Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim may have made a slight, tiny miscalculation.

When Bruce had presented him with the new bottle of suppressants, they’d come with a very clear warning.

“In the long run, I think these will work better for you, and you'll be more comfortable on them,” he’d said, the little white bottle, innocent as aspirin, resting in the palm of his hand. “They're more precisely calibrated for your hormone panels than the mass-market ones, and they should be more effective in conjunction with the medications you’re taking for your missing spleen. But in the meantime, there's probably going to be an adjustment period while your body gets used to the changes, and we may need to recalibrate depending on how your body reacts. So I want you to tell me if you see any side effects, okay?” he’d said, with the intense stare of a man who’s repeatedly experienced pack members taking their own medical privacy to a near fatal extreme, holding back the bottle until Tim had agreed.

Only once he’d all but sworn on his parents’ graves to come to Bruce with any problems had the alpha scented him affectionately, handed over his new and hopefully improved pills, and Tim had scampered off to update his pill tracking box for the week without the slightest bit of concern.

After all, Tim is practically a connoisseur of side effects. Seventy six percent of the medications and antidotes in the cave have a second formulation just for him at this point (he’d done the math while stuck in the medbay waiting for the fear toxin to clear his system one night), because he's had a bad reaction to most of the originals.

Because his body is a cursed piece of trash that’s out to get him at every turn.

So, he figured he could handle whatever side effects came with this, no problem. And then a week passed, and nothing really felt that different, and he started to think maybe he and his body were actually on the same page for once.

And then, the same morning he was supposed to leave with his team for a week-long mission into space, he noticed his nipples were a little sore.

This is the part where he may have fucked up.

He did not relay this to Bruce. He barely relayed this to himself, having already mostly forgotten about it by the time he finished getting dressed to zeta up to the Watchtower, cheerfully waving goodbye to Bruce and the Justice League as though everything was fine.

They’re on day two of the mission when he realizes everything might not be fine.

Again, he notices the pain when he's getting dressed, pulling on the plain white undershirt that serves as their daily casual uniform when they’re in space. What had started out as a raw tenderness in his nipples, something he’d easily dismissed as chafing, has now become a deeper ache in the core of his small breasts.

It’s mild, there only when he presses a hand against his chest, a dull bruised flare.

For a moment, he wonders if one of Penguin’s goons a couple nights back had managed to land a hit without him remembering. He slides a hand under his shirt, pressing down gingerly on his ribs, testing for any fractures or other damage he could have missed.

But… no, there’s none of the sharp flare of broken bone, and no pain along the relatively unpadded sides of his ribs. When he pulls up his shirt to look in the bathroom mirror, he can’t see any bruising either. Just a slight redness around the base of his breasts, that could as easily be from his own prodding as anything else.

It’s then that it clicks.

Ah. Hormones. Breast tenderness. Yeah, he’s pretty sure that was somewhere in the long list of potential side effects for his original suppressants.

Nice to know he hasn’t gotten to skip out on that one after all. Thanks, body.

Well, that’s annoying, he thinks, rolling his shirt back down, and proceeds to think very little more of it for the next day and a half, beyond occasional flickers of aggrievement when he moves wrong. It’s fine. Not a big deal.

***

Day four. Captain’s log: things are not fine.

The ache, which started as something very ignorable so long as he didn’t press down on his chest, has ballooned to a constant, insistent throb that doesn’t care at all about his attempts to ignore it as he and the team prep to go down to the planet.

“Hey Rob,” Kon says, coming up beside him as they suit up, their ship in stable orbit.

Tim grunts in acknowledgement, not looking up at him, busy scowling down at himself as he tries to find a way to zip his bulky spacesuit up in a way that will make his tits hurt the least.

Kon clears his throat. “H - hey Rob,” he repeats himself, voice sounding off. “You doing okay?”

Tim finally looks up at his best friend, scowl turning to a frown. “I’m fine,” he says. “Are you?”

The kryptonian’s cheeks are bright pink, and his eyes keep darting away from Tim, refusing to meet his gaze. “I just. Um. You kinda looked like. You were in pain?” His voice pitches up uncertainly.

“Oh.” Tim gives his suit a last, half-hearted adjustment, resigning himself to having to suffer for this entire mission. He flashes Kon a quick, reassuring smile. “Don't worry about it. I took a hit a few days ago, the armor’s sitting right on the bruises, that's all.”

“O - oh.” Kon doesn't sound very convinced. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Tim narrows his eyes. “You sure you're okay?” he asks, taking a subtle breath. It's hard to make out any details in the rather heavily scented confines of an airtight metal tube full of teenagers, but Tim can always find Kon’s faintly metallic alpha scent through the noise.

“Yep!” Kon almost squeaks, so loud that Cassie looks over at them from a few feet away where she's checking her gear. “Yep, just, uh, just checking in!”

And then he fingerguns at Tim, because that's just the kind of dork he is.

Tim gives him a last searching look, but shrugs. He claps him on the arm. “Let’s go kick some alien ass, then!”

And they do kick alien ass! Lots of green, slimy alien ass that explodes when you punch it. By the time Tim comes hobbling uncomfortably back onto the ship, he’s ready to strip out of his uniform for more reasons than one.

The moment he undoes the final clasps and peels the goopy fabric off his chest, he nearly groans in relief, the release of pressure instantly knocking the pain in his chest down by half.

He rubs at his tits gently as he steps into the shower. With the sound of running water to help hide him from any nosy super hearing teammates, he allows himself to let out a quiet moan.

He runs his fingertips over the soft swells of his breasts, wincing when even that gentle pressure hurts.

Is it just his imagination that they feel more swollen than usual?

He’s always been on the small side, even for a male omega - his tits barely-there little buds, puffed out as much from the muscle underlying them as from any actual fat.

Now, he palpates them as firmly as he dares, and - yes, it’s not just his imagination - they’re definitely bigger, a hot, aching little handful on each side.

