Coconut Jelly

So "Superman" had been designed as what those fucking weirdos had by-committee decided that the "ideal" male alpha should be, which in execution means that Kon looks like Rambo and the cover of Atlas Shrugged had a pup and bottle-fed it steroids and his knot is, like, actually inconveniently big, because there is in fact such a thing and apparently nobody at Cadmus was having enough sex to know that? Somehow? Like, not a single person.

Also he has an equally inconveniently high libido and obnoxiously strong pheromones and an unnecessarily aggressive and stubborn personality and just . . . really. Really, no one thought to ask, he doesn't know, an average five year-old if there might be any flaws in that particular design plan for the "ideal" alpha? No one? Again, not a single person?

Lois Lane, for the record, is about a third of Kon's size and smells like a pleasant spring morning filled with delicate flowers and a gentle breeze, and literally everyone and their pack alpha knew Superwoman had the hots for her knot from day one. Like, Kon's seen the news footage and read the articles; it has not ever once been subtle. But somehow that fact did not occur to anyone at Cadmus, so again, Kon is genetically designed to look like a porn star from a very specific niche of very traditionally heterosexual and actively sexist productions. Very old-school ones, just for the kicker there. And his pheromones are, again, actually obnoxious.

Like, Kon doesn't really wear scent blockers due to the whole "not actually having a secret identity" thing, but lately he's been considering taking up the habit out of politeness, if nothing else.

Usually Kon just doesn't mention the whole "genetically designed to fuck Superwoman" thing, since a) it's personally embarrassing for him and b) he's personally embarrassed for Cadmus. They were trying to make the ideal mate for Superwoman and they made him? Really? He was their best design for that?

That is so far past embarrassing that it's coming back around the other way.

When Kon's sixteen and not even "Kon" yet, that fact's just a casual mortification that he occasionally feels when he gets inadvertently reminded of the "education" uploads that were supposed to make him consider Superwoman the hottest piece of ass on the planet and also make him want to "keep her in line", but otherwise it's irrelevant to his life. Because, like—he's sixteen, and she's Superwoman. Even if he did want to bang her, there is literally no way in this or any reality that it would ever happen. Like, ever. The chance is so far less than zero that it is literally in the negatives.

Also, if Kon did wanna bang Superwoman, he cannot imagine that ever making him want to keep her in line. Given his dating history, in fact, he's pretty sure he would've been cheering her on in literally every altercation she ever got into and actively advocating for her to throat-punch any implication of the line into the stratosphere. Like, that seems like much likelier an outcome there.

Look, Kon has a type, and that type is "can kick my fucking ass and make me fucking like it". He is not ashamed of that fact in any way whatsoever.

So Kon gets older. Fills out, gets stronger; develops more Kryptonian powers and stronger TTK and better control of both. Gets a whole lot bigger than Superwoman, after a few very uncomfortable growth spurts, but still continues not wanting to fuck her even after Kalura Jor-El gives him a real name and even after he meets Clara Kent and her demurely pleated skirts and geeky glasses and even after his first time seeing her rip open her neat little button-up to reveal the bright and bold "S" stretched tight over Superwoman's aesthetically perfect tits.

Like, Kon can acknowledge that Clara's goddamn gorgeous, whether she's wearing the "S" or the geeky glasses or even just beat-up denim and farmgirl flannel. He's not blind or oblivious. Just he just genuinely has no interest in fucking her and honestly? The idea of it kinda grosses him out. Cadmus was way too detailed in those education uploads that frequently function more like intrusive thoughts, though, so he figures pretty much anybody with his style of rebellious nature would feel similarly.

Anyway, a Kama Sutra's worth of creative ways to get a female omega off is not the worst thing anyone ever put in Kon's head.

Possibly the creepiest, but not the worst.

And yet Cadmus still gave him an inconveniently big dick and genuinely ridiculous pheromones, so Kon's just gonna assume the Kama Sutra part of his education came from a different department. Or maybe just some lone female omega intern who took pity on him and his clearly lacking sex ed uploads before he could embarrass himself with them.

Bless that theoretical intern, whoever she is and wherever she might be, even if she is a little bit creepy. Kon hopes she gets every single grant she ever applies for.

So yeah. Sixteen to seventeen to eighteen, the whole "super-stud" thing is just a casual mortification that comes up less and less as time goes by. It's not even a secret or anything, because neither Paul Westfield nor Dabney Donovan ever kept their arrogant mouths shut a day in their lives and none of the relevant information is redacted in Kon's file either, and Batman, if nothing else, is Batman. Like, it'd been desperately embarrassing to be a technically-newborn teenage alpha who knew that everyone in the whole damn superhero community and in fact the entire stupid world all knew he was literally designed to keep Superwoman of all people barefoot and pregnant while actively stealing her fucking job, but whatever. It'd just been a thing and sometimes people have been assholes about it and he's had to hear a lot of stupid shit and very gross jokes over the years that have only gotten grosser since he turned "eighteen", but that's all.

There is an entire genre of porn based off of Kon's existence and not in the fun way.

Meanwhile, Kon still remembers meeting Superwoman and catching the scent of her pheromones for the first time and how they'd been, well . . . the best thing he'd ever smelled, to be honest, but also the least sexually appealing.

He'd thought it was a little weird at the time, because Cadmus's uploads had been very clear about the fact that he should've wanted to pin her down and sink his teeth into her neck. That he'd been genetically engineered to pin her down and sink his teeth into her neck, more specifically. That they should've been perfect compatible mates. But also he'd already known that most if not all of Cadmus's bosses had been stupid assholes and he'd thought Tana was really fucking hot and had been having fun just flirting around in general, so he hadn't really worried about the whole Superwoman thing and had just gotten on with the business of not getting murdered by an asshole cyborg who'd accidentally given himself gender dysphoria and had designs on fucking up everything Superwoman had ever stood for and going full Engine City on Metropolis. Like, that had definitely taken precedence at the time.

Kon just doesn't think about what Clara actually is to him too often, he guesses. He knows he doesn't want to fuck her and he knows he doesn't think "compatible mate" when he catches her scent or she smiles at him or tells him he's done a good job at something, and he very much appreciates the way she's always been cool about not holding Cadmus's creepy stud-related job-stealing intentions against her stupid kind-of teenage kind-of clone, but that's about as far as he's ever let himself get. He knows there's not a real place for him in her life either way, and he's gone out of his way to avoid trying to find one because he doesn't want anyone to get, like, weird ideas about what he actually wants said place to be.

It's just kind of hard to point at someone who you were custom-designed on the genetic level to nail and say "that's who I wanna be when I grow up", in Kon's experience.

Not that he's never done that, just people usually laugh at him for it. Apparently a male alpha who's built like a Mack truck with a gym addiction and a trailer full of steroids wanting to be anything like a female omega is the funniest shit ever to some people, even when said female omega is very literally capable of bench-pressing both them and the entire tectonic plate that they're currently standing on.

And also probably the entire planet that they're currently standing on.

Some people are assholes, Kon is intimately aware. But it's whatever, he figures. It doesn't really matter.

He does wish he could be closer to Clara without having to worry about people getting the wrong idea about why he wants to be closer to Clara, but . . .

But it's whatever, he figures.

And then when Kon's nineteen and has gotten much, much bigger than Clara and a whole hell of a lot stronger than he started out, Lex Luthor does some really disturbing mental math, then apparently decides "eh, good enough" and triggers the mind control that nobody else fucking knew about.

And then he tells Kon's slightly brain-dead and entirely feral ass to go find Superwoman and "just do what feels . . . natural".

Kon has absolutely no idea how Luthor knew his rut was due, and even less idea how he knew Clara's heat was due. It is very fucking creepy that he knew either of those things, actually, and even creepier wondering how long he might've been waiting for those things to just so happen to coincide.

Kon's pretty sure it's safe to say the bastard doesn't get the results he was expecting either way, though. 

Like, Luthor had very clearly figured this situation was going to end in some form of sexual assault, the fucking bastard, if not outright cycle rape. And given the fact that the brain-dead and feral version of Kon had found Clara via busting up random parts of downtown Metropolis in the middle of a typical Tuesday afternoon, well, Luthor'd probably intended that assault to be public.

So that's fucked-up as fuck.

