Title: The Talk Fandom: DCU (Superman, TTv3) Pairing: Kon/Clark Rating: Adult Summary: Zee encourages me in the most atrocious things. Someday Kon's going to get a full list of the developmental superstuff that Superman went through, and then he'll be all the way prepared for everything that could possibly happen to him. 'course he's not going to get that list until sometime after he buys Luthor a Father's Day present and demands all his overdue birthday cards and cash, but someday he wants the fucking list. Normal kids -- not that he spends time with those -- get The Talk. What Kon gets, apparently, is random shit happening to his body without so much as a word of forewarning from the only person on the planet who has half -- ha -- a clue about how he works. At least he'd heard about the X-ray vision before he got a full view of Mrs. Johnson's cleavage in the middle of social studies, and he hasn't burned too many important things with the heat vision. But nobody warned him about being constantly fucking horny. He knows the mundanes go through it, too, but it usually just makes them hard. Whereas Kon -- yeah, he gets hard, probably about as much as they do, but the normal jerking off is way less than what he apparently needs. Which took a while to figure out, and he prays to anybody who listens to perverted teenage aliens that the Kents don't know anywhere near as much about clearing internet logs as, say, Tim does, and that they don't have a clue exactly how much stuff he's bought in San Francisco. It started small -- ish. TTK was really good at small and intense, but he usually gets a headache when he tries it, like his aura thinks he's attacking himself when all he really wants is something up his ass in the middle of science please and thank you so that he can focus on something other than how much he's dying for it. And you can honestly buy fucking anything in San Fran you want, if you've got the money and the superspeed to get away from the chaperones and in and out of the store before anyone can see you to card you. So he has quite the array of bright colored and studded fake cocks that he keeps in a cave in Idaho where nobody's been since mammoths roamed the earth. It's just about far enough from Smallville that he can yell as loud as he wants without feeling self-conscious. But even though it's far enough away from Smallville, there's really nowhere he's found yet where Superman will ignore him. He's always scared to even think "Clark" when he needs some serious alone-time, and it's creepy as fuck to know that he's listening, somewhere out there. Maybe the superhearing will kick in sometime soon. As long as he doesn't get all Deep Throat at the same time, he may live through the experience. Not that he's unprepared for the possibility at this point. Still. He's still working on figuring out the best balance between spending time in Idaho and learning how to focus through a haze of being ravenously horny. It starts with a dazed week when he gets detention even more than normal. The next week he starts skipping out of lunch -- not for long, just for long enough -- and he doesn't get caught, and his head's a little clearer. He's also deeply fucking grateful that he can levitate because if he had to sit down he'd probably cry. The next week he tries zipping out of study hall, and Mr. Abele catches him coming back in at normal speed ten minutes late, and that's when it goes to hell, because he calls the Kents, and they call Clark. On Kon's next lunchtime visit to Idaho, Superman's in the mouth of the cave, looking stern and noble. "This is not a good solution, Kon-El," he says in that Superman voice. Kon isn't sure what to say to that. He tries out, "You should have warned me this would happen," in classic teenager bitch mode. Superman blushes. "I didn't know how to bring it up." "Right. Sure. That's not fucking good enough. And now you're going to tell them and they're going to think I'm really, really weird, when it's not even my fault and I don't know why I feel like this and I just -- need --" Kon doesn't mean to wriggle like that, but it's been since first thing this morning and it's really, really killing him. Superman just shakes his head like he totally despairs of Kon. Who can blame him, at this point? Kon should just go completely fucking evil. At least then he'd have an excuse to get laid more often. But Superman says, "Come here," and -- That is definitely the scent of the weird grape scented lube Kon grabbed by mistake, last time. "Um," Kon says, because -- super-vision! -- it's all over Superman's fingers. "Um." "It will help you focus," Superman says, and Kon just wants to go home and forget the whole thing, except that if he even tries to do that he's going to be fidgeting all day long and he'll probably end up fingering himself in the bathroom. It might be less embarrassing than having Superman give him that solemn, 'Dude, I'm Superman, listen to me,' look that probably makes most world leaders wet their pants. "Right," Kon says, and he floats a little closer. "What?" Superman's blushing again. Kon is kinda grateful that he apparently got his anti-embarrassment