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Martha and Jonathan are in the sitting room, watching one of her soaps on low - or Martha is watching, Jonathon is dozing on the loveseat next to her, his chin lolling against his chest - when the T.V. suddenly blares a sharp warning sound and the screen flashes multicoloured.
Jonathan startles awake. Martha jumps, too, one hand flying up to her chest, clutching at her poor heart. You would think by now they’d be used to it, considering the number of supervillains and what have you that are always causing trouble, but the noise is supposed to shock. It’s supposed to grab attention.
It’s the emergency broadcast tone that the Justice League use when they need to get a message out to a lot of people fast. It very rarely heralds anything good. Martha exchanges a look with John and can’t help but think about Clark. It’s often his face on the screen, solemnly informing Earth of an alien invasion or a potential meteor crash or whatever new horror he has to protect them from now.
“Gosh darn it,” John says, and Martha knows he originally wanted to say something stronger. “That darn thing is going to kill me one day.”
Martha lays a gentle hand on John’s thigh. Her own pulse is still fluttering in her throat, adrenaline hot in her veins.
“I wonder what it is this time,” she murmurs, as the warning tone drones.
John glances at her. She sees it out of her peripheral vision, because she’s staring straight at the television. Then he folds his own hand over hers.
“Clark didn’t mention anything.”
“He doesn’t always -“
The television flickers. Then a face fills the screen. It’s not one Martha recognises - not any of the Justice League, unless they’ve started to recruit new members. It’s a man, with a hard, square jaw and blonde hair slicked back against his head. His eyes are a startling green, so bright they almost seem inhuman.
“People of Earth,” he says, in a deep, rich voice that Martha can imagine would travel far even without being beamed straight into her home. “The time has come.”
A chill races up Martha’s spine. It happens sometimes, that people with less-than-good intentions get ahold of the emergency broadcast line. Something that can beam whatever video you want straight into every home and outdoor viewing area with a screen on Earth is a commodity that plenty of villains long to make use of.
Even with just a few words, Martha can tell that this man has nothing good planned.
“For too long,” the man continues, “have we worshipped false idols.”
Automatically, Martha reaches up to touch the gold cross hanging around her neck. Next to her, John shifts. “Can’t even change the blasted channel,” he mutters.
Martha doesn’t answer. A sense of dread so strong it almost crushes her is pressing down on her chest.
“Men who act like gods. Who believe they are better than us, stronger than us, more righteous than us. Who act as though we are nothing but ants beneath their boots, worthy only of their attention when it pleases them. And we worship them. Build statues in their likeness. Treat them as if they are beyond the realms of human law. Pray to them.”
The man takes a sharp breath. There’s something manic in his eyes, about his speech.
“But they are not gods,” he shouts. “I will show you. They can be broken like any other. They can be brought as low as any ant.”
The man looks away, at something beyond the screen. A cold light shines in those green eyes. One corner of his lips tugs up, a sharp, ugly look.
“I’ll show you,” he says again, much quieter this time. “Do not look away, people of Earth. This is your revelation.”
The camera shifts. It pans across the room. It’s too dark to make out any obvious features, the edges hidden by shadow, but a bright light shines in a wide circle around the centre of whatever room they're in, highlighting two figures.
Martha’s stomach swoops sickeningly. She sways, all the blood rushing from her head. It feels as though she’s been dunked in ice. John grabs at her, hard, broad fingers digging into the flesh of her arm.
“Martha,” he croaks.
It’s their boys. It’s their boys in the centre of the room or cave or wherever they’re being held, spotlighted by that harsh white light. They’re sitting together on the floor - huddled together Martha would say, but Clark doesn’t huddle in costume and Conner has probably never huddled in his life and they’re both in their super gear although Conner’s jacket and Clark’s cape have been stripped away.