Kon isn't really having any of those thought processes when Clara first floats down out of the sky, though, on account of being mind-controlled into feral drop and being half out of his mind on pre-rut hormones while operating on very little but Lex Luthor's plausible-deniability-vague orders. He's confused, he's frustrated, he's territorial and horny and pissed the fucking fuck off, and he's going to make all that everyone else's problem, and also the city budget's problem.

And then Clara shows up, and he's not any of those things at all.

Specifically, Clara shows up, Kon drops the car he was smashing to pieces and chirps like a fucking toddler, and then he throws himself up into the air at her and full-body hugs her like he thinks he's a koala or a fanny pack or a fucking pup or something. 

So that's embarrassing. 

Or like, it will be later, anyway. 

Especially with all the news footage and active livestreams and cell phone pics. 

"Superboy?" Clara asks carefully, gripping his arms. Kon hangs off her like he's not a good eight inches taller than her and rumbles happily into her S-shield. Clara seems mystified. Kon doesn't know why. He isn't doing anything that he doesn't always wanna be doing, after all. Nothing that doesn't feel natural. "Kon. Can you hear me?" 

That's a weird question, Kon thinks. Of course he can hear her. Like, he has super-hearing. 

He chirps in acknowledgement anyway, because she asked, then nuzzles comfortably into her chest. Clara still seems a little confused, but she doesn't complain or push him off so he figures it's fine. 

She smells really good. 

She smells really good. 

He hugs her harder. Nuzzles her S-shield again, and chirps again too. She pats his arm a little, frowning in inexplicable concern. Kon guesses he broke some stuff, so maybe she's upset about that? But she's not acting like she's upset about that. And she just smells really good right now, like even better than usual. And Clara's always been the best thing Kon's ever smelled, so that is really good. 

Really, really good. 

"Kon," Clara says gently, smoothing his hair back off his forehead and out of his eyes. "Can you tell me what happened, Kid? Are you hurt? Did something upset you?" 

Kon can't imagine what would be upsetting him right now, when Clara's right here and letting him in this close to her. Like, what could possibly? 

Maybe, like, another Engine City or a whooooole lot of kryptonite. Those would both suck. But otherwise, naw. He's good. 

Really good. 

He squeezes Clara tighter and rumbles contentedly over the hand she's still stroking through his hair. Some people are talking, he guesses? Like, he can hear some people talking. Because super-hearing, again. He doesn't really care what they're saying, though. He cares about Clara and doing what he's supposed to do, what feels natural, and nothing else. 

Clara frowns a bit more and keeps stroking his hair. Kon nuzzles her S-shield again. Her crest. The El crest. Her family crest, that she lets him wear. Because he's family. 

They're family. 

Kon rumbles louder. 

"Kon," Clara says again, still all gentle and soothing. "Kid. Are you hurt?" 

Kon really doesn't know why she'd think he was. But Clara's really smart, so maybe she's noticed something he hasn't? Probably she's noticed lots of things he hasn't, really, she's always noticing things he hasn't and—

What was the question again? 

Hm. 

Well, probably nothing important, Kon decides, and buries his face in her crest again with another low, contented rumble. 

"Jesus, please tell me Kryptonians ain't exhibitionists when they're on their cycles," somebody down on the street mutters. "Nobody needs to see this shit in public." 

"Don't be disgusting, the kid is like five minutes old," somebody else snaps back. 

"He don't look five minutes old," the first somebody snorts. "Actually he looks like the porno version of an alien stud service." 

"If you actually think Superwoman is gonna take advantage of—" someone else starts. 

"Well what do you think she's doing right now?" 

"Not like it's actually 'taking advantage', anyway, everybody knows the dude's a horndog. And like, what else did she let him in the El pack for?" 

"I mean, it's what he's programmed for anyway, right, so—" 

"It's Superwoman, you assholes, not some goddamn—" 

"He's got his face in her tits, it ain't exactly—" 

"They can hear you, morons!" someone else entirely hisses, and the voices mostly cut off. Clara's mouth goes tight, and her fingers curl in Kon's hair. He wonders why. Her fingers feel really nice, though. 

And she smells so good. 

He nuzzles her again and chirps contentedly into her chest, and she keeps stroking his hair. It feels better and better and he can't even remember why he was so mad a minute ago. Like, he felt pretty shitty, he guesses? But now Clara's here, so he doesn't. The uncomfortable burn of oncoming rut is just a vague, irrelevant annoyance now, and this is Clara's territory so he doesn't have to worry about anybody starting shit in it, even if he's maybe kind of a little out of it. She'd kick their asses if they did. 

And maybe pet his hair some more again after, too. 

That'd be nice. 

"Alright," Clara mutters under her breath. "Just—okay. Kid. Kon. Kiddo. Can you hear me?” 

Kon chirps again, ‘cuz like—he can, obviously. Like—the super-hearing thing, again. And also, like, she’s right here, so he doesn’t even actually need the super-hearing. But she asked, sooooo . . . yeah, of course he’s gonna answer her.

He nuzzles her chest again and rumbles contentedly, and she frowns a little but she keeps stroking his hair, so he figures she’s not too annoyed with him or anything. Like—probably there’s just a supervillain or a corrupt government official around, or maybe Morgan Edge is on the news again or whatever. Clara really hates Morgan Edge. 

Kon does not actually get why specifically Morgan Edge is terrible but also Kon doesn’t know very much about the details of ethics in journalism so like . . . yeah, he guesses there’s probably some nuance there? Aside from the shitty predatory contracts he likes to shove in people’s faces and get them to sign without reading, anyway. 

. . . okay, actually yeah, Kon does kinda get why specifically Morgan Edge is terrible, at least from his experience of the dude, ‘cuz that did end up being kinda a problem for a little while in there. But Clara’s definitely never signed anything with the guy, so like why would she—? 

Clara curls her fingers in behind his pierced ear and just barely scritches her nails in, and Kon forgets whatever other boring shit was in his head and rumbles. 

It feels really, really nice, is all. 

Like . . . Super nice. 

Hah.

Clara scritches in behind his ear and just above his scent gland again, and Kon makes maybe the happiest, most content rumble of, like—literally just his whole entire life, it feels like. Like—all the way, completely, entirely.

Huh, he thinks, because maybe that should be—weird, maybe, he thinks. Maybe there's a reason that's supposed to be . . . weird, maybe. But then Clara strokes through his hair again and he forgets . . . whatever it was that was "weird" or whatever, he guesses.

It doesn't matter anyway. He's doing what he's supposed to do. Doing what feels natural. That's all that he has to do.

It feels really . . . good, though. He didn't . . . like, if he'd ever . . . thought about . . .

He doesn't hug Clara, Kon remembers vaguely. Like—that's not a thing he does, or they do. It's . . .

He doesn't know why, though, because doing it really does feel like the most natural thing in the world. He nuzzles into her chest again, her heartbeat perfect and warm in his ears, and just—lets himself listen to it, for once.

Clara memorizes people's heartbeats, she told him. Or—

She memorizes important people's heartbeats, Kon means.

He'd used to listen to hers sometimes when she'd been around, before she'd told him that. Like—not when she wasn't around, because that would've been weird and invasive and—but he'd used to listen to it, when she'd been around. Or—when he'd been around her, anyway.

Then Clara'd told him how she memorizes important people's heartbeats and always listens for those, and Kon had . . . stopped, after that. He doesn't really remember why he had, when doing it now feels just as natural as hugging her does.

But he doesn't really hug her either, does he, he halfway-remembers again, though he still can't remember why.

Kon knows that Clara doesn't listen to his heartbeat on purpose like she does with important people because he knows he's not important ( even to someone like Clara, who thinks EVERYONE'S important, he's not important like—THAT, or . . . )—he knows Clara doesn't listen to his heartbeat on purpose like she does with important people, but . . .

But he wonders if she knows it at least a little, or if she's ever listened to it at all. If she's ever . . .

Kon buries his face in tight against Clara's chest and hugs her tighter too, and just . . . nuzzles her, a little, and lets himself at least listen to her heartbeat a little. Just . . . just a little.

It's what feels natural, so it's what he's supposed to do.

It's what he wants to do.

Clara pets the back of his head, and he feels like maybe she doesn't mind him being here either. Being here makes him feel really good, but he knows it's not . . . it's not . . . but if she at least doesn't mind . . . he thinks it's alright, if she doesn't mind.

He thinks it is, anyway.

Clara curls her nails in behind his ear again, and he sinks into her like melting taffy and rumbles.

