Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.

Spoilers: Vague references to the current run of Teen
Titans.

Summary: Kon's trying. Really.

Ratings Note/Warnings: NC-17. Content some readers
may find disturbing.

Author's Note: Happy birthday, Livia! Um. Yeah.

Acknowledgments: To Livia, L.C., and Reilael for
audiencing and encouragement.

*

Most of the time, Kon doesn't really think about... it.
Everything.

He hasn't been around all that long (and he's never
sure whether to count the time in the tube or not,
because... because), but it's been proven, time and
again, that he's better off letting other people do the
thinking. He's the muscle, not the brain, and trying
to do things differently just gets those things all
fucked up.

He's okay with that, really. He's *surrounded* by
people who know more than he does, and always
has been.

Hell, these days even Bart has him beat. Which is...
okay, it's weird, and a little lonely-making, but it's
not like he didn't always know Bart would be
something pretty amazing *one* day. He kind of
likes the look Bart gets on his face these days when
he's watching people. Like he's filing everything
away, cross-referenced with the library's worth of
*knowledge* he has in his head now.

And somehow it's completely different from how
Tim does it, but he doesn't really have words for
it. Just the image of Bart smiling at everyone, and
how it's completely different from the way Tim
smiles -- when he smiles.

Kon snorts at himself. *So* not the brains of the
operation.

But... it's hard not to *try* to think about some
things.

He's pretty sure he has issues. Big ones, and
important ones. Like, beyond the whole DNA thing
which... Luthor's dead. It shouldn't matter
anymore, except for the fact where it totally does.
Tim doesn't get that. His family is made up of the
real one and the *other* real one, and in the
*other* real one, no one is actually related to
anyone else. No one is anyone's *actual* brother,
or father, or sister, or whatever.

As near as he can tell.

Okay, so mainly Kon just *hopes*, because, really,
it *does* make a difference. It isn't like he's spent
all that much time with the Bats -- and thank God --
but he's spent *enough* time to hope to God they
all get to go home to separate places when
everything's all done.

Family isn't supposed to be... like that.

Which, okay, that's probably a dumbass thing to
think, considering... everything. Still. Kon isn't the
smart one by any stretch of the imagination, but
it's still *different*. Or it's supposed to be.

That's what Clark's trying to teach him. He thinks.
One of the things. Sometimes Kon really, *really*
wishes Clark would just give him a little printout
like the teachers do in school. A syllabus with a
nice, neat list titled "This Is What Superboy Needs
To Learn."

The object lessons are good and all, and even
kind of obvious, but... he thinks maybe that's the
problem. Some of them are *too* obvious.

This is the happy, healthy home Kon's supposed
to be a part of.

This is the happy, healthy normal life Kon's
supposed to want, and to fight for.

This is...

Something.

And it can't be everything, not all of it. People
make jokes about Superman all the time. Big
Blue Boy Scout and stuff, and how Batman is the
smart one. And he knows that Clark doesn't
really mind that, or even argue about it --
Batman wouldn't be *half* so scary if he wasn't
as smart as he *is* -- but.

*Batman* isn't the World's Greatest Hero.

And Kon knows there's more he's supposed to
figure out. More to... this.

It isn't the same mattress Clark slept on. It isn't
even the same mattress *he* slept on when he
first moved in here. When you have superpowers,
and nightmares, things... happen.

One more thing to feel guilty about, but mostly
it's just...

Sometimes Kon looks around this room and he
can't *breathe*. All the posters are his, and all
the *mess* is his, but Clark did his homework
at *that* desk, and Clark said his prayers on
*this* floor, and Clark grew into the World's
Greatest Hero right here. Sometimes Kon thinks
he can -- not smell him. But *feel* him.

He must have been...

Kon can't actually picture Clark as a kid, really.
There's what the teachers all say about him -- while
shaking their heads at *him* -- and there are the
stories the Kents tell about him, and there are
pictures, of course.

Old newspapers and magazines showing a guy
with no lines on his forehead, and no lines around
wide, clear eyes, and a smile for everything.
Everyone.

Clark.

He can't... no, he *can* see it. It makes perfect
sense for a man like Clark to have been a boy
like *that*. And the surface of everything... it
really *looks* like Clark is trying to make *him*
be that person, or at least *like* that person,
but...