Martha starts to stand, but John’s grip keeps her in her seat. She leans forward, searching the blurry image of her boys for any sign of what’s going to happen - of whether they’re hurt. There are chains, one pinned to the ground by a heavy duty lock, looping up to connect to a thick metal collar that’s circled around Conner’s neck. Another chain is connected to that, stretching from the collar to a matching one that’s locked around Clark, chaining them both together. The links are short enough that Conner won’t be able to stand and Clark has to sit close enough that they almost touch.
The skin of Conner’s neck looks raw beneath the metal. There’s a dark bruise purpling one side of his face. Both he and Clark are sweating, an ugly sheen coating their skin. A gash above Clark’s eyebrow is steadily weeping blood.
Martha’s heart seizes. She’s never seen either of her boys like this. They’d had plenty to worry about - her and John - whilst they’d been raising Clark. She’d worried about discovery, about her boy being taken from her. She’d worried about Clark’s soft centre, his sweet, sensitive nature and how someone might use that against him. She’d worried that he was shouldering the weight of the world.
She’d never had to worry, like most mothers would, about bruises or blood or broken bones. No physical danger could truly touch Clark as a child.
Conner, too, she had worried about. He’d been so alone when Clark had brought him to them, a child without a family, hurting and overwhelmed. But she’s never seen him with so much as a papercut.
To see them like this: bleeding and bruised; it cuts something deep inside of her.
Somewhere beside them, there’s a faint green glow. Kryptonite. Martha’s stomach turns. Kryptonite is painful enough by itself, but it’s everything else that has bile licking at the base of her throat.
This man means to hurt them. He means to hurt her sons while the whole world watches.
Jonathan swears. On the screen, the man steps forward and Clark’s head whips up. He shifts, the movement seemingly automatic, until he’s put himself between Conner and the threat. Martha’s chest aches. Her boy. He’s always been so sweet.
“Look at your gods,” the man says. One hand reaches out and fists in Clark’s beautiful curls, yanking his head back, exposing the soft flesh of his neck that isn’t covered by the collar. Clark grunts. He grabs at the man’s wrist. His hand is trembling. “Everyone has their weakness. One small green rock and he crumbles. Right now he’s just a man, no super about him. As weak and wretched as the rest of us.”
He lets go of Clark, tugging his hand free as easily as if he were breaking the grip of a child. Then, in one swift movement, he backhands Clark.
Clark jerks, body tipping sideways with the movement, but makes no sound. The chain draws taught and Conner chokes as it yanks at his throat.
“And this one,” the man says, stepping around Clark until he’s behind Conner. He crouches. Long fingers wrap around Conner’s throat, over the metal of his collar. The other hand lifts to stroke over his cheek, a soft caress. “Nothing but a jumped up little boy, desperate to prove he’s worthy. What makes you think you’re better than any of us, huh?”
Conner’s blue eyes burn. “Fuck you,” he snaps, jerking his head to try to get out from beneath the man’s touch.
A scolding jumps to the tip of Martha’s tongue. Just in time, she realises how stupid that is. Conner is behind a screen, miles away from her and without his powers. Even if he could hear her, Martha will admit that the cursing is warranted. She feels a little like cursing herself.
The man just laughs. He lifts a hand from Conner’s face and, in a movement too quick for Martha to see, produces a sharp little blade. Martha’s breath catches. Conner goes perfectly still beneath the threat.
“Look at that,” the man purrs. His face is right next to Conner’s, his mouth by the boy’s ear. The hand at his neck shifts to cup Conner’s chin. It’s a strangely intimate position. Martha hates it. “The little boy still thinks he has something to prove. Where are your powers now, sweetheart?”
“Leave him alone.” Clark’s voice, rough with pain, but still strong. “You don’t need him to prove your point. You have me.”
The man smirks, but doesn’t turn away from Conner. He traces the blade up the same cheek he had stroked, splitting the soft skin. Blood immediately wells up through the thin cut. The man hums, then licks up Conner’s cheek, lapping up the blood, slow and sensual.