"Alright," she says again, her voice still very careful; her nails still drawing through his curls and down over his buzzed-down scalp over and over. "You're alright, Kon. You're safe. I've got you."

Kon rumbles blissfully, and feels the best he's ever, ever felt.

He feels like maybe she likes him a little bit too, like this.

"I've got you," Clara repeats quieter, and draws her fingers slower through his hair, and wraps him up a little tighter in her arms and strokes the back of his shoulders. "Take your time, Kid. I'll be here 'til you're feeling better."

Kon doesn't really know what that means, because he actually can't imagine feeling any better than this.

He really does feel like . . . like she likes him a little bit, is all.

He nuzzles into her chest again and chirps contentedly, tightening his arms around her in response, because—she did it, so it feels natural to do it back. Because it feels good, to do it back.

To get to do it at all.

"Okay, Kid," Clara says in that same quiet voice, and keeps petting him and keeps holding him, and keeps acting like she likes him a little bit. "You're alright. You're good. I'm right here."

Kon really, really can't imagine feeling any better than this.

He chirps happily a few more times, nuzzling in as close as he can, and her arms are the safest place in the world and her heartbeat is so warm in his ears. It makes him want to just curl up against her and listen to it 'til she tells him she has to get back to superhero stuff. Or 'til he he has to, he guesses. Just . . . whichever she wants, either way.

It just feels really good, getting treated like Clara likes him a little bit.

"Mm," Clara says, sounding briefly—bothered, maybe, or worried, or . . . something. Kon doesn't get it, because he's never felt less bothered or less worried in his whole freakin' life. He's never felt this good in his whole freakin' life.

He just feels good, and nothing else. Like—just that, and nothing else at all. He doesn't actually think he's ever felt just "good" before.

It's really nice, though.

He really wants Clara to feel like that too. Actually he thinks he wants literally everybody ever to feel like that too, because it's just so nice, but he really, really wants Clara to. Like—Clara the most. Clara more than anybody.

Clara keeps stroking his hair and the backs of his shoulders, and Kon keeps nuzzling her back and hugging her tight, because she's the only person in the world he can actually hug as tight as he wants no matter what, even if he doesn't really get to hug her all that often. He doesn't really remember why he doesn't do it more. He should do it all the time.

Clara curls her nails against his scalp and then in behind his ear, and Kon chirps happily again and nuzzles her.

It's really, really, really, really nice.

So yeah, he should definitely do this all the time.

Her arms feel so good and so strong around him, and her chest is so warm and soft, and she smells so good, and—

She smells really good, actually. Like—even better than usual. And now even better than that, actually.

It's not how she normally smells, though. Like . . . not usually, anyway. It's really, really nice, though. Kinda . . . sweet, and sorta . . . butterscotch-y, maybe? Or sorta like caramel? Or sorta like both, maybe. Like the old-fashioned kind at the fair Clara's parents took him to that one time in Smallville, when he'd been . . . visiting, kinda.

Kon doesn't really remember why he doesn't do that more either, actually. He feels like he should, probably. They'd told him he could, just . . .

He doesn't really remember why he didn't.

He doesn't really like thinking about that either, though, though he's not sure why. But Clara smells sweet and butterscotch-y and caramel-y and she's petting his hair and back and telling him it's okay and she's here and he's good and—and she's letting him hug her, even, so that's more important anyway. So he just doesn't think about the other stuff, because Clara's here and Clara's hugging him, and she's so warm and soft and she smells so good and—

"Ah," Clara mutters under her breath, tensing a little, and she smells so good. For a second Kon thinks something's dangerous, but she's still holding him and she just smells so good and it's hard to remember why he thought anything would be. He buries his face in tight against her chest, not sure if he should be . . . doing something, or . . .

Clara smells so good, and she flattens her hands against his scalp and his shoulders and lets out a slow breath. Kon half-opens his mouth against her sternum and doesn't really know why, but . . .

He chirps again, and he doesn't really know why, still, but—he doesn't know, he guesses, but something about how close Clara is and how good she smells and how she's still holding him makes him feel . . . hopeful, a little, and the chirp comes out . . . eager, almost.

"Oh," Clara says, sounding a little—surprised, maybe? Sorta? "You actually . . . ?"

Kon doesn't get what she's asking, but that same eager chirp comes out of him again and he buries himself in tight against her because she just smells so, so, so, so, so good that he never wants to be anywhere else, and Clara . . . pauses, for a moment, and sort of looks around the street for a moment too, and then curls her arms around his back and sort of . . . tugs at him, kind of?

Kon doesn't get it, again, but he goes right with it.

"Okay, Kid," Clara says again. "Just—come here. You can have it if you want, but let's get out of everyone's way first. Let them start cleaning up the street a little, alright?"

Kon doesn't remember why the street's even messy, but he doesn't care about anything but following Clara anyway. She keeps floating up higher in the air and just tugs him along with her. He doesn't know why she thinks she has to. He'd go anywhere she wanted him to go, especially if it meant she wanted him with her.

He'd always go anywhere she wanted him to be, but he thinks . . . it's hard to tell where that is, usually, he thinks. Right now it's really easy, though, and right now she wants him with her, so right now's all he cares about either way.

And the tugging means she's touching him, anyway, so either way he doesn't mind.

Clara takes him up a few stories to a rooftop a few buildings down the street and sits on the ledge and tugs him down to sit beside her, and Kon shifts in close against her and feels—feels like he's too big and too awkward and too clumsy and just weird and maybe shouldn't be—

Clara tugs at him again, and somehow he ends up laying on his side halfway in her lap with one of her arms curved around his shoulders and—cradling him, almost. And then he remembers Clara's bigger than anything in the world, even if she's not actually physically bigger than him, and then he doesn't feel so weird about how he fits against her.

"I guess it's good you're asking, considering this should help you come up, so . . ." Clara trails off as she unfastens the front of her suit where the seam that cuts along the side of her "S" is, her other arm still curled around his shoulders, and Kon suddenly feels—suddenly feels—

Clara opens the front of her suit and unhooks the front clasp of her bra and bares her aesthetically perfect tits, and Kon . . .

And Superman's intrusive-thought programming knows what Superman's supposed to do when Superwoman starts taking off her clothes for him—knows exactly what Superman's supposed to do when Superwoman starts taking off her clothes for him—but what Superman's supposed to do isn't what feels natural.  

And what Superman's supposed to do isn't what Kon wants to do, either. 

So he doesn't do what Superman's supposed to do, and instead he does what he wants to. What feels natural. He burrows tighter into Clara's arms and fists one hand in the loose drape of her cape and the other in the unfastened front of her suit and puts his mouth on her breast and sort of—fumbles, kind of, because he doesn't really know how to do what he wants to do, but—but he tastes—

Clara puts a hand on the back of his head and makes this quiet, quiet purring sound, and then trails her world-breakingly gentle fingers down the side of his face to his jaw and murmurs, "Open your mouth a little more, okay? Take a bit more of my breast in. It'll work better." 

Kon listens. It does work better.

There's milk in his mouth now, he means. Clara's milk.

There's no muscle memory in his body for nursing, and nothing about how to do it was ever in any of his uploads, even the weirdest and most invasive ones, but like—he's managed some actual life experience since then, and he's gotten the general idea of how it works through hearsay and a couple of stupidly embarrassing internet searches that he'd immediately felt like an idiot and a creep for even making. Or he's . . . pretty sure he has, anyway? 

At least, Clara knew what he was trying to do, and now there's milk in his mouth. So he thinks he got it at least kinda right.

Kon rumbles in contentment, his eyes falling shut, and Clara makes a soft little huffing sound, then brushes a hand back through his hair before cupping the back of his head again.

"There you go, Kid. Just like that," she says, and everything in him just relaxes.

Her milk tastes so good.

Kon's never actually had omega milk before—his file says Cadmus didn't even feed him any during the accelerated aging process, and it's not like he ever would've had any other chances to try it—but Clara's smells even more like butterscotch caramel than her pheromones already do and is really, really sweet. The taste kinda reminds him of honey or melted ice cream or almond milk, maybe, or maybe something else he can't really place, but feels like he's been absolutely desperately craving.

Might've been craving all his life, some distant and distracted part of him thinks.

So like, suddenly all the random weirdly-timed sugar binges he's gone on after hanging out around Clara for too long make a whole lot more sense than they used to.

So yeah. Her milk tastes so, so good, and Kon wants as much of it as she's willing to give him.

