#clarkkon

[Image ID: A black and white ad in a magazine from the 1990s. In the top left corner, there is a logo showing a stylized relationship chart. Its label has been edited to read "DC is gay and problematic network". The spacing on the editing is awkward and doesn't quite fit right. In the top right corner is the headline, reading: "Won't you join us?" The main text has been obviously edited with a different font and unnatural spaces. It reads:

Does the idea of caring about comic characters appeal to you?

Do you believe it's possible to love several people simultaneously?

Would you like to talk about comic characters problematically?

Do you want to raise your standard of talking about comic characters through disgusting kinks?

If you answered "yes" to most or all of these questions, check us out! The DC is gay and problematic is a group committed to the idea of multi-adult, sexual/loving relationships. We are swingers, we endorse problematic content. (Edited from original text denying being swingers.) Our network provides objectifying comic characters, rarepairs, and not giving a fuck about the morality of our fictional preferences for our membership. If this sounds good to you, please contact us for more information at: DC is gay and problematic, contact details below/.End ID]

“Can–can I?” Kon chokes, because he couldn’t say anything else if he tried. Couldn’t do anything else if he tried. That’s not even something that’s going to happen, but just the thought . . . 

Superman smiles, and somehow figures out how to fuck him deeper. Kon yelps; nearly bites his own fucking tongue. 

“Of course you can, sweetheart,” Superman says gently. “Kon-El. You can think of me every time you touch yourself, as long as you keep being so good for me. Worthy of my crest, and grateful for my name.” 

Kon thinks he’s probably going to be in therapy over this until he fucking dies, if he can ever actually can bring himself to go to therapy about anything ever again, and his breath hitches desperately, over and over and over again. Hitches for every thrust and stroke and slide–

“I’ll be good, Daddy,” he rasps out tightly. “Thank you, thank you, please, Daddy, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, Daddy, please!” 

“I know you will,” Superman hums, and kisses him again. Kon feels disgusting and awful and disgusting, pathetic, awful, fucked-up and stupid and fucked-up, and–and–

And he kisses back, of course. Accepts the thing that’s as close to what he wants as he’s ever gonna get no matter how hard he tries, and gives back everything he’s got in return. 

Superman smiles against his mouth, and Kon screws his eyes shut as tight as he can and just tries not to cry again. Just–just for a minute, at fucking least. Just–just that long. 

Superman digs his nails into his ass again and kisses him more gently, more sweetly than he thinks anyone ever has. Kon hates it, but doesn’t know what he’d do if Superman stopped either. 

It doesn’t matter how hard he tries. It never did. 

He didn’t know that before he found out about Jon, and found out Jon had never even had to try. 

Real kids don’t, apparently. At least not the ones with actually decent people for parents. And Clark–Clark’s the best damn person on the planet, so it’s Kon that’s . . . that isn’t . . . 

Clark has a kid. Multiple ones, now. Adopted ones, even. 

And Kon was never gonna be one of them no matter what. Never gonna be able to earn that. Ever. 

He was just too stupid to know that at first. That that’s not . . . not how it works. 

He tried so fucking hard, though, and Clark never even noticed. But like–why would he have? Clark never thought of him that way, not even once, so . . . so of course he wouldn’t have. 

The only people who ever looked at Kon and even considered the idea of him being in any way their kid were Westfield and Luthor, who’re two of the worst bastards he’s ever even heard of. So of course–of course it’s this version of Superman who’s the one that took one look at him and liked him. This Superman’s the one who thinks he’s a good thing; liked to see his crest on his chest and hear his name immediately and first thing. 

Even if it’s just that this Superman thinks he’s a good whore more than anything else. 

“You know, I’ve really never met anyone as grateful for the opportunity to give me what I want as you, Kon-El,” Superman muses. He still sounds amused, and he crooks his fingers inside him. Kon comes that easy, even after everything else, his greedy and hurting cunt clenching down helplessly around those inexorable fingers and whole body shaking and stuttering with it, and he feels Superman’s smile widen against his temple. 

He also feels like throwing up. 

“Don’t go soft, princess,” Superman instructs like that’s even something Kon can control, and rubs the pads of his fingers along his inner walls again and again and over and over while Kon’s still trying to both recover from the orgasm and process the new endearment without his brain shorting out. His cunt throbs with much more pain than pleasure and his thighs tremble and his vision swims. 

He doesn’t go soft at all. 

“That’s my boy,” Superman hums approvingly, and Kon really almost does throw up. Then Superman slips his fingers back out of his abused and aching cunt and pets it a few more times, his slick and sticky fingers filthy with the mess of it. 

Kon whines, just barely. It’s the only sound he can manage to make, and he can’t move at all. Everything’s too much, and he’s too heavy and exhausted and achy and oversensitive and it’s just too much. Even the inhuman warmth of Superman’s body just inside his personal space makes him feel nauseous and overwhelmed and like he just wants to melt into nothing and never, ever have to do anything again. Never have to feel anything again. 