That can't be right. It just *can't*.

Clark isn't stupid, and Kon doesn't even...

He spends a lot of time looking at himself in
mirrors. He's heard Mr. Kent -- Uncle Jonathan --
make little comments about it. Not *good* for
a boy to be that vain. And it's so funny he thinks
he wants to hang himself, because, really... just
no.

He kind of has Clark's nose, and his hair is always
just one delayed hair-cut away from Spit-Curl
Central, but. His eyes aren't right. His mouth, his
eyebrows... they aren't... right.

Tim thinks he should tell Clark. And he *does*
have a point. He *knows* Clark knows he's
keeping secrets. But the words "Luthor's dead"
make Clark *twitch*. That little tightness around
his mouth that's all about... something.

And Kon thinks he wants to have a little more
time. He wants *Clark* to have a little more time,
maybe enough to get over the whole 'nemesis of
my LIFE' thing -- assuming that's even possible --
before he gives the man one more reason to look
at Kon... wrong.

Right.

Whatever.

He wants... he's thought about it. Like, maybe one
day *he* could start a conversation with Clark,
about how he gets it, about how you *can't* get
over something like... like *Luthor*, because some
things just stay with you. How they're *supposed*
to stay with you, because that's how you know
you're... human.

A person.

And maybe Clark would look at him, all surprised,
because, hey, that's a pretty deep thought for
*you*, Superboy -- Conner.

And Kon would blush, because he so totally
*would*, but it would be okay. Because, hey, he
*does* get it.

And then Clark would clap him on the shoulder
and *look* at him.

And... see.

So, really, not a conversation that's going to happen
anytime soon.

Maybe he *should* let his hair grow back in. It
had seemed like a good idea to cut it before,
because... it's not like he *wanted* to encourage
people to think of him as the smaller, weaker,
stupider version of Superman. It was supposed to
be about growing *up*.

A little.

But that was before Tim got that... that fucking
*e-mail* and decided to play Boy Geneticist, and
now there's no denying it anymore. Family.

He's not supposed to *have* a family. That's the
whole point of him. He's *not* human, and the
only reason he has a belly button is that the lab
boys were feeling creative. And he's *over* that.
He'd gotten *used* to that.

Only now Kon thinks maybe... there's a difference
between feeling like an impostor and feeling like
an *invader*. Like those creepy birds who make
other birds raise their chicks, or something. And
Clark is *helping* them -- him.

Except that Luthor's dead and...

It's not like he believes in the whole genes=destiny
thing. Not really. Tim only had to hit him six or
seven times before it started to sink in. There's
Connor, and there's the whole speedster *thing*,
but... there's also the Batfamily. So.

It doesn't have to be about anything but what he
chooses.

And he's *never* going to be like Luthor. Period.

And he's also going to get to sleep right around...
never.

Kon sighs to himself and crawls out of bed.
Carefully. There's a whole routine to it now. That
board squeaks, and *that* board screams, and
the whole house is one big attempt to TELL on
him, but, well.

He knows it now. He's been here for a while.
It's... supposed to be his home. Kon pauses at the
windowsill, and there's still a faint boot-print there
from the *last* time he took off, and he's willing
to bet the Kents woke up as soon as *he* did,
because... because it's the kind of thing they *do*,
when there's a superkid in their house that they're
supposed to take care of.

And because they *care* about him. Really.

But sometimes he really *does* have to just get
out and breathe, and he knows they understand
that, too.

And maybe one day he'll get over enough of his
*complete* lameness to actually talk to them about
it.

Tonight he has the sky.

The higher he gets, the less it feels like escaping
and the more it feels like just... flying. He could
be anywhere, because when you're this high, the
air feels the same pretty much everywhere. Clear
and cold and... it's just a matter of not looking
down. All that green and all of those frighteningly
*neat* squares... yick. Talk about spoiling the
illusion.

He'd always thought that being out in the middle
of nowhere would be more... well, not interesting,
but interesting to *look* at.

At least from this high up.

Cities sprawl. And... they look like living things,
with the lights that don't blink and wink up at
him randomly *enough*, and the way they crawl
over the landscape like they're trying to take
over.

And okay, so it can be disturbing -- especially
when he flies over a city like Gotham -- but it
still *feels* better than all of the *squares*.