He studies his new curves in the water beating down over him, frowning.

That’s an unexpected effect.

But… not an entirely unwelcome one, if they’d stop hurting so damn much. But if the pain fades…

Well. It would make going undercover as Caroline easier.

He squeezes gently again, gazing at the soft, pale swells of them between his fingers.

It’s then that he finally notices the pearl-like bead welling from his left nipple.

The water washes it away almost as soon as he sees it, but when he gives his breast another squeeze, another drop takes its place, undeniable in its existence before it trickles down his chest.

Ah, Tim thinks. That would explain the sense of pressure. “Fuck,” he says aloud, watching another bead of milk roll fat and pale down his fingers and wash away.

***

Not much comes out after that.

He’s able to coax a few drops from each breast, standing in the shower until the water runs cold. By the time he accepts that he’s drained all he can, his tits feel bruised from how much he’s tried to milk them.

But the sense of pressure inside has lessened, the discomfort just under the surface instead of deep inside. He can tell there’s still more milk to give, but by then Cassie is banging on the door and promising even greater pain and suffering if all the hot water is gone, and he knows from experience that she will make good on her threats to break the door down if he doesn’t give up the safety of the shower.

In a fresh, loose shirt, the ache in his chest both lessened and explained, and the battle won and done, he’s in a much better mood by the time he joins Kon at the small kitchen table to eat.

Kon makes room for him to help himself to the pile of food the clone has pulled out of storage and heated up. His cheeks are a little pink under the lingering smears of alien slime.

“God, I’m starving,” Tim mumbles, stealing a turkey sandwich off Kon’s tray without shame. Kon had already started making a new one as soon as he saw Tim coming.

Kon clears his throat, shifting in his chair. “How are the, uh. Bruises?”

Tim gives him a big thumbs up. “Put some bruise cream on them and everything. Told you, nothing to worry about.” He shrugs guilelessly at him, taking a big bite of turkey sandwich.

From down the hall in the bathroom, the water turns on, and Cassie shrieks in outrage.

***

The problem with being on a spaceship with a bunch of superpowered teens is that there’s really no such thing as privacy.

The room he managed to make in his newly-grown breasts fills back up by the following morning, the throbbing ache returning with a vengeance. He swears he can feel his pulse in his chest.

Worse, now that they’ve started, his breasts won’t stop leaking. He ruins three shirts before giving up and secluding himself in his small dorm where he can leave his shirt off, telling his team he has cases to work on before they get home.

And even worse than that is the fact that despite the constant, slow drip, he can’t get them to actually drain.

No matter how much he massages, how much he works his nipples between his fingertips, he can never coax out more than a few drops at a time, whatever seems to have been forced out naturally due to sheer lack of space.

But the pressure remains, tight as a drum at the base of his breasts.

Suffice to say, the three day long return leg of their journey is a minor circle of hell.

Once the ship is docked at the watchtower, he does his best to casually flee as fast as possible, dodging “welcome back”s from the League and making it into a zeta tube in record time.

Not for the first time, he thanks his past self for having the foresight to set up his Nest within a few minutes of a zeta.

As soon as the door to his apartment locks behind him he’s peeling out of his suit, cursing every hidden catch and zipper. He stumbles into his bedroom, flinging his shirt at the wall and falling gingerly back onto his bed with a long, loud, whining groan, venting all the days’ worth of suffering to his empty apartment.

Okay, he thinks, with all the weary frustration of someone whose tits have needed milking for nearly a week. Time to try and squeeze a few more drops out and then see who can one-day deliver him a breast pump.

And then - fuck. He’s going to have to call Bruce.

Or. Or. He can text him and ignore all subsequent calls from his alpha.

Yeah. He likes that plan.

He’s preparing himself to get up and go hunt down the sacred breast pump when someone knocks on the front door.

He opens his eyes. Go away, go away, go away, he mouths at the ceiling fan.

The knock comes again.

Someone with the security codes to make it to the front door - friend or family. Loud enough to be easily heard through the apartment - someone strong, but it’s hesitant, not a demanding bang. Like it’s unsure of its welcome.

So not a family member.

He gets up and puts on some pants.

As expected, he finds Kon on the other side of the door, halfway through running a hand through his hair. He freezes, a deer in the headlights look on his face when he comes face to face with Tim.

Tim keeps his bare torso behind the door, as though that’s going to do anything as far as hiding himself from someone with x-ray vision.

“Heyyy,” Kon says, grinning a very awkward grin.

Tim opens his mouth, searching for a polite way to dismiss him somewhere in the spectrum between hey Kon, I’m going to need some time to unwind before we hang out, and hey Kon, I just spent a week stuck in a vacuum-sealed tube with you and the team in space, I’m going to need at least another week before I see yours or anyone else’s face again.

But before he can say anything, Kon blurts out, “I know you’re milking.”

And then immediately turns redder than Tim’s suit.

“Listen, Kon, buddy, person who I would trust with my life,” Tim says, pinching the bridge of his nose and realizing belatedly what a Bruce gesture it is. “We have an unspoken agreement, you and I, wherein I try very hard not to think about how little privacy I have around you and you pretend that you can’t literally see my skeleton if you want. This? This is a violation of our unspoken oath.”

Kon winces, looking so guilty Tim almost feels guilty. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry - I could smell it, I wasn’t trying to be invasive, I promise. And I wasn’t going to say anything, because I knew you wouldn’t want me to, but…”

He breaks off with a small, frustrated sigh, spreading his hands, pleading and defeated all at once. “I can tell you’re in pain, alright? And I just… needed to make sure if… if you needed anything, you knew you could ask me, because I know you and I know you’re not going to ask anyone for help unless you’re literally dying, and I’d really rather not have it get that far.”

By the time he finishes, crossing his arms defensively like he’s waiting for Tim to challenge him on it, Tim’s pretty sure his own cheeks are pink too.