Martha makes a sound. She isn’t even entirely sure what sound it is, but Jonathan’s grip tightens in reaction.
“What the hell is he doing?” John growls.
What the hell is he doing? He shouldn’t be touching Conner. Not like this.
“Oh but I do need him,” the man says, finally pulling away. Conner’s blood stains his lips. “I need him to prove to everyone that you are as human as the rest of us. Capable of folly. Capable of sin.”
“You don’t need to prove that,” Clark says, still in that rough voice. “I know I’m not a god. So does Earth.”
The man shrugs. “Then think of it as a show, if you must. A demonstration. Either way, you are going to fuck him for me.”
Both Clark and Conner go rigid. Martha feels as though she’s been punched in the gut, all of the breath rushing out of her in one harsh burst. Fuck him? The man can’t mean…he can’t mean…
“What?” Clark says, a single, shocked bleat.
“You’re going to fuck him,” the man says, again. The blade is resting at Conner’s cheek. Just under his eye. The boy’s chest is heaving, sweat slicked. “Show the world that you can be as base as them.”
Clark’s face twists with disgust and horror. Jonathan surges up, relinquishing his grip on Martha’s arm to grab at the television instead, as if he can reach through the screen and stop this.
“What is he -?” John says, breathless. “What -?”
“I don’t know what you’ve been…” Clark starts, an awful tremble in his voice, “I don’t know - Kon and I, we’re not…”
“Shut up,” the man says and Clark’s jaw clicks shut. “I don’t care to hear your objections. You will do this.”
“I can’t,” Clark says and he doesn’t sound like Superman when he does. He sounds like Clark, like the little boy Martha had raised. “He’s just a boy.”
The man cocks his head. “A boy with a Ma and Pa, no?” His voice takes on a mocking country drawl as he says it. “With friends? With a throat that will open beneath my blade?”
The little knife tucks up under Conner’s chin. The collar bobs as he swallows thickly.
He’s threatening them. Threatening herself and Jonathan and all Conner’s friends and Conner himself, if Clark doesn’t do this.
Martha would happily give her life if it meant this wasn’t happening. But the others - Conner’s teenage friends, all the people Clark loves and cares about, Conner himself. If the man truly has a means to hurt them, Clark can’t let that happen.
“I can’t,” he says, miserably.
The knife presses hard enough that Conner hisses. A trickle of bright red blood leaks beneath the metal of the collar. Conner’s eyes are wide and white, like a spooked horse. “Superman,” he says, in a voice that Martha has never heard from him before.
“I can’t,” Clark says, again. “I won’t be able to - I won’t be able to do it.”
“No?” The man jerks Conner’s head back, pressing the blade harder into his flesh. Then, abruptly, he tugs the knife away, using his grip to force Conner forward. “Your boy can help you. Go on, son, worship your god.”
With the angle, Martha can’t see Conner’s face very well, but she can see the angry red flush to his skin. “Fuck you,” he snaps, again. “You creepy old perv.”
“I’m not interested in your petty insults,” the man says. “Just suck his cock.”
Martha feels faint. John is still standing over the television, one hand balled into a shaking fist. On the screen, Clark shuts his eyes, like he can’t bear to see what’s coming.
With shaking hands, Conner reaches up to the hidden seam at the waist of Clark’s suit. His face is still mostly hidden by his mop of dark curls, but Martha can see the gleam of his eyes. Slowly, he eases it over Clark’s hips, until the man is exposed, limp between his legs.
Bile rises up Martha’s throat. She shuts her eyes. She can’t - that’s her son up on the screen, exposed in such a grotesque way. That’s her son.
She thinks about the fact that this is the emergency broadcast system. That everyone on Earth is having this beamed right to them. That there won’t be a corner of the world that hasn’t seen this happening.
It’s not fair. It’s not right.
Not to Clark. Not to Conner. Not her boys.
