Kon makes a hurt-sounding noise -- though of course Tim didn't hurt him -- and angles his head more, makes the kiss deeper. Flies into Tim, his chest pushing against Tim's, crushing him against the stone behind him but not so much that Tim wants to protest. Not at all in a way that makes him want anything but more.
He tries to reach for Kon's back, but his arms are still pinned. Trying to say Kon's name with his mouth full of Kon's tongue just makes Kon moan, and struggling makes Kon hold him tighter.
Tim's going to have bruises on his arms, he can feel it. It makes his dick throb.
His legs are still free, so he wraps them around Kon's waist and thrusts against him. Kon is just as hard as he is, or harder, and his head jerks back, breaking the kiss.
Tim stretches his neck forward to suck on Kon's throat, then says, "Let my arms go."
Kon is grinding against him. For a moment Tim's not sure Kon is going to listen -- not sure he even heard -- but then he raises his head, nudges Tim's face away from his throat, and looks him in the eye.
And lets go of Tim's arms.
Tim hangs there, supported by Kon's weight pressing him against the steeple, his own leg-lock around Kon, Kon's TTK, or some combination of those forces. He's not sure and he really doesn't care.
The height and the illusion of there being nothing to stop him from falling -- the danger of it -- makes him giddy, makes his stomach drop in a way familiar as a lost limb. "Kon... fuck..."
"Yeah," Kon says, flushed and grinning and hungry, and Tim grabs a handful of the back of Kon's head and yanks him into another kiss.
Gets his other hand on Kon's ass, and Kon's hips thrust into his. Strokes over the curves of it, stopping to squeeze each cheek, then, frustrated by the pockets' double thickness of denim, wriggles his fingers past the waistband to get at Kon's skin. Gets his hand down far enough to realise that yes, Kon's going commando, before Kon's making that desperately sexy needy sound again and working a hand between them to yank Tim's fly open.
His fingers clench on Kon's ass even before Kon reaches in to pull his erection free. It's an effort to break the kiss enough to make himself understood, more of an effort to form the words "yours, too" instead of just grunting. Kon's jeans are button-fly, and come open with a roll of his wrist.
Tim shoves the back of Kon's jeans down and thrusts up, gasping the breath out of Kon when the head of his dick glances against Kon's. Kon sucks it back, and gets his hand around both their dicks before he lets Tim breathe again.
He's clawing Kon's scalp, and Kon somehow got his shirts hitched up far enough to play with one of Tim's nipples, and Kon's hand is squeezing and stroking. They thrust against each other haphazardly for a moment until settling into the rhythm Kon's setting with his hand -- rough and fast, pulling back a little slower and then snapping up. Tim whimpers and shoves his fingers between Kon's cheeks, probing between them, down and in, and Kon thrusts hard and tenses and comes, groaning but staying mostly in rhythm. The wet warmth slicks over Tim's belly and his dick, runnels down towards his balls. He can feel every pulse of Kon's orgasm in his own dick, and he only lasts a few seconds longer than Kon did.
They don't so much stop kissing as their heads slump in different directions. A distant and pleasantly-hazed part of Tim's consciousness seems concerned that Kon might forget to hold them up, but his gut reminds it that there are hand- and foot-holds enough on this cathedral for Tim to stop his own fall even if Kon should fail to catch him.
Besides, the hint of danger just makes the afterglow that much better.
"So," Tim says, some minutes after he gets his breath back, without bothering to lift his cheek from Kon's shoulder. They're going to be a nasty mess if they don't clean up before long, but for the moment they're pressed close enough together to keep their come from drying or cooling much.
"Mm-hm." He pets Kon's close-cropped hair, and Kon butts his head into the touch like a cat.
"I'm going to have to go home..." his time sense is fucked, he's not sure whether they've been up here two minutes or two hours. "...Eventually."
"Eventually," Kon agrees. He turns his head to lick lightly at Tim's throat.
"Don't give me a hickey," he says, and Kon, being Kon, switches to sucking, though he keeps it gentle. Tim makes an approving sound, low in his throat where Kon will feel it. "We have until about four."
The title is taken from this quotation: "The drake will mount steeple height into the air." It was used as a context example for the 'duck' sense of the word 'drake' in the 1913 edition of Webster's Dictionary, but in the entry it's attributed only to "Walton" and while a number of online sources have the definitions section of that dictionary, no one seems to have included the bibliography or other notes where, presumably, a more complete attribution might be found. If any of my fellow antique-books collectors (though 1913 is rather new to be considered antique) should happen to have a copy of this around, or any other idea of who "Walton" might be, I'd appreciate being able to give proper credit.
other DCU stories by Jack
all of the Jack's fanfiction
Steeple Height Into the Air
"Tim."
The fact that the voice doesn't fit the setting strikes Tim a split second before he actually recognises it. "Kon...ner?"
He's standing behind the newsstand, which is why Tim didn't see him when he got off the bus... or possibly he wasn't there, before; he has one foot on the ground, but the other is up, the toe of his sneaker not quite brushing the sidewalk, like he can't be bothered to do more than make a token effort at hiding what he is.
Or who. He's in jeans and a henley shirt, which Tim suspects has Kon's super-logo tee underneath, but the glasses are nowhere to be seen. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
Kon takes a step forward, his foot coming down just a shade too hard -- the newsstand trembles, making pages flutter -- and Tim actually falls back a step, because Kon's expression isn't quite angry, but it is... intense. Determined.
Tim stands his ground while Kon continues his advance until he's in Tim's space, in his face. "Kon?"
"You have anywhere you need to be?" Kon's voice is almost flat, low enough to sound growly.