He tries to tell himself it’s from embarrassment. But something a lot warmer than shame is fluttering behind his ribs.

He chews his lip, and then, deciding there’s really point in trying to hide it anymore, he steps back from the door, silently making room for Kon to come inside.

Which Kon does, grinning his big, bright, golden retriever smile as he does.

Absolutely ridiculous, Tim thinks, and can’t quite manage to be anything but fond.

He manages to keep his chest angled away for a few moments more while he closes the door behind the other boy.

Then, steeling himself, he turns around.

Kon’s eyes go very wide. “Holy shit, Tim,” he says, transfixed and horrified at once. “That looks awful.”

“Way to flatter a guy,” Tim says through his teeth, resisting the urge to fold his arms over his chest.

He’s not wrong. His swollen, peach-sized tits have gone from slightly puffy to an angry, bruised red, skin stretched tight to a plastic surgeon’s dream. Wound-dark stretch marks slash along the sides.

It’s not like Kon hasn’t seen him shirtless before. But it turns out there’s a world of difference between your best friend wolf-whistling at you playfully in the team locker room, and your best friend gawking at you like a freak in your own living room.

Adding to Tim’s humiliation is the fact that he’s already taken off the scent blockers from the mission, and his control over his scent right now is slippery at best. He can smell his own shame and frustration leaching out into the air, no matter how dry and unbothered he keeps his voice.

Kon’s horrified expression morphs quickly into something stricken. He drags his gaze away from Tim’s chest to meet his eyes. “Aw - no, dude, I’m sorry - that’s not what I meant - I mean, they’re gorgeous, totally h- I mean - ”

Tim snorts in spite of himself. “Don’t make this totally normal situation weird.” He shoots Kon a strained half-smile, trying to convey that it’s okay. “They are pretty awful.”

Kon snorts too, too loud, and the awkward tension lessens. He steps forward and gathers Tim into a lopsided hug, angling them to avoid putting any accidental pressure on Tim’s chest. “You know exactly what I mean, you asshole,” he mumbles, guiding Tim’s face into the crook of his neck so Tim can scent him. “And nothing about you is awful.”

On paper, Kon is an alpha, or at least close enough to one, given his unusual genetics. And he smells close enough that no one has ever challenged it. But Tim has never known another alpha who smelled quite like him.

He breathes in deeply, and the ozone-tinge makes him think of stars.

The pheromones do their job, his muscles releasing the worst of their tension. The red-hot ache in his chest cools a few degrees by pure virtue of his omegan brain deciding that if an alpha’s got him, everything is probably okay.

“It’s these stupid new suppressants I’m on,” he sighs into Kon’s shoulder. “They’re - screwing with my hormones, I guess.” He scowls. “They started, uh. They started hurting on the second day of the mission and just… kept getting worse.”

Kon strokes the nape of Tim’s neck sympathetically with a thumb. He clears his throat. “Buddy, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think you’re going to have to milk those.”

Tim rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. “Yes, thank you, I landed on that same plan myself.” He pulls back reluctantly, hyper-aware that they’ve crossed the time limit for a socially acceptable scenting between platonic best friends. “I can’t get my milk to let down,” he says plainly, like saying it like it’s an everyday grievance will make it any less humiliating. “I keep trying, but it’s like it just - doesn’t want to come. I can’t get more than a few drops out, no matter how much I try. Which is so stupid, because what the hell do my hormones think I’m doing, lactating for fun? It’s supposed to come out!” He heaves a frustrated sigh. “I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

And maybe, deep down, that’s what’s really hurting him.

Because.

He knows he’s never been the stereotypical ideal omega, in looks or behavior. He’s never had the pack to practice with. All the things that are supposed to come naturally to omegas feel foreign and awkward to him when he tries, none of the comfort and support that other omegas seem to give so easily written in his instincts.

Even Dick rarely scents him, even when Tim can tell he could use it - not after the first time when he tried and Tim promptly went stiff as a board and froze until Dick was done.

He still has no idea how to diffuse the alpha tension in the air when Jason and Bruce are at each other's throats, doesn’t naturally submit around the high society alphas when they expect him to, and doesn’t really feel like he has much in the way of maternal instincts - on the occasions in the course of his superhero career where he’s ended up with a pup in his arms, he’s never felt anything other than scared he was holding it wrong and eager to find a capable adult who he could safely hand to pup over to instead.

And for the most part, he accepts all of this about himself. He accepts that he will never live up to the ideal his parents had in their heads.

But the discovery that even at this he fails.

That he is so bad at his own nature that he can’t even milk correctly?

The discovery is like sandpaper on wounds he didn’t even know he had.

There are no tears in his eyes as he tells Kon the situation, thank god, but whatever Kon’s scent had managed to accomplish as far as calming him down has been completely undone, distress once more marring his scent.

Kon’s hands, which had dropped to his shoulders when Tim stepped back but never let go, rub his biceps soothingly. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he says encouragingly. “You said, uh. You said you could get a little bit out, right? So that means you’re not, like, clogged or something. That would probably be bad.”

Tim stares at him. “You’re so good at this.”

He immediately winces. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t - I didn’t mean that. I’m just being a bitch today, I know you’re just trying to help.”

Kon shrugs, smiling easily. “S’okay. I’d probably be pretty bitchy in your shoes too.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “You know, I could, uh. I could help you. If. You wanted me to.”

It takes Tim an embarrassingly long time to figure out what he means by that. The way he’s once again turned the color of a strawberry tips him off.

“Oh, my god, Kon, that’s… that’s very sweet, but I’m not going to ask you to - ”

“I know you’re not,” Kon interrupts him. The blush is still there, but now his expression is determined, pushing concern-care-fondness through his scent. “That’s why I’m offering.” His voice dips into something almost pleading. “You’re my - my best friend. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Tim hesitates, breath hitching.

Kon gives him a nervous smile. “C’mon, Rob. Don’t make this weird.”