“Kon,” Clark says, voice tight, and Martha looks up to see Conner bent over his lap, the chain looped awkwardly between them, one arm resting across Clark’s hip so he can fist his limp cock. One of Clark’s hands is on Conner’s shoulder, like he’s trying to push him back.
Martha chokes on nothing. They’re family. Maybe not in a traditional sense, but Conner is Clark’s flesh and blood. And he’s Martha and John’s boy, just like Clark is. To see them touching each other like this…it’s grotesque.
“Shut up,” Conner snaps. “It’s just - it’s just sex.” But his voice breaks over the word, rough and wet. “I’m not fucking dying over a blowjob.”
“Kon,” Clark says again, helplessly, but the hand on Conner’s shoulder drops back to the ground and he doesn’t stop Conner leaning forward again, tucking his head into Clark’s lap, just tips his head back and stares at the ceiling with glassy eyes
Abruptly, the camera shifts. For a moment it sways, nauseatingly, before settling. Then it starts to glide smoothly towards where Martha’s boys are sitting on the ground. The movement is too easy for anyone to be carrying it, and the man doing this to them is still crouching behind Conner, like he might need to grab him again. Martha wonders if the camera is remote controlled, then wonders why her brain even has room to care when it’s wrapped up in so much horror.
With the new angle, Martha can see Conner’s face much better. Despite his bravado, he looks scared. It carves something new out of Martha’s heart. She never wants to see her kids look like that. She never wants her kids to be hurt.
His eyes flutter, then slide shut. His face smooths out. Then, in one quick movement, he slots his mouth over the head of Clark’s cock. Clark inhales sharply. A flush rises on Conner’s cheeks, like it does when Martha teases him, and he forces himself over Clark in one quick, jerky movement.
Martha shuts her eyes, but she can’t block out the wet sounds of Conner’s mouth working, the soft gagging noises, or the hitch of Clark’s breath. She can hear Jonathan pacing, wearing a hole in her floor and the buzz of the television and the sounds of nature beyond their door.
Two strong arms wrap around her and pull her close. She buries her head in her husband’s chest, taking stuttering breaths, suddenly aware of the dampness on her cheeks soaking into his shirt. On the television, Conner gags again and Clark makes a sharp sound that has Martha glancing up automatically.
The man has a fist in Conner’s hair, holding him down in Clark’s lap. There’s a horrible bulge in what Martha can see of Conner’s throat, and she can see it working. Can see the strain in his face.
“John,” she says, weakly.
“Don’t look,” he growls. His arms tighten. “Don’t look.”
But she can’t seem to tear her eyes away. On the screen, the man jerks Conner’s head back and when Clark slides out of him, she can see that he’s hard, his manhood flushed and wet with spit. Martha’s heart strains in her chest. She feels suddenly like she might pass out.
“Looks like you managed after all,” the man says coldly. Clark’s face, already white and oddly mask-like, turns waxy.
The man tugs sharply on Conner’s chain, it jerks him backwards, sending him sprawling to the floor. Clark chokes as he’s yanked up on the end of his own chain.
“Go on then. Get to it. Our audience is waiting.”
Clark stabilises himself on his knees. He looks ill, sweating and trembling. His cock juts out from between his legs obscenely. Martha hasn’t seen him naked since he was a child and it feels so wrong to see him like this that she can feel more bile at the back of her throat.
Conner’s head tips back. Clark hesitates, watching him with dark eyes.
“Just do it,” Conner rasps, his voice rough. Martha can see the straining bob of his throat beneath the collar. “It, fuck, the kryptonite fucking hurts, okay?” There are wet streaks on Conner’s face. Tears. “Just do it.”
Clark looks as though he’s being sent to the executioner’s block, but he shuffles forward obediently. In one quick movement, he tugs Conner’s pants down. His legs flop limply on either side of Clark’s bulk, pale in the sickly green glow of the kryptonite. If seeing Clark was bad, seeing a teenage Conner like this is a thousand times worse.