It seems like she's willing to give him a lot, because she just lets him stay half in her lap and keep nursing, and keeps an arm cradling his shoulders and a hand cupping the back of his head. She doesn't rush him or push him away or say anything about him needing to stop or not be greedy or . . . or anything about . . .

She mostly just makes that real quiet little purring sound at him, actually, so soft and low that he's not even sure he'd be able to hear it without the super-senses, and it makes him feel like it's—it makes him feel like it's something she's doing just for him.

He doesn't—Clara doesn't do things just for him, usually. Like . . . not a lot, anyway.

He thinks he'd probably have to make up an excuse to leave or just outright bolt if she tried, usually. Thinks he wouldn't be able to—to stand it, usually.

He doesn't remember why he thinks that, though, because right now it feels so good.

"Is he alright?" Kara asks as she floats up beside them, hovering in the air just beside the ledge. Kon ignores her, because she doesn't smell as good as Clara and also just isn't Clara. Like—she's cool, yeah, but she's not Clara.

"I'm not sure what's going on," Clara replies with a faint frown, back to petting through his hair. "He doesn't seem to be injured or upset, but he's in full feral drop and was tearing up the whole block right up until he scented me, and then he just started chirping for attention instead." 

"Huh," Kara says, sounding a little puzzled. "I'd say maybe hypnosis or mind control but . . . well, who in the Zone would mind-control him into chirping at you until you got milked-up for him? It's distracting and all, sure, but it doesn't seem very . . . supervillain? And also, you know, kind of a big leap of logic that it'd even work to begin with. I didn't even know you felt that way about Kon-El." 

"It always seemed . . . awkward to mention," Clara replies, sounding uncomfortable. "Considering what he was bioengineered for and what Cadmus tried to teach him to want from me. I assumed bringing it up would make him feel like I was either infantilizing or patronizing him. And he's always been, well . . . he was already sixteen anyway, and so independent, and how many sixteen year-olds actually want a mom?"

"I wanted a mom when I was sixteen," Kara says. "On account of mine being, you know. Dead. And Kon's never had a mom at all." 

". . . fair point," Clara mutters as she pulls her fingers through Kon's hair a little slower, sounding bothered. Kon's not sure why she would be, because right now he feels warm and content and safe and can't think of anything that'd ever bother him again. "But Cadmus still tried to make him want a certain kind of relationship with me, and he always seems to pull back when I try to reach out too much, and I just . . . maybe I should've just talked to the kid about how I feel about him sooner, I don't know. Or . . . well, at all."

"Probably, yeah," Kara says. "Though I'm still pretty sure that there isn't a supervillain plan that hinges on you nursing your half-clone that you have complicated maternal feelings towards on a random roof in the middle of downtown, so . . ."

"Could you go make sure the city isn't about to be destroyed, just in case?" Clara asks. "Just do a quick fly-by or two?" 

"On it, Kalura," Kara agrees, then reaches out to scruff Kon's hair quick. He grumbles at her for it on principle, but honestly it feels kind of nice. Especially it feels nice with Clara holding him and the taste of her milk in his mouth soothing the uncomfortable burn of his impending rut and satisfying what feels like every single craving he's ever had. He usually feels restless and cranky and bad in pre-rut, but right now he doesn't feel like that at all. "Be right back, you two." 

Kara flies off. Clara goes back to petting Kon's hair and fixes the rumpled mess Kara's scruffing made of it. He rumbles his contentment, then whines in disappointment when she breaks his slightly clumsy latch by hooking her thumb into the corner of his mouth. She guides him right to her other breast, though, so the disappointment doesn't last.

It actually feels like the disappointment just kind of retroactively un-happens, actually, because Clara's only doing it to give him more. Which—that's really . . . that's . . .

"You're pretty hungry, huh," Clara muses quietly, and then murmurs even quieter, "Is it bad that I like that it seems like you haven't nursed from another dam? That seems . . . bad."

Kon doesn't see why that's bad. He thinks that's, like, the opposite of bad right now, because if it's something Clara likes about him, it's got to be good. Anything Clara likes about him has to be good.

The only good things about him are the things Clara likes.

Though it's definitely better that Clara's done this before, because it's working a lot better following her lead. He can't really think of anyone else he would've wanted to nurse from like this anyway, so . . . yeah. It's better this way.

He kind of has been wanting to do this for a while, hasn't he, that one distant and distracted part of him realizes. Like—a while, actually. 

Huh. 

Is that why Clara's always smelled so good to him? 

. . . huh. 

Well. That might explain some things. Like—more things than just the weirdly-timed sugar binges, maybe.

And be really, really embarrassing for Cadmus, because there is absolutely no way that they wanted the genetically compatible "ideal male alpha" mate that they custom-designed for Superwoman to take one look at her and immediately think of her as his mom. At least, not in a not-kinky way. The kinky way they might've been okay with.

. . . and Kon does think of Clara that way, doesn't he. As his . . . mom.

He feels a little . . . weird, suddenly, and isn't quite . . .

Clara pets his hair again, and Kon forgets about the weird feeling. He's doing what feels natural, just like he's supposed to, and Clara's fine with it. Nothing else is important right now. 

Clara keeps letting him nurse for a while, but eventually reaches up and touches the communicator in her ear as it crackles to life. Super-hearing helpfully keeps Kon in the loop, and he hears Lois's voice on the line. She's not Clara either, but she's pretty cool too, and she's always been pretty chill with him even knowing what he got made for, so it's whatever.

"You know, honey, if you were going to ditch work to adopt us a new pup, you could've told me before the entire internet did," Lois drawls, and Clara lets out a soft little laugh. 

"It's less that and more that the kid went feral for some reason and I'm trying to bring him up from it so I can figure out why he was breaking downtown," she says. "Adoption would require him being lucid enough to consent, at the very least." 

"Well Jon's going to be very disappointed if you don't seal the deal, you know how he gets whenever the possibility of a sibling comes up," Lois replies in obvious amusement. "I'm still not sure he isn't eventually going to run away to Bruce's just to cash in on all the free brothers and sisters he'd score in the process."

"And you wouldn't be disappointed, then?" Clara asks wryly.

"Mm, well, not as disappointed as you would," Lois says. "But in my defense, I don't know the kid as well as you do."

What a weird conversation, Kon thinks absently. If he didn't know better, he'd think they'd talked about actually adopting him at some point or something.

Very weird.

"I'm almost certain Kon's never nursed before and it's making me both very glad that he doesn't have another dam and very angry at Cadmus for not even simulating the experience for him," Clara says, threading her fingers through his hair. It feels nice, and he rumbles softly in appreciation. Though he does kind of wonder what she means by "another", because she can't possibly mean herself. "Who grows an entire person all the way from a single cell and doesn't even nurse them?" 

"Going by the way they designed and educated him, assholes with pheromone envy and severe mommy issues," Lois snorts. "Specifically, assholes who very badly wanted to sleep with you and make you have their genetically ideal baby and decided to take a crack at doing it vicariously." 

"Don't remind me," Clara mutters. "Especially considering they had my body for however the hell long." 

"A horrifying thought that I'd mostly managed to avoid having, yes," Lois says conversationally.

"I try not to think about it myself," Clara says with a sigh, curling her fingers against Kon's scalp. "But whatever else they did, we got Kon out of it, so . . . well, I can't really regret it."

That seems weird too, Kon thinks. He can't really figure out why Clara would think him being around was worth . . . whatever she's worried about right now.

"I can understand that," Lois says. "Has he come up at all?"

"Not really," Clara says. "He went with it when I gave him tips on getting a better latch, but otherwise he hasn't seemed to be paying attention to much. He reacted to Kara and I touching him, but that's about it. And he's been totally nonverbal so far."

"Hmmm," Lois says. "Sounds like a pretty deep drop, then."

"I definitely wouldn't be talking about my maternal feelings for him while he was feral if I thought he was actually hearing any of them," Clara admits. "That seems . . . unwise. And unfair."

"Maybe," Lois says. "Pretty sure you're gonna have to talk to him about them after this, though. I wasn't kidding about the internet. The thing where you just very publicly dropped in out of nowhere on the cranky and destructively feral nineteen year-old in pre-rut that everyone knows was genetically programmed to be a compatible mate for you while in pre-heat and then just took him up to the nearest convenient rooftop to nurse him is very literally trending right now. It is several kinds of trending, in fact."