It’s that, Tim’s own lame joke from earlier thrown back at him, that finally gets Tim to crack.

He snorts, ducking his head, uncertainty thawing at the reminder that this is Kon.

Their friendship has already survived worse. And weirder.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” he mumbles. “I was kinda worried the pump wouldn’t end up working anyway.”

Kon grins, big and bright, scent flooding with relief-fondness, along with a short pang of something else, there and gone again before Tim can identify it.

“So how do you want to do this?” Tim asks, taking a deep breath and feeling his chest burn with the stretch.

“Um,” Kon chews his lip, looking nervous again. “Do you wanna sit down, maybe?”

Tim nods, feeling just as nervous. He leads the way into the kitchen, sitting down on one of the stiff modern dining chairs and looking up at Kon. There’s an uncomfortable tightness in his chest that he’s pretty sure has little to do with the milk.

Kon starts to move closer, and then stops.

Takes a step back.

“Okay. You don’t have to say yes if you’re not comfortable with it,” he says. “But do you maybe want to do this in your nest instead?”

Tim stares up at him questioningly, and Kon gives him a small, tight grimace. “You just smell really stressed,” he says quietly.

Oh.

Now that he’s said it, Tim’s suddenly aware of how much the air around him reeks of stressed omega.

No wonder he didn’t want to come any closer.

Nodding jerkily, he stands up and leads the way once more, back through the hallway towards his bedroom.

There’s another keypad on the bedroom door, an added safety measure that Bruce had insisted on installing for his heats when he’d moved out of the manor. Tim types in the code, not worried about Kon seeing.

Inside, he steps over a couple piles of laundry, hastily kicking as many empty energy drink bottles under the bed as he can.

Kon snickers behind him, and Tim plops down into his nest, hoping Kon will focus on him and not the pair of underwear currently draped over the lampshade on his bedside table.

“Nice nest,” Kon says, and Tim bristles defensively.

But when he meets Kon’s eyes, his expression is completely genuine, not teasing at all.

Tim relaxes slightly, settling against the pillows at the back of his nest, legs folded criss-cross beneath him. “Thanks,” he says uncertainly, though his omega quietly preens at the alpha’s approval.

In spite of the aftermath-of-a-tornado interior design philosophy of the rest of his room, he actually does take pride in his nest. It’s a tidy, round thing, lined with bits of scented clothing and soft blankets gifted (and stolen) from his pack and friends.

He tends it carefully, keeping it pretty and welcoming and free from all crumbs and trash, a habit he’s maintained since childhood and never quite let go of, even now that he has an actual pack, dysfunctional as it may be.

There’s a rush of air, Kon vanishing on one blink and reappearing on another, a half breath and the sound of running water in between. He’s got a couple of towels in one hand and a large bowl from the kitchen in the other, water sloshing against the sides.

He approaches the edge of the nest, supplies in hand, and then stops and waits.

“Alpha, you may enter my drey,” Tim says, the stiff, traditional language feeling appropriate in this moment.

Permission formally granted, his friend steps respectfully into the nest, careful not to disrupt the arrangement of any of the nesting materials woven together around the border. “I wondered where that shirt went,” he says. He jerks his chin at the black superboy shirt tucked between the pillows Tim is leaning against.

“Pretty sure it’s not the only one,” Tim snorts, watching Kon lay out his materials curiously. The back of his neck hums, and he suspects Kon is using his TTK to make sure the bowl of water doesn’t spill all over his nest.

He was right, Tim thinks as he settles into the familiar textures and scents, fondness lacing his scent at how considerate the other boy is being. Being in his nest is a lot less stressful.

Kon smiles a half-smile. “Probably won’t be the last, either. Er - could you check this?”

He gestures to the bowl of water, which Tim realizes is slightly steaming.

Understanding immediately, Tim dips his fingers in it gingerly, then more confidently. “Safe for humans,” he deems it, wiping the hot-but-not-boiling water off on his sweatpants. “So what’s the plan here?”

Kon drops the first hand towel in the water, dunking it until it’s saturated. “Sometimes the cows back on the farm have a hard time letting their milk down too,” he says, wringing out most of the water, leaving it dripping but not streaming water back into the bowl. “This helps.”

“Oh, great,” Tim says, leaning further back against the pillows so gravity won’t work against them. “I love discovering I share life experiences with cows.”

Kon snickers.

He leans forward, reaching out slowly with the towel, clearly projecting his intentions. He waits until Tim nods his permission before actually making contact.

He drapes the now very warm towel over the base of Tim’s left breast, where the heat can work it’s way into the rock hard, straining tissues where the worst of the pain is centered.

Tim is a little dubious, even if it is cow-tested and bovine approved. After all, his own hot showers didn’t do much to help.

But he can’t deny that the heat, just low enough to not be uncomfortable, feels very nice, a pleasant distraction from the pain gnawing underneath it.

“I think you and cows have a lot in common, actually,” Kon says, readying the second towel. “Stubborn, really annoying when you’re hungry, ready to curb stomp anyone who bothers you - ”

“Shut up,” Tim says, wincing when his chest shudders with quiet laughter. “At least I’ve never shown up at the Tower for an emergency smelling like a cow, farm boy.”

“No, just Gotham’s sewer systems.” He places the second towel on Tim’s other side, very gently. “You’re a lot prettier than a cow, anyway,” he murmurs, wiping a stray drop of water off the curve of Tim’s breast before it can trickle down his ribs.

Tim shivers at the touch, Kon’s fingers cool compared to the water.

Kon stops touching him sooner than Tim would like.

He leans out of the nest and puts the bowl of water safely on the bedside table, laying the final, full-sized towel down across Tim’s lap. “How do they feel?” he asks.

“Um.” Tim shifts, trying to assess. “Not… worse? The towels feel nice. I can’t really tell if they’re doing anything, though. Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought.

Kon nods, looking like he’s taking Tim’s feedback very seriously. “Okay. Okay cool, glad it’s not worse.” He shoots Tim a small, sheepish grin. “I can’t exactly check in with the cows.”