She’s going to be sick, she thinks suddenly, as Clark sticks two fingers into his mouth and sucks thickly. A wave of dizziness passes over her. She’s going to throw up.
When Clark reaches between Conner’s legs, Martha’s scream almost drowns out the small, hurt noise Conner makes.
“Turn it off,” she cries. She knows what’s going to happen now. She doesn’t need to see it. “Turn it off.”
She lunges forward, out of Jonathan’s arms, her knees thudding hard on the thin carpet. Jonathan jerks backwards. On the screen, Conner makes another wounded noise. Martha can see Clark’s arm moving, the flex of muscle and tendons. Bile rises up her throat in an awful wave.
Jonathan stumbles towards the television, stabbing wildly at buttons. Nothing seems to happen. The picture on the screen keeps moving - her son violating her other son in the basest of ways.
Martha heaves. Vomit splatters across her nice cream carpet. Jonathan growls. He yanks at the wire snaking out of the back of the television and the screen goes abruptly dark.
Martha pants on her knees. Jonathan kneels by the television, his own chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. They don’t speak.
Martha heaves again.
⁂
Eloise stares up at the billboard like someone possessed. Normally the huge screen is filled with advertisements, or sometimes football games, or newsreels - sometimes of superhero exploits, sometimes of disasters happening in less fortunate cities. Now Superman is on the screen, but it’s nothing like the usual footage of him.
Mostly because he has two fingers buried deep in Superboy.
The usually bustling square is silent and still, like every commuter and tourist filling the space has been frozen in time. All of them are staring up at the same sight as her. The only sounds are the ragged breathing of both Superman and Superboy.
Eloise should stop watching. She should cover her ears and look at the ground and get out of here. She’s watching two people - two people who have done nothing but good for the world - being raped. And yet, she can’t look away.
“I’m sorry,” Superman whispers, his sallow face huge on the screen. Eloise is transfixed by the way his thick fingers disappear between Superboy’s legs, by the ripple of his muscles. “I’m so sorry.”
Superboy’s teeth are gritted. He’d made an awful noise when Superman had first pushed into him, but now he’s mostly silent. “Shut up,” he grates out. “Stop talking.”
“Get on with it,” their captor snaps. Eloise doesn’t recognise him. He’s none of the usual villains they see. “He’s Superboy, isn’t he? You don’t need to prepare him.”
Superman looks like he might be sick. Eloise doesn’t know if that’s even possible.
“The kryptonite,” he says weakly.
The man flicks open the knife he had used earlier and sneers.
Superman flinches. Carefully, he pulls his fingers out of Superboy. Then, his face twisted in disgust, he spits into his palm and roughly fists himself.
“I can handle it,” Superboy says, with the same bravado they’ve all seen on him in a fight. He spreads his legs a little wider. Superman doesn’t look at him. “I’m Superboy.” A weak grin. It looks wrong on his face, with tears still wet on his cheeks. “I can take it.”
Eloise looks away. The man standing next to her has his phone up, recording the screen, his eyes wide. There are other phones in the crowd, too. Eloise’s stomach twists. Why anyone would want to record this - to remember this - she doesn’t know.
On her other side, a young woman has her arms around the child balanced on her hip. She’s staring up at the screen with blank shock. One hand has the girl’s face tucked against her chest, cupping over her ear.
Eloise swallows thickly. She can’t judge, she thinks. She’s still here.
She glances back up at the screen. Superman has slotted himself between Superboy’s legs and he’s leaning over him, his huge bulk covering most of Superboy. The camera has shifted a little, to give them a better view of Superman’s cock. It’s huge, thick and long and red. Eloise has fantasised about it before. Everyone has. It’s both exactly how she imagined it, and totally different.
“Breathe,” Superman murmurs. One hand is up by Superboy’s head. Superboy is clutching the wrist of it hard enough to turn the skin white. The other is between them, gripping himself.
Superman pushes forward. Superboy’s face spasms and the man immediately stops. His own face is chalk white and slick with sweat. The blood at his forehead is dripping sluggishly down his cheek.