"Of course it is," Clara groans, shaking her head as she makes a face. "For God's sake, what, people think I'd rut the kid on a roof in broad daylight while surrounded by cameras with telescopic lenses? Really?"

"Possibly it's more that they're hoping you would," Lois says dryly.

"I'd at least take him to my nest, Jesus," Clara grumbles, clearly disgruntled. "Even if I were actually a horrible enough person to take advantage of his programming and him that way, I'd have that much decency about it."

"Well, at least most of Metropolis knows that, but the world at large unfortunately does not," Lois says. "So yeah, honey, you're going to have to talk to Kon about those maternal feelings you've been having and about what he wants you to say when every single person in the world asks you to define your relationship with the three year-old clone based on your own DNA who looks like he fell out of a Playomega centerfold and landed face-first in your S-shield."

"I suppose so," Clara sighs. "I just don't want to upset or embarrass him with any of this. Which—mm. Has there been any talk about him chirping?"

"Chirping?" Lois sounds surprised. "I haven't seen anything about that, no. When did he do that?"

"The moment he scented me," Clara says. "He stopped right in the middle of smashing up the block and just immediately chirped at me and—well, then he flew up and hugged me, actually. Like he was excited to see me, it seemed like. And then he started nuzzling my chest and chirped some more, and, well . . ."

"Oh," Lois says. "Yeah, no damn wonder you got milked-up for the kid, then. Especially with your heat coming on."

"Pretty sure it was unavoidable, yeah," Clara says. "You should've seen his face light up when he saw me, it was unbearably adorable. I think the only thing that could get my milk in more efficiently than this situation did would be Kon or Jon just outright asking me for it."

"Arguably, this was Kon asking you to," Lois says. "Chirping for you, hugging you, and nuzzling your chest? That isn't all that subtle a request, coming from someone who's currently nonverbal."

". . . oh," Clara says, blinking slowly. "Huh. Do you think so?"

"Honey, you've known the kid basically his entire life," Lois says. "Has he ever checked you out or made any kind of a move or even just smelled like he wanted to mount you? Ever?"

"No," Clara says, her voice a little slow now too. "He hasn't."

"Not even today, when he saw you while in feral drop and pre-rut?" Lois asks. "Not even a little?"

"It didn't even occur to me, to be honest," Clara murmurs. "That he might've reacted that way, I mean."

"Of course it didn't, you're his mom," Lois replies reasonably. "So who knows, maybe he'll be disappointed if you don't seal the deal on this adoption too."

"I . . . just because Kon isn't attracted to me doesn't mean he thinks of me as any kind of a dam or wants to be in our family pack," Clara says with another sigh. "Even wanting to nurse from me doesn't mean that. I've never seen him feral before. He might react this way to any older omega he feels safe with when he's like this. Hell, just any older omega he knows."

"Didn't you say it seemed like he'd never nursed before, though?" Lois reminds her pointedly.

"Well . . . yes, but . . ." Clara trails off. Curls her fingers against Kon's scalp again.

It still feels nice.

And she still smells better than anything.

"I'm not saying it's a definite, obviously," Lois says. "But maybe don't stress too much about how he's gonna react to your feelings about him either."

“Maybe,” Clara says softly, scritching lightly at Kon’s scalp. He rumbles contentedly and leans into the contact, and she makes a quiet little noise and then . . . croons. Just a little.

He’s never heard her do that before, but it sounds so nice. Makes him feel . . . makes him feel . . .

He’s not sure what it makes him feel.

But it sounds so, so nice.

“Kon,” Clara says, her voice still more a croon than anything else, and Kon feels warm and heavy and good. Clara strokes his hair back off his forehead and keeps crooning senseless, sweet little sounds, and he melts against her. She can take his weight. It’s Clara. She could take the whole world’s weight.

And she’s already holding him, so . . . so that means she doesn’t mind, right?

Her pheromones smell so good, and her crooning is so nice, and her milk tastes . . .

Kon really, really loves her. He doesn’t know why he ever goes anywhere Clara’s not. Like—why he ever leaves Metropolis, he means. That’s her territory, after all, and he wants to always be in her territory. It’s just—that’s the best place to be.

It always has been, he’s pretty sure.

“Well, the app formerly known as Twitter has transitioned into arguing with itself about the decency of public nursing, especially with an already-presented unconfirmed packmate,” Lois observes. “Which is a step up from WGBS, which seems to think you’re an exhibitionist and has made some very pointed and borderline slanderous comments about feral people’s reduced capacity to consent, especially when on their cycles. And also some bigoted crap about clones’ capacity to even think, fuck Morgan Edge and his bullshit excuse for an opinion very much.”

“Assholes,” Clara mutters, stroking Kon’s hair again. He feels even better. The uncomfortable burn of his rut is a vague, distant thing, and it doesn’t matter at all next to Clara’s warm pheromones and sweet milk and crooning voice. Even when she’s muttering disparaging things about “yellow journalism”, which is what she’s currently doing while Lois stifles laughter.

Kon doesn’t actually know what yellow journalism is, but he could listen to Clara complain about it all day, he’s pretty sure.

He really does love her.

That’s . . . something he doesn’t think about, usually, he’s vaguely aware. He’s . . . supposed to not think about it, he means. Because if he thought about it, or said it, it’d be . . . bad, he thinks. Or . . . something.

But he’s supposed to do what feels natural, and right now nothing feels more natural than how much he loves her. She's—she's not his mom, but . . .

But he feels like he thinks he would, if she were. If she actually . . .

He thinks this is what that would feel like, anyway.

Is it?

“I’m going to write an editorial about that man and his damn show. I’m going to write two editorials about that man and his damn show,” Clara finishes in a grumble, and Kon nuzzles into her stroking hand. He thinks she’s out of milk now, mostly, but he feels warm and full and good and doesn’t really mind. Not as long as she’s going to keep petting his hair and holding him like this—especially after she gave him so much.

He thinks he could fall asleep right here in her lap and never have felt better in his whole stupid life. Which—admittedly he hasn’t had that long of a life to be collecting “better” experiences in, but . . . yeah. Still.

He really loves her.

He knows he’s not allowed to say that, but he kinda wishes he were.

Clara keeps petting his hair, and Kon feels all soft and warm and content and a lot of things he usually isn’t, or at least usually isn’t all at once. She smells really good, milk-sweet and strong and steady as the foundation of the earth, and he feels—safe. Feels . . .

He doesn't know how to describe how he feels, but it's something he usually only gets the barest flashes of when someone saves his ass in a fight or whatever. Like—like they weren't gonna let anyone hurt him. Ever.

Like they'd care if he got hurt.

Which is—dumb. He's a tank and a bruiser and he's supposed to get hurt. That's like, his whole stupid job, that he's the one to get hurt. He gets on the front lines and he gets between everybody else and the bad guy and he takes the hit, every time. He . . .

Clara croons quietly down at him and keeps stroking his hair, and she's eight inches shorter than and half as broad as him at best and he's the alpha here and all he's really even good for is getting hit so somebody else won’t, but he still feels like he could disappear completely behind her and be perfectly, perfectly safe there, no matter what was after him.

And like she might even let him do that, maybe, if he ever earned it.

Clara’s definitely out of milk now, but it just feels good to stay settled on his side in her arms and half in her lap like this, his head resting against her chest now; feels warm, steady, safe. Feels . . . natural.

Feels like exactly what he's always, always wanted and couldn't ever have.

He'll . . . he'll have to go back to not having it later, Kon is vaguely aware, though he doesn't really remember why. Just—he knows he'll have to. But right now Clara's letting him have it, and right now it feels natural, so right now it's okay. Right now he's allowed to have it. Allowed to be here like this and not have to pretend like he doesn't want to be. Pretend like she's not his . . . like he doesn't . . .

“Starting to come up yet, or still nonverbal?” Lois asks.

“Still nonverbal,” Clara says with a bothered little frown. Kon wonders what's bothering her. Definitely not that he's not talking, he knows, because he only ever says stupid stuff anyway. But he's not sure what’s doing the bothering, either.

He doesn't wanna talk. He doesn't wanna . . . “come up”, he thinks. Not yet.

He doesn't remember why. He just . . . doesn't wanna.

Not yet.

Clara smooths Kon’s hair back out of his eyes; peers down at his face. He doesn't know why she's bothering. He's not doing anything. He's just . . . here, kind of.