genes from the evil side of the family. Eventually, though, Superman says, "What you've been using isn't quite, ah, right. It's not, um, big enough, and the -- the pheromones don't get released." "The --" Kon is about half a second from wrapping himself around one big, strong Superthigh and forgetting the aching, burning want, and just humping the guy until he can breathe again. "Okay. What?" "Let me do this," and Superman sounds impatient. It makes Kon want to smack him, because he can't be that impatient really. Not nearly as much as Kon is. He tugs Kon's pants down, and Kon is too weirded out to complain. "Should I turn my head and cough?" he says, trying to make this anything but the most bizarre thing that has ever happened to him, bar none. Except that is definitely Superman's finger, and it's definitely inside him, and it is the best thing he has ever felt -- even with the rotating vibrating heated thing that eats almost all the batteries he can afford. "Oh --" and the TTK is just not there, but Superman's arm is, catching him. "It's all right," Superman says, which, no, it's totally not, but he's not sure what it is other than fucking fantastic. "Um," Kon manages, and, "Don't stop." "I won't," and now Superman's all 'It's okay, little boy, I'll get your kitten,' reassuring, and that's another finger. It's gotta be pheromones, because Kon has definitely taken way more than this and he's never felt -- full. Even though he might have been, physically, this stretched, it wasn't half as satisfying. It's not satisfying either, but it's a hell of a lot more promising than rubber has ever been. Kon hears a funny gasping noise and it takes him a second to realize that, yeah, that's him. "Please," he says, trying not to sound pathetic. "Please -- more." Superman kisses his cheek, like this is some weird romantic thing instead of what it really is, which is, like, Kryptonian first aid. "It's all right," and the smell of grape stuff is back and Kon isn't ever going to buy any other brand of lube, because it's going to remind him of this, and this is just exactly what he needs. He's kind of aware that he's going to be embarrassed later, that he shouldn't be bucking like that and spreading as far as he can, and that on like ten million levels it's so, so wrong that Superman has four fingers deep in his ass and Kon has never, ever been happier. His entire body is screaming Yay! and it should really hurt, and it really, really doesn't except around the edges and they don't matter. All that matters is that he's not dying of horniness now, because everything's okay, because Superman's there and helping him because Superman helps people. Occasionally by tucking his thumb into their ass, apparently, and Kon screams so loud they really have to hear it in Smallville and he's not thinking about that, he's just so stuffed and spread and full and this is what he wanted, what he's been trying to find in every store, but nothing's this good except this. Any second now he's gonna cry. And Superman's saying something, probably something important, but Kon's floating literally figuratively and the entire world loves him, because if the world didn't love him he'd never feel this great. "I'm going to bring it down," Superman says, and -- and the world still likes Kon, because it's still bright, and there's beautiful things to be seen and felt, and the pheromones are working overtime today, baby, because three fingers is almost as great as a whole hand. And two isn't much of a loss. Especially not when Superman starts seriously fucking him with them. Grape lube is a magical wonderful aphrodisiac thingy. Why didn't anyone ever mention this to Kon? Now he's even hard again, and those weird echoey grunts are definitely him. Superman's not even looking disappointed in him, so the world must still love him like crazy. "Are you all right?" Superman says, and Kon just groans and thrusts back onto his fingers harder. "Hm. Can you fly?" "I --" It's not that hard. He does it every day. And -- there. "Yeah." As soon as he's not lying over Superman's arm, there's another big, hot hand on him, working his cock with that glorious, wonderful superstrength, and that's it, that's enough, that's the cherry on the best half hour of his life to date. Kon comes, and that's another scream they've got to hear down on the farm even if it's hundreds of miles away. Superman just hugs him through the aftershocks. "Is that better?" Kon looks at him. Yeah, still Superman. "Better? I'm not gonna be able to sit for a week. But -- but -- fuck yeah." And maybe there's some kind of thing you're supposed to do now, but Kon has no idea what it is, so he backs away. "Thanks." "The -- ah -- urge will probably fade to a more tolerable level by the end of the year," Superman says. "A year?" Kon groans. "I'm gonna die." Superman smiles. "If you need me, you know how to get my attention." And he's a superblur, and supergone. "Thanks," Kon says, and -- he's not going to ask Superman. That was too weird to ever talk about again. Not for at least eight hours, anyway. A helping hand
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