Superman smiles against his temple again, and offers up his slick and sticky hand with the same obvious certainty that Kon wants what he’s offering as he did after Kon hit his knees for him for the first time. Every inch of Kon’s body is too heavy and weak and burnt out to move. He didn’t feel this weak when he was fucking dying. If he even so much as lifts a finger right now, he is positive he’ll pass right back the fuck out and maybe not wake up until those engines finally start again. 

But not for Superman, he’s just as positive, and somehow manages to open his mouth and lift his head just enough to meet him. Superman pushes his fingers into his mouth and down his throat just as inexorably as he pushed them into his cunt, just the same way he fucked his cunt with them, and Kon doesn’t even choke. 

“Tighter for me,” Superman murmurs, and it’s not even a deliberate choice for Kon to clench up around his cock, even though it hurts to. “Oh, just like that. Good boy. You really were made perfect, weren’t you.” 

Kon sobs. 

There is literally not a damn other thing he could do, hearing something like that in the same voice Clark uses when he’s talking to Jon. 

“There, there. You can take it, can’t you, sweetheart,” Superman hums against his jaw, pushing his mouth across it; fucking him deep. If it were anyone but Superman he was holding onto right now, Kon would be bruising them hard enough to lift fingerprints off later. “You’ll take anything I ask you to, won’t you.” 

“Yes,” Kon chokes, and doesn’t even try to tell himself it’s a lie. He’s stupid, but not that stupid. 

“Just perfect,” Clark sighs again, and then Kon gets fucked so hard he passes out again. 

At least–he thinks that’s what happened, when he wakes up back in bed again. The engines still aren’t running, and the broken bed is still just as broken as they left it. The bathroom feels pretty fucked-up now too, or at least at the wall and counter do. Kon doesn’t really remember that happening, but the sense-memory of metal warping under his curled fingers feels fresh. He’s sprawled out on his back on the wrecked mattress and feels like he just got hit by a planet. 

And Superman’s laying beside him on his side, turned in towards him and just petting his soaked and sore and oversensitive cunt, his invulnerable, uncalloused fingertips stroking it over and over, softer than they have any right to be for being as strong as they are. 

Kon whimpers before he even manages to get his eyes open, and tilts his aching, twitching hips up to give Superman easier access to whatever he wants before he even does that. Superman chuckles, and it’s quiet and amused and affectionate. Kon gets a glimpse of the same affectionate amusement in his expression through his own blurry vision as his eyes slit half-open, and then Superman pushes three fingers into him at once. He doesn’t do it fast or hard, but it’s fucking inexorable. 

And it also fucking hurts, because Kon’s cunt is fucked even rawer than before, but all his body does is just open up and take it. Not that it would matter if it didn’t, obviously, because he couldn’t stop Superman from doing whatever he wanted to him if he tried, but . . . but it does anyway. He’s never been this wet in his entire fucking life, even after all this and how long they’ve been going at it; even though it hurts this fucking bad to even be touched at all right now. 

“Welcome back, sweetheart,” Superman murmurs, pressing a kiss in against his temple. Kon screws his eyes shut again and bites his own tongue. “I was starting to miss you.” 

It's a bedroom. A big one, one wall all wide, shuttered windows and the furniture utilitarian but just as big itself. There's not much in the way of personal items or knickknacks, which fits with the interdimensional refugees story, but the clothes in the closet and what few possessions there are almost look like . . .

Is this Superman's room, Kon wonders for just a moment, and then thinks–no, no. It wouldn't be. Couldn't be.

No matter what this Superman is like, there's no version of him in the multiverse that would take Kon home with him this easily.

"Home sweet home," Superman says wryly, and Kon's stomach flips.

"This is–yours?" he manages, and tries desperately not to process that idea. Superman gives him an amused look.

"I don't want interrupted right now," he says. "So yes."

And then, very suddenly, Kon's getting grabbed up off the floor and his legs are spread wide, knees hooked over the other Superman's thick arms and hands reflexively grabbing onto those big shoulders, and Superman's big thick cock is rubbing up right against Kon's dripping cunt, sliding against his too-wet, too-sensitive folds.

Kon makes a noise.

Superman smiles at him.

"Aren't you sweet," he says approvingly. "So wet for me."

"Superman," Kon chokes helplessly, and kind of hates himself for it. Superman tilts his head, his expression idly amused and his dick hot and hard and pressed in so, so close to where Kon doesn't want it, and also desperately wants it. Or–or maybe "want" is the wrong word, but–

"You don't have to be so formal, Kon," Superman says, still looking amused. "You can call me 'Daddy' when my cock isn't in your mouth."