Tim rolls his eyes to cover up his nerves, knowing what needs to come next.

Kon knows too.

The other boy shifts, adjusting his legs beneath himself. He raises his hands. “I’m, uh. I’m going to touch you now, okay?”

He knows Kon can hear the way Tim’s heartbeat picks up. But when Tim nods his consent, he doesn’t make him defend it, which Tim is grateful for.

He cups Tim’s breasts in his broad, strong palms.

Rather than focusing on the pain that immediately makes him want to pull away, Tim watches the expressions flicker across his face, going from anxious but determined to something like awe.

Kon stares at the puffy teats he now cradles in his uncalloused hands, eyes wide.

Tim is suddenly extremely aware of his own breathing. He tries very hard not to gasp at the contact, tries to keep his breathing as normal and even as possible.

Then, Kon’s hands start to move, and Tim can’t hold back the soft wheeze.

He massages in a gentle, circular pattern, thumbs stroking gingerly in a counterclockwise motion around the tense skin. “You okay?” he asks Tim quietly.

Tim nods, biting his lip.

It’s not an outright lie - just a bit of an exaggeration. Kon isn’t even really applying pressure, fingertips barely denting the inflamed skin.

But even that tiny bit of extra force is nearly unbearable.

“Okay. I’m going to go a little harder.”

Tim doesn’t know if he appreciates the warning or not. Kon presses down more firmly, and it feels about as nice as it would if he dug his fingers in and tried to pop them.

He cries out, jerking back away from the shocking pain.

Kon lets go of him instantly. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry!” he yelps, panicked. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Tim pants, hands coming up instinctually to hover over his chest, though he doesn’t dare to actually touch himself. He swears he can still feel the exact spots where Kon’s fingers pressed in, ten spots ringing his breasts, throbbing with lingering pain and heat. “It’s fine,” he manages. The anxious, guilty expression on Kon’s face is almost more painful than his tits. “Seriously, you didn’t do anything wrong. Geez, I just wasn’t expecting it to be that bad.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath, forcing his hands back down to his sides, clenched tight in the blankets. He gives Kon a determined nod, jaw clenched. “Do it again,” he orders.

Kon looks horribly torn. “I could get some fresh towels…?” he starts, but Tim is already shaking his head, even that small movement sending ripples of pain through his full chest.

“No. No, this is - this needs to happen. It’s not going to stop hurting until we do, and the longer we spend debating this the worse it’s going to get.”

He knows he’s right. He knows Kon knows he’s right.

But his expression remains fiercely torn, not yet trying to touch him again.

Tim lets out a sharp, irritated sigh. He reaches out and catches Kon’s hands, pulling them back towards his body and holding them, so close he can feel the heat of him against his breasts. “Please don’t make me beg you to milk me,” he says, glaring into his best friend’s eyes and willing him to understand how humiliating this already is.

He doesn’t need Kon’s senses to hear the other boy’s sharp inhale, nostrils flaring. He lets it out again, slow and shaky, before finally closing the last few centimeters of distance between his palms and Tim.

Tim hunches his shoulders forward to try and relieve a tiny bit of the strain. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

He nods at Kon.

He knows what to expect this time. But it’s not an easy thing to be ready for.

The pain hits immediate and fierce, and Tim clamps down tight on his scent, trying to keep the worst of the distress out of it for Kon’s sake.

But he can’t hold in the sharp, omegan whine, a high, instinctive plea for mercy.

It makes Kon’s hands stutter, an answering alpha rumble rattling through his chest, a slightly frantic attempt to offer comfort.

But, to his credit, he doesn’t let go in spite of the pitiful noises Tim can’t seem to stop making.

Tim is grateful, even as he kind of hates him for it - if Kon stopped now, he doesn’t know if he’d be strong enough to tell him to try again.

He grabs onto Kon’s wrist - not trying to stop him, not that Tim could even if he wanted to. Just grounding himself.

Kon works in a firm spiral, starting at the base and circling up to the peaked red nipples, pebble-hard and pearled with drops of milk. With every pass, the drops swell and trickle sluggishly down to be absorbed by the towel in his lap.

He’s being so careful, handling him with painstaking gentleness and caution.

But no matter how careful he tries to be, the pain worsens slowly but steadily with every pass he makes around their circumference, his tissues crushed between Kon’s hands and their own internal pressure.

Finally, Tim can’t take it anymore.

“Stop,” he pants, pawing blindly at Kon’s hands, his vision completely blurred with tears.

Kon releases him in an instant.

“This isn’t working,” Tim says shakily, swiping angrily at his eyes until he can see Kon’s worried face. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re fine,” Kon murmurs anxiously. His hands reappear through the watercolor blur of Tim’s world, this time stroking his cheeks, running down the sides of his neck to pet reassuringly at his scent glands.

This touch Tim has absolutely no desire to pull away from.

He tips forward until Kon meets him, pressing their foreheads together, his heart rate slowing down and his scent radiating exhausted frustration. “Thanks for trying,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and feeling the way their breathing syncs. “So glad we could share this horrifically embarrassing memory for absolutely no reason.”

Kon huffs a laugh, still gently stroking his neck.

This close, Tim can clearly feel the slight shudder in his breath. He waits, his own breath stilling, knowing Kon is about to say something that scares him.

“There’s, um. There’s something else we could try,” the other offers quietly.

Tim forces himself to start breathing again. “Okay, clone boy,” he murmurs back. “What’s the plan?”

“I could try and help you relax.” His thumb rubs little circles, right over his mating gland. “I could make you feel good, if you let me.” Tim opens his eyes, studying the way Kon’s lower lip is white between his teeth.

There’s no point trying to keep his breathing steady, not when he knows Kon can hear the uneven stagger of his heart.

He swallows. “I trust you,” he whispers.