Chunks of the landscape sliced up and partitioned
off and *controlled*. Cities are man-made, sure,
but they *look* more natural, and really, maybe
he'd be better off if he just lobotomized himself.
His brain is *defective*. It would be okay.

They could just slap him awake when they
needed him, wipe off the drool, and point him at
whatever needed punching. At least he wouldn't
have to go to *school*.

Clark would probably just put him with the Special
Ed kids.

The *other*, other cool thing about being this
high up is that no one looks at you funny when
you laugh like a crazy person.

"Something funny?"

Unless, of course, they're *also* flying. Kon winces
and turns and Clark's doing that I'm-standing-on-air-
like-a-God thing that Kon suspects makes *him*
look like a giant Supertool. "Uh... just thinking
about school."

Clark raises an eyebrow at him, and, okay, so it
would be out of character, *fine*, but --

"No, really."

Clark nods slowly and flies closer, and puts his
hands on Kon's shoulders.

It's funny. He's been wearing the 'S' since day one,
but looking at Clark's *still* makes him feel more
like a fanboy than a junior superhero. Kon
swallows and looks up.

Clark's eyebrow is still a little raised. "You know,
Conner..."

"Yeah?"

"*Thinking* about school is just fine -- and far be
it from me to discourage it -- but showing up on
time and awake *might* just be more important."

"Er. Time to go home, hunh?"

Clark sighs and squeezes his shoulders. It's weird.
He always... Kon's pretty much gotten used to the
fact that he's going to touch meta-humans too
lightly, at least at first, because he's spent so much
time trying not to break the *real* humans.

But when Clark touches him, there's never a
moment -- that *he* can see -- where Clark's
reminding himself that Kon's part of the family. As
it were.

It's always just hard enough.

"Look, I know it's late --"

"It's after *one*, Conner."

This from a man who *regularly* hangs out with
Batman. Kon shakes it off. "I just... couldn't sleep."

Clark frowns at him. It's really fucking ridiculous to
want to shuffle your feet when you're a mile off the
ground, but... it's Clark.

"Really," Kon says, and goes back to staring at the
'S.' Clark squeezes his shoulders again, and rubs
them a little. It feels... it feels good. It always
does. Like maybe Clark could give a really nice
rub-down, and not have to soak his hands
afterward and he really is an idiot. "Uh."

"Conner."

"Yeah."

"You... I know you've had a lot on your mind
lately."

Kon swallows and thinks very seriously about
trying to *will* his hair to grow, or make his
eyes bluer, or... look right back up at Clark,
because it's not like he can really *ignore* Clark's
fingers under his chin.

"You know you can talk to me, Conner. Don't
you?"

And that's just... how the hell is he supposed to
answer *that*?

And Clark's still frowning, but now it's a *worried*
frown. "Conner..." And now Clark's stroking his
*hair* and it shouldn't be --

Kon shivers and gives up on looking Clark in the
eye. "It's nothing, really, Clark, I just..." And then
Clark *grabs* his chin and *makes* Kon look up.
And it almost *hurts*, but nowhere near as much
as the *look* in Clark's eyes.

"Why don't you trust me? What do you *need*?"

"I don't --"

"No. Talk to me. I've tried to give you your
space --"

"*Space*? You're right *here*. You're always --"
Kon bites his lip and closes his eyes and he really
*didn't* mean to say that, but it's out now and
he's just not going to look at Clark. That works,
right? Right.

"Open your eyes."

Or, you know, *wrong*. "Clark, please --"

"Look at me."

And it's stupid, it's *so* stupid, but saying 'no' to
Clark is like trying to stop *breathing*, only he
can actually *hold* his breath for a pretty long
time and he can't keep his eyes closed at all.

"*Talk* to me, Conner."

One day you're going to look at me and not see
anything but the one man in the world you've
ever wanted to kill. "I can't --"

And Clark's hand is in his *hair*, and it's *pulling*
and those eyes are... it's that flat, red shine that
Kon doesn't think anyone else can actually see.
The moment before the moment *before* Clark
starts setting the world on fire with his heat
vision, and it's fucked-up. He should be scared.
He is.

He wishes he was *just* scared.

"You *can*," Clark says.