He swallows. "Well... my dad will expect me home by four..."
"Let's go."
And before he can so much as ask where or why or what, Kon's hands are around his biceps and they're flying, so fast Tim almost can't breathe and really can't see where they're going. Before he can begin to struggle in earnest, his back is against a wall, and they're stopped.
He glances around, still gasping his breath back, orienting himself; the sun's there, that's the top of the Wayne Enterprises tower poking up from behind City Hall over that way, gosh they're high up compared to the buildings immediately surrounding this one. Picture it at night, and he knows exactly where they are: the steeple of St Sebastian's. The only thing he's not certain of is whether the belfry windows are above or below.
No time to figure that out before Kon's kissing him. Lips pushing Tim's mouth wider open, tongue thrusting in and licking, and Tim's groaning and kissing back before it occurs to him to wonder whether he should.
He wants to. He decides he can go with that, for the moment.
Pushes his tongue against Kon's and his teeth into Kon's lip, and Kon makes a hurt-sounding noise -- though of course Tim didn't hurt him -- and angles his head more, makes the kiss deeper. Flies into Tim, his chest pushing against Tim's, crushing him against the stone behind him but not so much that Tim wants to protest. Not at all in a way that makes him want anything but more.
He tries to reach for Kon's back, but his arms are still pinned. Trying to say Kon's name with his mouth full of Kon's tongue just makes Kon moan, and struggling makes Kon hold him tighter.
Tim's going to have bruises on his arms, he can feel it. It makes his dick throb.
His legs are still free, so he wraps them around Kon's waist and thrusts against him. Kon is just as hard as he is, or harder, and his head jerks back, breaking the kiss.
Tim stretches his neck forward to suck on Kon's throat, then says, "Let my arms go."
Kon is grinding against him. For a moment Tim's not sure Kon is going to listen -- not sure he even heard -- but then he raises his head, nudges Tim's face away from his throat, and looks him in the eye.
And lets go of Tim's arms.
Tim hangs there, supported by Kon's weight pressing him against the steeple, his own leg-lock around Kon, Kon's TTK, or some combination of those forces. He's not sure and he really doesn't care.
The height and the illusion of there being nothing to stop him from falling -- the danger of it -- makes him giddy, makes his stomach drop in a way familiar as a lost limb. "Kon... fuck..."
"Yeah," Kon says, flushed and grinning and hungry, and Tim grabs a handful of the back of Kon's head and yanks him into another kiss.
Gets his other hand on Kon's ass, and Kon's hips thrust into his. Strokes over the curves of it, stopping to squeeze each cheek, then, frustrated by the pockets' double thickness of denim, wriggles his fingers past the waistband to get at Kon's skin. Gets his hand down far enough to realise that yes, Kon's going commando, before Kon's making that desperately sexy needy sound again and working a hand between them to yank Tim's fly open.
His fingers clench on Kon's ass even before Kon reaches in to pull his erection free. It's an effort to break the kiss enough to make himself understood, more of an effort to form the words "yours, too" instead of just grunting. Kon's jeans are button-fly, and come open with a roll of his wrist.
Tim shoves the back of Kon's jeans down and thrusts up, gasping the breath out of Kon when the head of his dick glances against Kon's. Kon sucks it back, and gets his hand around both their dicks before he lets Tim breathe again.
He's clawing Kon's scalp, and Kon somehow got his shirts hitched up far enough to play with one of Tim's nipples, and Kon's hand is squeezing and stroking. They thrust against each other haphazardly for a moment until settling into the rhythm Kon's setting with his hand -- rough and fast, pulling back a little slower and then snapping up. Tim whimpers and shoves his fingers between Kon's cheeks, probing between them, down and in, and Kon thrusts hard and tenses and comes, groaning but staying mostly in rhythm. The wet warmth slicks over Tim's belly and his dick, runnels down towards his balls. He can feel every pulse of Kon's orgasm in his own dick, and he only lasts a few seconds longer than Kon did.
They don't so much stop kissing as their heads slump in different directions. A distant and pleasantly-hazed part of Tim's consciousness seems concerned that Kon might forget to hold them up, but his gut reminds it that there are hand- and foot-holds enough on this cathedral for Tim to stop his own fall even if Kon should fail to catch him.
Besides, the hint of danger just makes the afterglow that much better.
"So," Tim says, some minutes after he gets his breath back, without bothering to lift his cheek from Kon's shoulder. They're going to be a nasty mess if they don't clean up before long, but for the moment they're pressed close enough together to keep their come from drying or cooling much.
"Mm-hm." He pets Kon's close-cropped hair, and Kon butts his head into the touch like a cat.
"I'm going to have to go home..." his time sense is fucked, he's not sure whether they've been up here two minutes or two hours. "...Eventually."
"Eventually," Kon agrees. He turns his head to lick lightly at Tim's throat.
"Don't give me a hickey," he says, and Kon, being Kon, switches to sucking, though he keeps it gentle. Tim makes an approving sound, low in his throat where Kon will feel it. "We have until about four."
The title is taken from this quotation: "The drake will mount steeple height into the air." It was used as a context example for the 'duck' sense of the word 'drake' in the 1913 edition of Webster's Dictionary, but in the entry it's attributed only to "Walton" and while a number of online sources have the definitions section of that dictionary, no one seems to have included the bibliography or other notes where, presumably, a more complete attribution might be found. If any of my fellow antique-books collectors (though 1913 is rather new to be considered antique) should happen to have a copy of this around, or any other idea of who "Walton" might be, I'd appreciate being able to give proper credit.
other DCU stories by Jack
all of the Jack's fanfiction
no subject
no subject