His best friend’s hands, that could break him easy as an eggshell, cradle his neck like something precious. “Okay,” he breathes, a soft rush of a word, eager in a way that soothes any of Tim’s reservations that Kon really is only doing this to be a good friend.

There’s no denying that the spice in his scent now soaking into the nest is desire.

“I’m gonna touch you again,” he says, and Tim nods quickly.

There’s no dread in it this time, just anticipation, fluttering and warm.

Kon pulls back, putting a regrettable amount of distance between them. But his hand stays cupping the base of his neck, grounding.

For the briefest of moments, Tim expects to feel his lips pressed against his.

He receives an entirely different point of contact.

Kon’s thumb brushes over the seam of his slit through his sweatpants, palm settling cautiously in the upper crease of his thigh.

That warm point where his thigh meets his hip makes him shiver harder than the slight, barely-there touch against his cunt, deadened by the thick fabric between them.

“Can I - ”

“Take them off,” Tim interrupts, and shudders when it makes Kon press down a little harder.

Kon picks up his hips with one hand and yanks the sweatpants off him so fast Tim yelps in surprise.

He thumps back down into the cushions, stripped down to nothing but his underwear and significantly more exposed than he was an entire two seconds ago.

He copes with this abrupt vulnerability by bursting into nervous laughter.

Kon joins him after a moment, grin bright and abashed. He ducks his head. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all.

“S’fine,” Tim says, and, feeling bold, spreads his bare legs a little.

He’s suddenly extremely grateful that he changed his underwear when he changed out of the rest of his suit.

Kon leans closer, a rumble in his throat that sounds more like a growl to Tim’s ears.

Tim feels himself go loose as melting butter under the sound, baring his throat instinctively. His legs spread further, an answering purr vibrating through his chest.

Kon’s eyes are bright and dilated, leaning over Tim’s relaxed body and tipping his face towards Tim’s exposed throat.

If he pounced right now, Tim knows suddenly that he wouldn’t even try to fight. He would let Kon sink his teeth in and claim him permanently, and in this moment he wouldn’t put up an ounce of resistance.

But Kon is stronger than he is in more ways than one. He doesn’t fall on him in his hunger. He settles, like a warm blanket tossed by loving hands, pressing Tim’s thighs apart and tucking his face into the crook of Tim’s neck.

His tongue swipes over Tim’s offered gland, sweet and affectionate, only the barest scrape of teeth following. His hand finds its way back to the pinnacle of his thighs, now only the thin fabric of Tim’s panties between him and his warm core.

Tim can feel his outer lips part for him, the fabric pushing in and moistening around Kon’s questing fingertips. He half expects to feel his underwear ripped off just like his sweatpants, the final barrier protecting him no better armor than tissue.

But Kon doesn’t do that, and Tim can’t tell if he’s grateful or even more turned on by the way he keeps petting him, touch firm but indirect, so close to where Tim wants him.

He doesn’t offer a warning this time before he touches Tim’s chest, the hand not currently occupied with his pussy grazing delicately along the side of his right tit, so careful that Tim barely even notices it at first, distracted as he is by the space between his legs.

Tim’s breath catches when the feather-light touch skates over the stretched skin of his areola, just present enough to send a wave of prickling panic through his nervous system.

At the same time, Kon presses down a little harder against his core, right over his clit.

This does a very effective job at distracting him from the way he also digs a fraction harder into Tim’s tit.

It’s easier to bear, he discovers, when there’s only one hand stroking its way between the two sides. Kon’s hand traces a figure-eight across his chest, looping over one breast, dipping between them, and gently squeezing the underside of the other. The pain on each side has time to swell and throb and begin to dissipate again before his hand returns to the same place.

He matches the rhythm of his massage to the stroke of his thumb against the barrier over Tim’s clit, until Tim is pressing up into him with every cycle.

The throbbing in his chest is starting to feel startlingly close to pleasure.

Tim bites his lip, hard, trying not to audibly cry out. His hips rock involuntarily.

“It’s okay,” Kon says, breaking the rhythm of his strokes across his clit to circle his soaked entrance. “You can make noise, Tim, you’re okay.”

At that, Tim allows a high whine to escape his lips, a tight, pleading keen.

The sound of it makes Kon’s scent spike with arousal, hot and cinnamony. Tim suspects the way he tightens his grip on both Tim’s tit and his pussy is entirely unintentional.

The mewl that spills off his tongue in response is a lot less strangled and a hell of a lot louder.

“God, Kon,” he says, strained. “Fucking - touch me. For real, please - I - ”

“It’s okay,” Kon repeats, soft and painfully fond. “That’s it. All you ever gotta do is ask.”

His fingers, so uncalloused and soft for someone in the superhero business, slip under the elastic waistband, the damp fabric sticking to his knuckles as he presses them between Tim’s slippery folds.

He’s not even touching Tim’s clit, but the direct contact goes straight to Tim’s nervous system, exactly as blissfully overwhelming as he was craving.

“How’s the pain?” Kon asks, nosing at the upper curve of Tim’s shoulder like Tim’s head isn’t lolling on his neck.

“Barely there,” Tim rasps. If he had access to all his words right now, he might have said that it’s still very much there - but it’s changed shape, the burning fullness losing the edge of its discomfort and merging with the warm pleasure radiating up from below.

But that’s a bit more vocabulary than his brain can handle at the moment.

“You - you can be rougher.”

Kon pulls back to study him warily, though thankfully he doesn’t remove either of his hands.

Tim knows what he’s thinking.

But for once, Tim is very decidedly not ignoring his own needs.

He huffs, frustrated but fond. He tips his head to the side and lets all the arousal he’s currently feeling bloom out around them through his scent.

Kon’s eyes dilate like a pair of eclipsing suns, the scent hitting his overpowered senses with freight-train strength.

The next second, his lips are crushed against Tim’s with bruising force.