And okay, a lot of stress. It's been a tough few
months for Clark, and Kon's *not* making it any
easier, and if there was anything he *could* do...
"Please, Clark," is what falls out of his stupid
mouth, *again*, and he knows it sounds wrong.

He *knows*. He's not an idiot, and he *doesn't*
want to make things any worse, and Clark closes
his eyes and takes a really kind of ragged breath.
Control breath. And when he opens his eyes
they're just blue again. But he still looks... like
someone not to be *this* close to right now.

But when Kon tries to fly back, Clark's hand just
tightens in his hair. "Um --"

"We're not done with this."

"Okay."

"It's *not* okay. You --" Clark lets go and flies
back a few feet, crossing his arms over his chest
and glaring.

And he doesn't actually like the idea of hugging
himself, but he kind of has to. "I'm --"

"Are you cold?"

Kon blinks. "What?"

"You're shivering."

"Oh. I... it's just..." He tries a smile and knows it
works about as well as his freaking math
homework. "You put out a lot of heat, man."

And Clark... looks at him. It's a *searching* look,
and that's bad and puts all kinds of 'investigative
journalist' thoughts in Kon's head, but it's also
just a *strange* look, and there are so many
different ways to feel naked and useless around
Clark.

Kon scrubs a hand back through his hair.
*Starts* to, but he *knows* it's a good way to
look like you're bald when you're really not, so
he just folds his arm back down around himself
and looks down at the ground.

Squares. Green. Brown. Neat little angles for
neat little farms and --

"I should... um. Get back to the house. So I'll
just -- stay right here because you're holding
on to me again. Um."

"Conner." Most of the time, when Clark calls
him 'Conner' it's like he's not trying at all. Like
Kon really *is* Conner, the way the dog is
Krypto. Like he just hasn't figured it out yet.

This time... it's heavier than that. Like... an
actual *weight*, pushing him right down. Only
that's even stupider than everything *else*,
because the only weight is what Clark's putting
on his shoulders. And that's more about
holding him still than anything else. "Yeah,"
he says, and stares at the 'S.' Again.

"I think... I think I'm starting to understand. A
little."

As near as Kon can tell, religion exists so
people have something to blame when the
universe fails to provide handy things like
supervillains, and vortexes that suck you *away*
from the bad conversations.

"But you *can* trust me, Conner. With
anything."

"Oh, God." And maybe also religion exists so
people have something to say when the guy
you're cloned from grabs your dick and squeezes.
"Clark."

"How long have you been hard, Conner?"
*Gentle* voice and looking at the 'S' just means
that he's looking at Clark *breathing*. His chest,
his --

"I'm not -- it doesn't --" Mean anything, you're
just *you* and my body still thinks I'm a
teenager and none of that comes out on anything
but a moan, because that first squeeze was
*just* the first.

"It's okay, Conner. I've got you."

And that was definitely a whimper, and it was
definitely *him* whimpering and -- "Clark,
please --"

"Shh."

It's... it has to be sick, doesn't it? It has to be
*wrong*, because he's Clark's *clone*, and
that's the next thing to being Clark's -- to
being --

He hears the zipper of his jeans being pulled
down, and Clark's *other* hand is on his hip,
and if his brain wasn't defective before, it is *now*,
and he has to *say* something, but Clark's hand
is hot and... and *strong*. Clark's hand is *on*
him and all Kon can do is grab weakly at Clark's
arms and -- "*Clark* --"

Clark *stroking* him, and it's -- he's *stronger*
than Kon and Kon can feel the muscles working
in Clark's arms and it feels --

"So good -- *God* --" And it just falls out of his
*mouth* and Kon feels himself blushing, but
ducking his head just brings him closer, and
Clark's so... he's a furnace, and a wall, and he's
not -- Kon pushes his face against Clark's chest
and groans.

"That's it, Conner. That's..." Clark doesn't finish
the thought, and his voice sounds a little... rough.
Kon can *feel* him breathing now, and he can
smell him, and Clark smells like he always does.
Like the sun, and like heat, and like... sweet,
good, *right* things.

Only now Kon can also smell his own... He
whimpers again, and squeezes Clark's arms
before he can think, and it's too hard, only... not.
It's *Clark*, and Kon *can't* squeeze him too
hard.

He's the only breakable person here, and Clark's
doing a fucking *great* job of proving that with
every slow, hard stroke.