And he's not someone she should even notice anyway, some distant part of him thinks. For—some reason. For some reason, Clara shouldn't notice him. Shouldn't . . .

Clara croons soothingly, a note of concern slipping into her scent. Kon doesn't know why. Then he realizes someone somewhere’s making these weird little hitched, distressed noises, though, so it must be because of . . . whoever's doing that. 

He should let Clara go deal with that. She's Superwoman, so—so he should let her go deal with that. Or . . . or something. 

He doesn't wanna let her go, though. He doesn't wanna go back to not having this yet. He doesn't wanna . . . 

But he has to, or he's not good enough for her anyway. Not a good enough pup successor, or ally, or . . . 

The distressed noises get louder, so—so Kon has to let her go, even though the idea of actually letting her go makes him feel nauseous and unsafe and like something fucking awful's gonna happen. He—he has to. 

He tries to pull back from her and the noises get even more upset, and Clara—Clara tightens her grip on him, for some reason? But—but she can't do that, because he's being bad if he lets her do that, because he's not good enough for her if he lets her do that, because—because—

“Is that Kon?” Lois asks, sounding concerned. 

“Yes,” Clara says, tightening her arms around him again and sounding stressed and worried, because Kon’s being bad and being a disappointment and making her stressed and worried and keeping her from doing her job just like Cadmus made him to and just like—just like—

Someone . . . else made him to do that, didn't they? Not just Cadmus. Someone else made him to . . . 

“Kon,” Clara says, her voice tight with concern and the grip of her arms horribly safe and perfectly awful and absolutely inescapable. “It's alright, pup, you’re—” 

Kon bursts into tears and buries his face against her collarbone and clings to her, and Clara grips him even tighter in response. She’s stronger than anybody in the world and he’s never been anywhere safer and he’s bad. He's bad, he's so bad, he's not a pup or a person and he doesn't deserve any name Clara ever gave him and he's so bad and he’s—and he’s— 

He's just what Cadmus made him to be. He's just what—just what— 

Someone made him to be bad, and he is. 

Kon cries harder than he’s ever cried before, harder than he’s even cried over dead people, and Clara tries to croon and purr at him and it only makes it worse. She’s trying to be so nice to him but he doesn’t deserve it, he’s . . . he’s bad. He’s a bad, bad thing and Clara should never, ever have given him her crest or “Superboy” or “Kon-El” and . . . and he’s the worst thing he could possibly be, and he was made that way. 

That’s all he is, is the bad thing he was made to be.

“Kon,” Clara says tightly, holding him like the safest place in the whole of existence, and he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve anything, but especially not anything from Clara. Never again. 

He never deserved a thing she's let him pretend he could, because he’s just this bad, awful, horrible thing, and he always was. 

He didn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be. He—he’d just wanted to—to—he’d wanted—he’d wanted to be better, to be something, to not just be—he’d wanted to be something real, something people could feel—could trust, could believe was—not a fucking thief, not somebody who hadn’t earned the “S”, not—not just a fucking, what, stud or whore or— 

He didn’t even deserve to want any of those things at all. 

“Clara, the cameras are still—” Lois starts, her voice almost as tight as Clara’s, and Clara makes a hiss of a sound and there’s a blur of speed and moment of vertigo, and then he’s all wrapped up in her cape and they’re not out exposed on the ledge anymore, they’re—somewhere else, he thinks, but—but he doesn’t—her cape’s all wrapped around him like a blanket, pulled down over his head to cover his eyes and hide his face; hiding him from the world, hiding him like he’s—like he’s something awful, except it’s Clara, so she’s not doing that, it’s Clara so—so she’s hiding him like he’s not something awful, like he’s something that deserves—could ever have deserved— 

Hiding him from the cameras, so there won’t be video of the stupid, awful thing that thought it could ever be enough of a person to deserve anything—so there won’t be video of that horrible thing crying all over her all over the fucking news and internet and fucking Facebook, probably, fucking—fucking—

He can’t feel anything but Clara in his TTK. They’re—they’re in the air, floating suspended in whipping and tangling high-altitude winds, and she’s holding his stupid clumsy too-big too-destructive self all curled up in her arms and all wrapped up in her cape like a victim, like a fucking—like she’d hold someone who was hurt, or—or like she’d hold a body, maybe, because if he ever thought there was anything to him that wasn’t a body, wasn’t just—just a weapon, just this fucked-up fucking disturbing, disgusting— 

There’s not, he knows now. He’s just a thing, an awful thing, and he only ever got to pretend he was anything else because—because the person who could prove to him he wasn’t hadn’t felt like doing it yet. 

And Clara’s still holding him, and she’s the only thing he can feel. She wrapped him up in her cape and didn’t even fasten the front of her suit again; didn’t even bother to adjust or pull it shut. She just—she wrapped him up and took him somewhere else, like that was the only thing she cared about doing, and now she’s making concerned crooning and chirring noises at him, and— 

She thinks he’s something she should do that for. 

He sobs. 

He can’t even think of himself by the names anymore, can only still think of himself as a “he” because someone made a weapon out of him being that, out of him being the male alpha they designed him to be, and she—and she still thinks he’s enough of a person to do that for. Clara still thinks . . . 

He can’t let her still think that, some vague and distant part of him underneath the wrenching grief and pain thinks, but he doesn’t know how to tell her, how to . . . 

“Is the kid alright?” Lois asks. 

“I don’t know,” Clara says. “I don’t know what set him off like that.” 

She shouldn’t care, he thinks, and just keeps crying on her like he’s not this disgusting, awful, disgusting—

He feels Clara’s mouth tighten for a moment, then hears her let out a slow exhalation; feels her adjust her grip on his body, the weapon she’s holding like it’s even a person, like it’s anything but what it never wanted to be. 

“I’m going to take him back to—” Clara starts, and he thinks—good, yes, she’ll take him to some fucking place she can lock him the fuck up, lock him up and throw away the key and never ever look at him again, never ever even think of him again, never— 

He hears another rush of air and speed and then there’s another heartbeat that thrums just like Clara’s inside his ears—like Clara’s had against his ear, because she’d pulled him in and held him when—when he’s just—when he’s— 

He sobs so hard he feels like his throat’s being ripped out, trying to curl in smaller on himself in Clara’s arms like he even deserves to be there, like a thing like him ever even could, and Kara makes an alarmed noise from where she’s just stopped in the air beside them. 

“Rao, what happened?” she asks, sounding—worried, but he doesn’t know what about, because—because it couldn’t be about a thing like him. Kara doesn’t—she wouldn’t—

Kara shouldn’t. 

Nobody should, and especially not Clara. Especially not Clara. 

He doesn’t understand why she’s still holding him, when he’s an awful, awful thing like this. An awful thing like this; an awful thing that was only made to hurt her. 

When—when someone made him to—to—

Someone made him to hurt her. Someone—someone designed him to—to—they made him just to hurt her, and made him so he could hurt her, and so he—so he would hurt her.

And he only didn’t because—because he was too fucking stupid to know what they’d meant when they’d told him to.

“I would very, very badly like to know,” Clara says with a helpless, hurt little laugh, because all he is and ever has been is a thing that was made to hurt her. “Did you see anything?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Literally every dubious-intentioned person I know in Metropolis is either locked up, out of town, or just very obviously otherwise occupied, and I didn’t spot anything that looked like a new player might be on the board,” Kara says with a sigh, an audible frown in her voice. “The most ‘villainous’ things I found were some inmates at Stryker’s saying some extremely ugly shit about you and Kon while they hate-watched the news about this and a very vicious bitchfit about some programming gig or something that R&D screwed up for Lex Luthor, apparen—”

His stupid, fucked-up, fake excuse for a brain that isn’t even actually a real brain or even actually his hears that name, and his whole body flinches. And Kara . . . pauses, and Clara’s grip on his body—Clara’s grip on the weapon—tightens.

And he just—he can’t—he sobs, and he can’t—Clara shouldn’t be—she shouldn’t ever have—

He’s not a person, he’s not what she’s treated him like all this time, and he’s just this fake awful thing that only ever existed to hurt her.

“Kon—” Clara starts tightly, and he doesn’t even know what the sound he makes is, but it hurts even worse than the sobbing. The sobbing was ripped out of his throat; this fucking thing’s ripped out of his heart, and—“Kon, you—”

The weapon rips itself back out of her arms; barely catches himself in the air as he rips her cape off himself. He’s only a “himself” because they made him that way to hurt her, he remembers again. That’s it. That’s the only reason.