Tim meets the kiss just as eagerly, surging up against him like he’s trying to bruise right back. He presses into both his hands without reserve, uncaring of the burst of pain and pleasure that intertwine because of it. He’s focused only on the taste of Kon’s tongue as it wraps around his.

Kon’s fingers circle his nipple before clamping down and tugging.

At the same moment, he does the exact same thing to Tim’s clit.

Tim comes, keening into Kon’s mouth.

Something in Tim’s chest releases.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps into Kon’s mouth, body quivering like a plucked violin string.

Kon gasps right back, drawing back just a few inches, though his hands remain firmly grounded on Tim’s body. He looks down at his hand with wide eyes.

His hand, which is suddenly just as wet as the one in Tim’s cunt. “Oh fuck,” he echoes, his voice cracking on a grin.

He relaxes his grip on Tim’s tit, another gush of milk spilling over his fingers as he does.

Suddenly Tim feels relief, as warm and fresh and sweet as his milk.

Another orgasm sweeps through the void left behind and leaves him voiceless with the release of it, the lack of pain utterly encompassing.

He’s too busy shaking apart to even voice a complaint when Kon’s other hand slides out of him, slick fingers closing around his opposite nipple.

They both watch in awe as his other breast gifts them its own spurt of milk, the flow between the two sides meeting to pool in the soft grooves of his abs.

He tugs, lightly, and Tim positively squeaks.

“Tim,” he breathes, dark eyes fixed on his chest like a dog on a rabbit, and Tim understands exactly what he’s hungry for.

“Yes,” Tim gasps, tugging on him with a force that would tip the boy on top of him if he weren’t made of stone. “Yes, you can, just fucking - ”

Kon doesn’t need any more consent than that desperate, half-coherent plea. He lunges, his lips closing around Tim’s teat and sucking with a ferocity that makes his kissing look chaste.

He sucks, long and deep and hard.

The first long pull feels like being cored out and refilled with something new, something warm and bright and beautifully his.

An absolutely deafening purr erupts in Tim’s chest. Tim’s pretty sure his motorcycle runs quieter than this.

But Kon clearly doesn’t care, so Tim doesn’t either.

He wraps his arms around Kon’s neck, pinning his head to his chest like he can absorb him into the space the clone is carving out for himself inside of him.

Kon, warm and strong and careful, cradles Tim’s ribcage, pushing his chest out so he can swallow another mouthful of tit, his jaw working as he suckles mouthful after mouthful of milk from him. He’s so eager he gets messy, almost as much milk spilling down his chin as makes it down his throat.

When Tim’s right breast finally begins to drain, he lets the teat slip from his mouth with a soft pop. But he doesn’t pull away, nuzzling at the red skin, lapping at the milk that’s trickled down the swell of his chest. He scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin like he’s marking the texture of Tim’s vibrant new stretch marks.

Tim whines and mewls, squirming under the near-unbearable joy of it all. He’d probably be strangling the other boy if he weren’t a literal Kryptonian, just as unwilling to let Kon to pull away as Kon seems to be to do so.

Kon switches breasts, nipping at his teat, barely a pinch of teeth.

But with every nerve in his chest seemingly resting right below the stretched-thin skin, even that light bite pulls a pleading yip from Tim’s mouth. The sound is thrillingly omegan.

Kon laves his tongue over his puffy areola apologetically before latching on, nursing with the same passion as he did the first time.

Tim can smell the smug pride on him.

With the pressure massively reduced, the desperate pain of fullness has all but vanished. But his breasts, shrunken down to very manageable A-cups, feel positively tenderized, bruised from the inside out and throbbing like every nerve is actively trying to expand and reclaim the empty space his milk left behind. Even Kon’s gentlest touches send flickering shockwaves through his flesh.

Tim tangles his fingers in Kon’s curls to ground himself, whining softly but purring much more loudly the whole time.

He thrusts lazily up against nothing, shivering from the too-much of it all.

Like a miracle, Kon’s fingers go right where he needs them most.

This time, they bypass his clit entirely. Two fingers slide into him as easy as a knife into butter. They thrust once, testingly. Then they withdraw for barely a moment before plunging back in, joined by a third.

Tim tosses his head back with a shameless moan, fingers tightening in Kon’s hair in a way that would be cruel with any other partner. But it just makes Kon growl delightedly into Tim’s chest, seeming no less starved than he did before he had a fat breastful of milk in his stomach.

He fucks him with his fingers, a steady, firm thrust, ever so slightly faster than a human could keep up for long.

The combination of his fingers and the continuous suckling on his tits has Tim writhing, adding his own sounds to the mix, his purring a constant undertone.

For all the time it took his milk to build up, it’s gone awfully fast.

Tim can feel the moment he’s fully drained. Kon’s next pull draws on nothing but bruised internal flesh.

The raw sensation should be too much. But the delighted croon that spills past his lips contains nothing but pride at the physical proof of his own ability to provide for his alpha.

His alpha is fed because of him, is exuding that happy, satisfied scent because of him.

That knowledge, paired with the way his alpha keeps lapping at him, swapping back and forth and nursing at him with little kitten licks as though he can coax another few sips out, pleases some primitive part of his brain in a way that Tim didn’t even know was possible.

Another orgasm washes through him.

This one is much gentler than the ones that preceded it, a smoothly cresting wave without a sharp peak. He rocks with it, letting out breathy little trills as his cunt milks Kon’s fingers.

When the stimulation starts to cross back into pain, creeping in at the edge of his scent, Kon finally and reluctantly pulls away. He licks a stray drop of milk off his lip.

He crawls forward, sitting up and brushing a few sweaty strands of hair out of Tim’s eyes. His expression is goofily affectionate, blue eyes warm and lips turned up as he examines Tim’s no-doubt equally dopey and blissed out expression. Still, there’s a furrow in his brow that gives away the same anxiety tinging the edge of his scent.

“Hey, Rob,” he says softly. “You okay?”

Tim hums. He feels a little like he’s slowly vibrating apart, and thinks he’d be okay with that.