And then Clark's other hand is on his head again,
pushing through his hair and then just... pushing.
Holding him. Kon gasps, and he knows he's
about ten seconds from losing the TK like he
hasn't in *years*, but he also knows he won't
fall.

He won't be going *anywhere* Clark doesn't want
him to go. He groans into the slickness of Clark's
uniform, and feels himself sweating, and --

"Conner." And Clark *grips* his hair and pulls
his head back and Kon wants to make himself
look less like an *idiot*, but he's so hard he
*hurts*, and it's... it's *Clark*.

Staring down at him with those perfect blue eyes
and intent and something that looks a lot like
hunger.

"Your mouth..."

Kon thinks he sounds like a dying animal, but it
makes Clark tighten his grip with his *other*
hand, and Kon moans and thrusts helplessly. Too
hard. Too -- but the grip Clark has on him won't
*let* it be too hard. "*Please* --"

"Faster?"

"Y-yes -- *yes*. Clark --"

"Shh. It's... too loud."

"Sorry. I'm -- mmph --"

Clark's hand over his mouth and Kon *stares*, and
Clark... smiles at him. Rueful *and* amused, and
Kon can't -- He licks Clark's palm and he thinks
he's probably as red as the freaking *cape*, but
Clark tastes...

He tastes a little like him.

Kon comes, just like that, clutching at Clark and
pumping into his fist and licking him, he can't
stop. He doesn't want to stop, because stopping
might make his brain try to put *words* to this,
and he can't deal with that at all.

He whimpers when Clark pulls his hand away
from his mouth, but it's just a little bit. Just for
a second, and then Clark's fingers are pressing
against his lip.

"Conner..."

Don't make me talk. Please don't make me talk.

And he isn't sure *what's* on his face, but it
makes Clark... moan. He doesn't look intent at
all anymore. There's... nothing like focus. Kon
breathes against Clark's fingers and eases one
hand down from Clark's bicep. Just... down,
and.

So much *heat*. He can hear himself breathing,
and he doesn't know if it's better or worse that
he can hear *Clark* breathing, too. Like he...
wants this. It shouldn't feel this good.

Or maybe it shouldn't feel this fucked up It --

"Conner." Those fingers are still on his lip and...
pressing. And it's. Clark never *orders* him to do
anything.

He doesn't have to.

And if he'd never really thought about controlling
his TK so he could do a decent job of kneeling in
the sky, well, maybe he should have. It's not like
*everything* doesn't come in handy, sooner or
later, and there's a part of his brain that's laughing
like it can't *stop*, but it's not really an important
part.

The important part is pushing his face against
Clark's groin, or maybe that's just the hand on
the back of his head. He smells like sex, and like
him, and nothing like him at *all*. If Kon smelled
this good to himself he'd probably be more
flexible.

And... he's still not laughing. He doesn't think he
could if he wanted to. On his knees to Clark, to
*Superman*, and how many people would kill to
be *right* here? Kon nuzzles him, as hard as he
wants, and Clark jerks against his face and Kon
thinks maybe he's going to die.

Or come again. Something like that. There are...
*words* bubbling up at the back of his throat,
but they feel like 'I'm sorry,' and 'don't stop liking
me,' and just a million different varieties of
useless, stupid, *and* pathetic, so it's just one
more reason to get Clark's shorts and tights
down, to get him out, so big and hard and thick
and... *slick*.

Right at the tip, like an invitation, and Kon takes
it, *licks* it.

"*Conner*."

And that hand is back in his hair again, grabbing
him, *holding* him, so Kon sucks on just the head
and feels Clark shooting pre-come on his tongue.
*Tastes* it, and moans and squeezes his eyes
shut and tries not to drool too much. It's not like
he hasn't done this before, but that thought just
leads to remembering the *look* on Clark's face
the day Kon had all but flown *into* the man
after stumbling out of one of Metropolis' better
clubs.

The taste in his mouth then hadn't been nearly
as good as it is now. As... Clark.

Kon whimpers and grabs his own hardening, idiot
dick, and Clark pets him. Strokes him. Says
'Conner,' over and over, but when Clark starts to
*thrust*, Kon doesn't have to hear anything but
the pound of blood in his ears and the wet sounds
and his own muffled groans.