“Don’t stop,” their captor growls.
What’s the point of this, Eloise wonders. Everyone can see that Superman isn’t doing this of his own free will. Everyone already knows that Superman has a weakness.
Still, the sight tears at something in her heart. She’d known, but knowing and seeing are two different things. This is - this is awful. She knows that she’ll never see Superman the same way again.
Superman swallows thickly. Then, slowly, he starts to push forward again. Superboy makes a strained noise of pain that he immediately tries to silence. Eloise can see the muscles in his jaw bulging as he grits his teeth hard. A tear beads at the corner of one eye.
It seems to take forever for Superman to bottom out. Superboy doesn’t speak, but he keeps making soft, bitten-off noises, breathing harshly through his nose, clearly in considerable pain. Eloise tries to imagine taking that with only spit for lube and two quick fingers for preparation and cringes.
It almost doesn’t feel real, watching them up on screen. It feels like she’s watching a television show, or a particularly grotesque porn video. But it’s real. It’s two real people up on that screen, being hurt, being degraded.
Superman lowers his head, pressing it against Superboy’s muscular shoulder. He’s crying. Superboy’s free hand comes up and grips at the junction of his neck. He looks like he’s about to push him back, but he doesn’t, just holds on to the thick muscle there.
Superman’s hips roll, drawing back, then thrusting in. Superboy makes a high, thin noise that’s not quite strong enough to be a scream.
Eloise shuts her eyes.
⁂
Tim tries to block out the sound of Kon being raped as he types frantically on one of the Batcomputer keyboards. Batman is standing behind him, talking rapidly into a comm that connects him to the rest of the Justice League. Once Tim and Babs figure out the location the video is streaming from, Hal is going to lead a team to them. Then Babs will cut the connection and wipe whatever recordings she can find from existence.
When Batman had first gotten the alert that the emergency broadcasting system the Justice League uses was active, he had been more than happy to have Tim’s assistance in figuring out what was happening. They had gotten the footage up on the Batcomputer screen and watched as Clark and Kon were revealed, weakened by Kryptonite and chained together by thick metal, someone that Tim didn’t recognise spouting nonsense like a supervillain in a bad movie.
When he’d revealed what he’d wanted them to do to each other, Bruce had tried to order Tim out.
By then, Tim had started the programme to locate where the signal was broadcasting from. He’d refused to move. Then Batman had gotten caught up in a call with the Justice League and now Tim is still here, sitting at the computer, one of his best friends’ rape being broadcast in perfect high-definition on its enormous screen.
Tim had tried not to look, but he can’t stop stealing glances, and he can’t block out the sounds. The gagging. The strained noises of pain. Clark’s wet sobs.
He can’t stop thinking about Kon. About the cheerful, confident boy who he’d first met at Titan’s Tower, when Clark had first brought him there. How self-assured he’d seemed, even though he’d been almost alone in the world. How he made Tim laugh and calmed Bart down and made Cassie fall in love with him.
How vulnerable he really is. His temper and his insecurity. How much he looks up to Clark, like a brother.
Tim swallows against a thick throat. Kon has been treating this with his normal brashness, but Tim knows it's going to destroy him.
A particularly pained sound echoes out of the computer and Tim can’t stop himself from looking up. Kon’s fingers are buried so hard in Clark’s shoulder that they look like claws. His back is arched, like he’s trying to escape the pain. His legs tremble on either side of Clark’s hips.
Tim swallows again. His tongue feels fat in his mouth. How is he ever going to look at either of them after this and not remember the image of Clark buried inside Kon? Of the agony on Kon’s face and the hollow look in Clark’s eyes.
Neither of them are used to pain, Tim knows. Why would they be, when they’re basically invulnerable? Tim can’t imagine how much this hurts.
A hand lands on Tim’s shoulder and he jumps. It’s Batman. Tim hadn’t realised that he’d stopped talking.