He drops the cape, and then he can see her again. She’s staring at him, and doesn’t catch it. Just—lets it fall.

Obviously she does. She always would. There’s nothing she wouldn’t drop or let fall, if she thought a person needed her.

If she thought it was a “person” who needed her.

She still hasn’t even fastened the front of her suit back up. Like it’s not even something that matters. Like he’s not . . .

“Don’t—don’t call me that,” he chokes hysterically; the weapon chokes hysterically. “Don’t—don’t call me—you can’t call me—”

He doesn’t deserve that name. Doesn’t deserve any name, but especially not any name from her. “Kon-El” or “Superboy” or—or anything it ever—ever could’ve—

Clara’d said . . . she’d said . . . to Kara and Lois, she’d said . . .

He feels sick, thinking about what she’d said.

“. . . Kid,” Clara says carefully. She’s still staring at him, and so’s Kara. She says it—says it carefully, says it instead of what he just told her not to call him, because—because of course she does; because she thinks a person just asked her that. She thinks—s-she thinks—

“I—I—” he gasps out, clutching at his head, and he doesn’t feel like he’s all the way back in his head, and he doesn’t—he can’t—his head’s swimming, his head hurts, even just thinking hurts—of course it does, he wasn’t made to think, he wasn’t—wasn’t supposed to, wasn’t—it hurts, and his gut’s a nauseous, cramped-up knot, and his chest—

“Hurt” doesn’t cover what his chest’s doing right now.

He—he needs to—he needs to—he needs to—

Luthor put his DNA in him. They'd made him—made him—they'd based his sex characteristics on Luthor. Which means Luthor’s the alpha they'd wanted to keep Superwoman in line, and—and Luthor has something in his head, in his stupid fake fucked-up fake head, and he'd told him to do what “felt NATURAL” and—and he'd just—he'd actually—

Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck is he supposed to say to her? What is he even—what’s he ever—it's not—it isn't—

Even if Clara’d actually meant what she’d said to Kara and Lois ( and she can’t, she can’t have, he's not—he can’t DEAL with it, if she did, if she’d meant it even a LITTLE bit, even the TINIEST bit, even at ALL, if— ), what's she going to think of him now? What’s she going to think of him, knowing that the only reason he didn't try to fucking assault her was because he was too stupid to understand what Luthor’d meant while the fucking mind control was active, knowing that he would've been trying to assault her with a body Luthor’d helped build and design, a body that was based on Luthor’s body, a body that was a thing, a weapon, a body that—that—

Even just now, when she was holding him—when she—when she’d nursed him, like he was—like he was actually—

She’d done that for a weapon made out of Luthor’s body. For . . . for a body Luthor can just—just say the word to, and—a-and—

Fuck.

Fuck.

Even if Clara ever really did think of him—think of him like a . . . even if she had, she’d thought that not knowing that Luthor had helped build him, that Luthor’s DNA and Luthor’s programming was in his stupid fake head, that—that—

What’s she going to think of him now?

Nothing good, he knows, since that was his first thought instead of thinking about how she’s gonna feel about finding out Lex Luthor had access to her body while she was dead, that Lex Luthor used his own DNA to design an “ideal mate” for her, to make a weapon to steal her job and keep her in line, and made that weapon out of himself. And she—she let down her milk and let someone made from someone like that nurse from her.

And if she'd really thought—if she really had thought those things that she'd said to Kara and Lois—if she'd thought all that, and when he tells her this she changes—changes her mind . . .

She should change her mind. There's fucking—fucking programming, fucking mind control in him, programming that Luthor could've activated whenever he'd wanted to and probably still could activate whenever he wants to and—and—

He has to tell her. He can't not tell her. There's mind control in his head, there’s programming in his head, and he just—just listened to it, and next time Luthor'll know to be more specific, next time he'll know to—to tell him to— 

God. God.

But when she changes her mind, he’s gonna—he’s gonna have to watch her change her mind. He’s—he’s gonna have to do that right after—after the first time he’s ever—the only time he’s ever going to—

He has to say it. He knows he has to say it.

But all he can think about is how Clara won’t ever look at him the same again.

She won’t. She won’t even look at him at all. She won’t look at him ever again and she’ll never forgive him for the bad thing that he is because that’s what he is, that’s all he is, that’s—they made him to hurt her. They made him to hurt her, and there’s nothing he can ever do to make up for being made just to hurt her.

They’d made him to keep her in line.

He hadn't—he hadn't really thought about how they’d wanted him to do that. That maybe they’d designed him the way they'd designed him because they hadn't cared what Clara had very obviously been into in regards to Lois Lane and her general tastes; hadn’t cared if he was gonna be her “type” or just . . . or just . . .

He hadn't thought about that.

“LUTHOR!” he chokes out, throws out, because he’ll never say it if he doesn’t just say it, and he has to say it, he can’t not say it, he has to tell her that he’s—“Luthor! He—he said he—he said something and my whole fucking brain turned the fuck off and—and he—he said he helped make me, he said I’ve got his DNA in me, he said—he told me to go find you and—and he—and he said—”

He can’t say it. He has to say it. He just—he— 

“. . . Kid,” Clara repeats tightly, and the weapon can’t let her keep thinking that’s what he is.

“He told me to just—to just d-do what felt—f-felt natural,” he croaks out, his voice cracking like he thinks he deserves to even be the one who’s all fucked-up and freaked-out right now; like he thinks he’s not the whole entire fucking problem right now. Saying the words feels like he’s gagging on shards of broken kryptonite. Like he’s puking up poison. But that’s what he is, that’s all he is—he’s just things that only exist to hurt her, and nothing else. “He wanted me to—he thought I’d—I’d—he thought I’d—I’d—”

He can’t say it. He needs to say it. He—he has to—

“He thought trying to assault someone would feel natural to you?” Clara asks, and just looks fucking wounded.

The weapon registers what she just said, and realizes—realizes she means . . . she means she doesn’t believe he ever would feel that way. Doesn’t believe he’d ever actually . . . that he’d actually . . .

He covers his face with his hands and bursts into tears. It looks like her face. He knows it looks like her face. Like—like they’re related, like she’d probably have looked if she were a male alpha, like—not like Luthor’s face. Not at all like Luthor’s face.

But his body is still—is still—

“I’m sorry!” he sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know! I swear, I didn’t, I—I didn’t know, I definitely didn’t know about the fucking—the fucking mind control bullshit!! I’d have told you, I would’ve, I swear, I—!”

“Kon,” Clara says, and the name stabs through him so much sharper than anything else ever could. “We know you would’ve. Of course you would’ve.” 

She says that, and still calls him the name when she says it, and he breaks down even worse and just fucking sobs. She—how can she even—how could she ever—

“I didn’t KNOW!” he wails into his hands, digging his fingers into his face. It looks like her face, but that’s just so she won’t know whose body he has. “He wanted me to hurt you and I—and I would’ve, if I wasn’t too stupid to know what he’d fucking meant! I would’ve—I wasn’t there, I was just some stupid thing, I was—I would’ve hurt you with a body he made out of himself! He made me with his—out of his—their fucking ‘ideal mate’ for Superwoman, their fucking—he wanted me to hurt you, because then it’d be him hurting you, because he’s fucking in me!” 

He’s a thing, he’s a thing they made just to hurt her, a thing Lex Luthor made just to hurt her, and she let him wear her dead family’s crest and name and her name, she let him talk to her, be around her, know her, touch her—

She'd let him—she'd—she'd said s-she—

She'd told Kara and Lois that . . . that she felt like . . . she'd told them— 

She'd told Lois that whatever fucked-up shit Cadmus might’ve done to her dead body . . . she'd told Lois she didn’t regret that, because—because they got him out of it. 

But Luthor was the one doing that fucked-up shit to her body, whatever it was, and Luthor made him out of his body. 

And Clara had told Kara she wanted to be—that she thought of herself as—and she’s talked about it with Lois before, she’s obviously talked about it with Lois before, that she—that she—

She’d thought he wouldn’t want a mom, but she’d wanted . . . 

She’d told him that she’d liked that he didn’t have another dam, and that she’d felt bad about liking it.