It’s because he’s still loudly purring, he eventually realizes.

Kon’s hand is still resting in his warm cunt, slowly petting his silky, worn-out insides. There’s no real pleasure left in it, just reassurance that they’re still connected.

“Peachy,” Tim summons the brain cells to mumble, head rolling loosely on his neck.

He smiles, and Kon’s expression clears, breaking into a bright, relieved grin. He kisses Tim, so chaste considering the sweet taste of Tim’s own milk still coating his lips.

His pelvis brushes Tim’s thigh. Tim feels the rock hard bulge in the front of his pants, completely incongruent with the easy innocence of the kiss, like he’s completely content with just that gentle contact.

Tim’s bliss-melted brain latches on to the realization that there’s another way he can take care of his alpha.

He hitches one leg up to press against Kon’s, his muscles feeling jello-soft. The motion presses Kon’s fingers harder into his walls, but Tim doesn’t mind. He isn’t focused on his own pleasure right now. “Inside me,” he mumbles, nuzzling at Kon’s neck. “Want you.”

Kon’s breath hitches. “Tim,” he says uncertainly, but Tim can smell the want flowing off of him.

He nips at Kon’s neck reproachfully, even though the functioning part of his brain knows his teeth won’t do shit to Kon’s skin. He draws back to glare at Kon for being stupid. “Want you,” he says firmly, because duh.

He digs the heel into the small of Kon’s back, in case he didn’t get the message.

Kon laughs, slightly shaky. “Okay, okay,” he breathes through that achingly bright and beautiful grin.

He fumbles with Tim’s underwear. For a moment he seems to be trying to move them out of the way.

Then, his seemingly limitless patience apparently reaches its limit, and Tim’s panties are suddenly on the floor and probably destined for the trash can.

Tim yelps in surprise, and then his yelp dies into a wheeze as Kon spears into him faster than he can adjust. “Yes,” he gasps delightedly, digging his heel in harder, trying to push him inside even faster.

Kon seems happy enough to comply. Or at least desperate enough from so long keeping a leash on his own need.

He thrusts in with a force that would be brutal if Tim’s body wasn’t so slack and unresistant, burying himself to the hilt in a few sharp thrusts, pressing against Tim’s cervix.

He doesn’t pause to savor it.

Their skin slaps together loudly as he rabbits in and out, plunging in as deep as he can get with every stroke.

Tim just clings to him for dear life, trilling ecstatically, fingers digging into Kon’s shirt.

Despite the stretch, there’s no true pain in the moment - just the promise of it come morning. He’s so relaxed and wet that even Kon’s considerable girth saws through him with ease.

He doesn’t come again. Kon’s hand makes a brief quest for his clit, but Tim bats it away, too fucked out for there to be any pleasure left in the touch.

Right now, Tim wants this to be about Kon and Kon alone.

He kneads at the back of Kon’s neck, a much deeper part of him satiated by Kon taking his pleasure from him like this. He floats in the happy haze of it, brought back to awareness briefly when Kon’s knot begins to catch. The swell of it tugs on Tim’s stretched pussy, drawing a whimper.

“Do you want me to pull out?” Kon asks, voice strained with the effort of holding back, keeping his knot just outside of Tim.

“Knot me,” Tim murmurs, lips quirking up in ironic amusement. “I’m on suppressants, or we wouldn’t be here, remember?”

Kon eagerly grinds his inflating knot back in. He’s at the very brink of being too big, circling his hips as he bullies Tim’s straining cunt into accepting him.

It finally slips inside with a soft, muted pop, and Tim’s whole body jerks as he’s stretched to capacity and beyond.

The moment his knot is in, spreading his fluttering walls as it settles perfectly inside him, Tim goes utterly slack.

A different type of wave crashes over him - not pleasurable enough to be an orgasm, but no less all-encompassing - the complete and total bodily submission of a well-knotted, well-bred omega.

Kon groans through his teeth, loud and unrestrained as his cock pulses. Tim’s pussy milks him as best it can, weakly clenching for all Kon can give it as warmth pools against his cervix.

Another trickle of milk flows down his chest when Kon sinks his teeth into his shoulder in order to resist the need to claim him.

Tim’s omega gives a slightly mournful pang that his mating gland has been spared, but accepts the bite contentedly enough as proof enough of his alpha’s affection.

Kon’s arms give out abruptly, sending him flopping onto Tim with an oomph.

Tim grumbles, no real annoyance making it into his scent.

Kon takes the initiative to roll the pair of them onto their sides, tugging at the place where they’re linked. His knot plugs Tim so thoroughly that not a drop of come leaks out, leaving Tim’s thighs wet only with his own slick, keeping Tim pleasantly stuffed.

He settles back onto Kon’s chest, happily accepting his bicep as a pillow.

“How’s your chest?” Kon murmurs, breath tickling the hair on the back of his neck.

Tim snorts. “Mushy,” he mumbles. “Like the rest of me.”

Kon huffs a laugh. But Tim can still feel the tension in his broad frame, subtle in the muscles pressed against Tim’s back.

He rolls his head back to look at him. “Doesn’t hurt anymore,” he says, and for now he really means it. “Feels good. Thank you.”

Finally, he feels Kon relax completely, curling around Tim, the only part of him still stiff - well.

“Thank you, Tim.” He presses the tenderest of kisses to the back of Tim’s neck. “Thank you for letting me help.”

Tim reaches up over his own ribcage, wriggling his fingers at Kon until he gets the hint and tangles their hands together. “You’re a good alpha,” he mumbles into Kon’s arm, just conscious enough to feel the way Kon’s breath silently hitches, another heavy pump of come unloading itself against his womb.

He smiles to himself, feeling every bit the cat who got the cream, clenching down around Kon’s knot at the thought that in a few hours he’ll need Kon to milk him again.

Maybe he will wait for a while before he tells Bruce about the side effects.