“They’re on standby,” Batman says, voice rougher than normal, over the noises coming from the screen. The wet slap of skin against skin, Clark’s ragged breaths, Kon’s pained gasps. “I can run the programme, Tim. You don’t need to be here.”
Tim glances up at him. Beneath the cowl, Bruce’s face is tense and drawn. Tim is struck by the sudden knowledge that it isn’t just him watching his friend being raped on the Batcomputer screen.
“I’m fine,” Tim says stiffly. “I can do this.”
Batman’s grip tightens. “I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to. You’re still a child, you shouldn’t see this.”
“So is Kon,” Tim says hotly. Then, belatedly: “And I’m not a child.”
“Tim…” Bruce says, pained.
There’s a choking sound on the screen. A low groan.
“Touch him,” the man says, suddenly.
Tim shouldn’t look, but he can’t stop himself. On the screen, Clark hesitates, his hips stuttering, his gaze flickering over Kon’s face. Kon has his eyes shut. His head is turned away from the camera, but Tim can see his jaw working and the wet streaks across his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Clark says, in a voice that’s tight with both regret and arousal. Then he reaches between them and fists Kon’s cock.
Kon jerks like he’s been electrocuted. “Don’t,” he grits out. “Please.”
Clark makes a sound so wounded that Tim has to fight the urge to cover his ears, but he doesn’t let go of Kon’s limp cock. He fists it gently, rocking his own hips in a steady rhythm. Tim swallows again.
“It’ll be okay,” Batman says. It’s a rare show of optimism. Tim knows it's just for him. “We’ll get to them. They’ll be okay.”
As if the worst hasn’t already happened. As if they can reverse the terrible thing on the screen even if they save them.
Tim’s programme pings. He startles, tearing his eyes away from the image on the computer’s main screen to one of the secondary ones. A location.
They’re in Metropolis.
Tim looks back at Batman. His mouth is a thin, grim line.
“We can take the zeta,” he says, already moving. One of his hands lifts to the comm, to start directing the rest of the League. Tim scrambles after him, his heart thudding in his throat.
The location isn’t far from the zeta tube. It’s an underground bunker right in the heart of Metropolis, a hidden entrance leading down into the belly of the city. The bunker itself is lined with lead. There’s a faint green glow that gets brighter the further into the structure they go. The other League members - and Nightwing - are on their way, but Batman and Robin will be first on the scene.
When they burst into the room, Clark is still buried inside Kon. His head jerks up at the intrusion, wide eyes immediately finding Batman. He makes an odd, strangled sound, his hips jerking, his face spasming, hunching over Kon. Tim looks away, fixing his gaze on the man who’d set this whole thing up instead.
He goes down easily beneath a vicious blow from Batman. He doesn’t fight. He laughs as he hits the floor.
“You’re too late,” he says, breathless. “Everyone has seen what they are.”
Batman hits him hard in the face and he goes limp and silent.
It’s only then that Tim allows himself to look back at Kon.
Clark has pulled out of him and fumbled both of their uniforms back into place. He’s kneeling awkwardly at the end of the chain, as if he’s trying to put as much space between them as possible without choking either of them. Kon is pushing himself up on shaking hands.
Tim rushes forward, then stops, hesitating. He doesn’t know if Kon will want him to touch him. If he’ll even be happy to see him. If he’ll be mad that Tim didn’t get here earlier.
“Kon…” he says, kneeling down close enough that he can touch Kon, but not close enough to seem a threat.
Kon looks at him with wild eyes. Then he bursts into heaving, ugly sobs.
Tim lurches forward and throws his arms around Kon. He’s weak under the kryptonite, Tim knows, but he still feels strong and broad in Tim’s grasp. He’s shaking, tears immediately wetting Tim’s skin when he tucks his face into his neck.
He smells of blood and sweat and sex.
Tim wants to puke. He wants to cry. Instead, he just holds Kon as his best friend falls apart in his arms.