Better. So much better.

Because it's not like he wants this to be anyone
but Clark, or... no. He's not thinking. He's *not*.
It's just that if he can have a Clark who *wants*
this from him, from *just* him, as opposed to...
no.

He sucks as hard as he can, and it's like
breathing, like coming *home*, because Clark
doesn't scream like that first, *human* guy had
done. Clark moans.

And strokes his head harder.

And... pumps. Hard, vicious little motions of his
hips, until Kon's universe narrows to muscle and
sex and Clark's *dick*, fucking his mouth and
maybe fucking his mind, too. It has to be good
for something.

Kon takes his other hand off Clark's hip and
brings it down to his balls, strokes and squeezes
himself, and when the thrusts get deeper, Kon
just swallows. Again and again.

He doesn't have to think.

"Oh, Conner..."

He doesn't. Even when Clark pulls out, he can just
focus on licking his lips, and on stroking himself
faster, and on --

Getting yanked up into Clark's arms and *kissed*,
and Kon's eyes fly open for *that*, but thankfully
Clark kisses with his eyes closed. Kisses...

He didn't want to know that.

He whimpers and waits for Clark to *stop*, and
buries his face against Clark's shoulder when he
does. And whimpers again, because he's still so
*hard*, and because he knows that won't last at
*all* when Clark wraps his fist around him again.

It doesn't.

Kon comes gasping, and shaking. A little. Too
much.

Clark strokes his back with one hand, and touches
his mouth with... the other. You don't have to talk
when you're doing other things with your mouth.
Even if 'other things' is sucking your own come
off Superman's fingers until he pulls out.

His mouth feels... exactly as used as it should.

"Conner."

Kon breathes, and stares at Clark's chin, and...
looks up.

Gentle eyes, *rueful* eyes. "I didn't... quite see
that coming."

Before or *after* you started jerking me off?
"Um... no."

Clark strokes his cheek, with the backs of his fingers.
Warm skin, and still so *good*. Kon leans into it.
"Sometimes..." Clark sighs. "Things get a little
complicated, don't they?"

"Just a little."

"I don't want to make things harder for you,
Conner." A slightly harder stroke.

"I know." He does, actually. That's the part that's
going to drive him insane.

"Are you... all right?"

He thinks about repressing the laugh that wants to
come out for that, but in the end... smiling's
probably a *good* idea right now. So he does.

Clark's expression is somewhere between troubled
and distracted. Kon concentrates and hears...
sirens. Maybe. They're not *too* far from
Metropolis.

"You have to go," he says.

Clark blinks at him, and narrows his eyes.
"Conner --"

"Um. My hearing's getting... better."

The briefest moment of surprise, and then Clark's
smiling ruefully again. "It's easy to forget..." And
then he squeezes Kon's shoulder. "I'll visit soon."

Kon swallows around the lump of feeling in his
throat. "I'll... uh. Tell the Kents you said hi?"

And Clark beams at him, and flies. Faster than he
can manage.

And it's just... way too much. *Way* too much.
He's going to *visit*, and then... and then
*what*, exactly? What the fuck did he just *do*
here?

Thinking about it... thinking about it puts too many
images in his head, and too many... Clark doesn't
think he's *hiding* anything anymore. Clark thinks
*this* was his secret, and that's just...

Convenient. Really incredibly convenient, if you can
ignore the fact that sooner or later Clark's going to
want to...

Because he wants Kon to be happy. Because, no,
it can't just be Clark liking Kon's wrong, *wrong*
mouth. That would be too *easy*, and Clark
isn't... like that. If he was...

Kon wouldn't be going back to Smallville right
now.

Maybe Tim can get him a nice room in Arkham. He
could draw things with crayons. He could...

Crawl right back into the window to Conner Kent's
room and strip out of Conner Kent's clothes and
lay down in Conner Kent's bed and try really,
*really* fucking hard not to think about Conner
Kent's brand new sex life.

With Clark.

Who... isn't family.

Maybe that's the point. Maybe he was right the
first time.

He's not supposed to have a family. He's just
supposed to... act like he does? Think like he
does?

Pretend he does. And... lie.

He still wants that syllabus from Clark. Wants it
*bad*. Because.

He pretty much has to be *missing* the point.

Right?

end.