She’d gotten milked-up for him like it was nothing and nursed him like it was nothing and treated him like she actually was his—his m-mom, and she’d done it without even hesitating, without even—without even acting like it bothered her, without attacking him for the way he’d been tearing up part of her city, without—

She’d asked him if he was hurt. She’d asked him if he was upset.

She’d taken care of him.

She’d done all that, and she hadn’t even thought he might try to hurt her. She’d done all that and thought that, even though that’s exactly what Luthor had made him for. To hurt her, and replace her.

To hurt her with a weapon made out of his body, and replace her with a thing made from his body.

Made from him.

That’s the only reason he even exists at all.

He sobs, because he’s made of Luthor so of course he’d be selfish and shitty and self-obsessed enough to think he’s the one who gets to be upset about this. To think he gets to feel anything about this.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m—”

The distance between them disappears in an instant, in a rush of air and speed, and then Clara’s right in front of him and on eye-level with him and gripping his arms, and he cringes, but she doesn’t let go. She catches his eyes anyway, and she looks—

She looks hurt, still. Wounded, still. Like anything ever could actually hurt her. 

He could, though, because that’s all Luthor made him for. 

He chokes on another sob, knowing he doesn’t deserve to feel anything about this, to be acting like this, to be—to even be near her, to even be looking at her, even—even—

“There’s nothing of that man in you, Kon-El,” Clara bites off stiffly, not loosening her grip on his arms at all; not possible to look away from. Her jaw is tight and she still looks wounded, but she also looks hard and unshakeable and resolute. “Any DNA you have isn’t—that’s not what you are.” 

“My DNA’s the only fucking thing I am,” he says, and feels this close to fucking hysterical—like he has the right, like he ever had the right, like—like he shouldn’t be pulling back and away from her, getting away from her before he hurts her—he should be, he—he—“My DNA’s the only thing I ever was, they only made me because of my fucking DNA, that’s all I’m for, for my fucking DNA and for his fucking DNA, so he could fucking try to hurt you with HIS FUCKING BODY!” 

“I don’t think your DNA is all you are,” Clara says; just as tight, as wounded; as resolute. “But even if it were, you have my DNA in you too, Kon. You don’t think I can stop him? That’s what I’m for. I stop people like him. And you’re nothing like him at all.” 

“I—I—” he chokes, and chokes again, and sobs again. He doesn’t know . . . he doesn’t know what to do, to . . . he doesn’t . . . 

Her DNA hadn’t stopped him from doing what Luthor had told him to do. 

But he—but he hadn’t done what Luthor’d wanted him to do, when he’d done that. He hadn't . . .

“Kon,” Clara says, painful and tender, like pressing gauze against a bleeding wound. Like it’s natural, to just keep calling him that. Like it’s just—like it’s—like he’s still—

Like he deserves it, still. Or at least like she thinks he ever could deserve it.

Clara pulls his hands away from where they were clawing at his face, her grip gentle and inexorable, and then brushes his hair back out of his eyes even gentler and more inexorable than that.

She really is—she really is the strongest person he knows. The strongest person in the world. Just . . . gentle like this, and inexorable like this.

He wanted to be just like her someday, and now he knows he never can be.

“Kon-El,” she repeats quietly, and he remembers how it’d felt when she’d offered him that name. It hurts, hearing her say it now. “There’s nothing of him in you. Not anywhere that matters. Not a drop. But even if there were, do you really think it’d be able to do a single damn thing against what of me’s in you?”

He stares at her—tight and wounded and resolute, and still looking at him, and still calling him the name—he stares at her, and—

“You already decided that, didn’t you?” she asks him, her voice still quiet and her eyes looking just . . . just the worst, worst way he thinks he’s ever seen them look. “You never wanted to be like Westfield. You never wanted to be what Cadmus told you to be. Why is Luthor any different?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t . . . he . . .

He crumples into her like the weakest fucking thing, and she wraps her arms around him completely, and he doesn’t choke or sob or shout this time.

He cries, and Clara holds him like she’s the safest place in the world. Like he’s not, like, eight fucking inches taller than her and fucking twice as broad across and—and—

“M’sorry,” he rasps into her shoulder, and can’t stop the fucking tears. “I really didn’t—I really didn’t know.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Kon,” Clara says, keeping her arms around him tight and letting him hide his face and the fucking tears against her, holding a hand in the back of his hair. She’s not wearing her cape because she wrapped it around him and he dropped it, and she still hasn’t fixed the front of her costume, like it doesn’t matter at all if he sees her naked or half-naked. Like she doesn’t care if anyone sees her like that, when she’s more concerned with . . . with . . . “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not a single thing. There’s nothing about you that’s ever been wrong.”

He can’t stop fucking crying.

He needs to—he needs—he needs to tell her that’s wrong, needs to tell her that he is wrong, that he’s always been wrong, he’s just even more wrong than he’d thought, than—than—he’s wrong. He’s not good enough, and he’s nothing like her, and he’s got fucking Lex Luthor’s DNA and Lex Luthor’s fucking mind control in him—still in him, he doesn’t even know how easy it might be for Luthor to re-trigger it, if he could just say the fucking word again and—a-and—

He needs to tell her that’s wrong, that she’s wrong, that she shouldn’t be calling him either of the names anymore, should never have called him either of them at all, shouldn’t even be touching him, shouldn’t—how the fuck is he even letting her touch him, how is he even disgusting enough to let her be touching him, to—

Clara tightens her arms around him; squeezes him in tighter against her. Crushes him in against her more than anything else, which is almost a hard enough embrace to actually feel good right now, except the idea of ever feeling good because of her touching him—every time he’s ever felt good because she touched him, put a hand on his back or shoulder or patted his arm or—or held him—any time she’s ever done anything like that and it made him feel good, it was Luthor’s body feeling good. Feeling good because Superwoman had touched it. Because—because it was reacting like their Superman was supposed to react to Superwoman, and feeling how their Superman was supposed to feel, how their Superman was programmed to feel, how Lex Luthor—

“It’s alright, Kid,” Clara says that same gentle and inexorable way, low and soothing like her pheromones and the way they’re surrounding him right now. “I’ve got you.”

She knows who really made him. She knows whose DNA he’s really got in him; whose body this really is. Who really controls it.

She knows all that, and she’d asked him why he thought it was any different from Westfield like she didn’t think it was any different from Westfield, and she’s holding him crushed against herself like this even with her fucking tits out, letting him hide his face in her shoulder like they’re not both this close to their cycles starting, like that doesn’t mean his fucking teeth are that close to her neck—that close to her mating gland.

Like it hasn’t even occurred to her that he might be a fucking creep who could be getting off on this or a fucking monster who could just bite her—who could bite her hard enough to actually give her a bond-bite the way Lois can’t.

Who could just fucking hurt her, one way or the other.

She knows all those other things, and she’s acting like none of these things are even a thing in her head at all. Not like they’re something not to worry about—like they’re just not something she’s even thought of.

He chokes helplessly, gritting his teeth together—grinding them together and thinking about breaking them; about pulling every single one of his own fucking fangs out at the root so he can never, ever hurt her with them—so Luthor can never hurt her with them. He grits his teeth and Clara strokes the back of his head, and her bare breasts are pressed in against his collarbone and her mating gland isn’t armored or protected at all, and Luthor could just say the fucking word and—and he’d listen, he’d just listen, because his body isn’t his, because it listens to who it fucking belongs to, because—

A damp spot soaks into his suit, and for a second he thinks it’s from the fucking tears that he’s too fucking selfish to stop crying, but . . .

His breath catches mid-sob at the scent of—milk, again, sweet and carrying, and he feels Clara just barely grimace.

“Ah,” she mutters under her breath. “Sorry. Mm. It doesn’t usually come back this quick.”

Clara loosens her arms around him, but only enough to stop pressing her breasts into his chest; not enough to let go of him. She keeps her arms looped around his body and her hand on the back of his head, though; keeps his face tucked into her shoulder. Doesn’t pull back or push him away.

She smells like milk, and there’s spots of it dripped onto his chest and collarbone and soaked into his suit. Like she just let down without meaning to or something. Like how he’s seen happen to some omegas and female betas when they hear a random pup fuss or cry or when . . . their pup . . . when their pup . . .

Like she’s holding a weapon that was only made to hurt her, and all she wants to do is—is take care of the awful, disgusting, unforgivable thing.

And there isn’t an omega alive who’d ever accidentally let down for someone they thought was a threat; someone that some part of them thought could assault them. Not even Superwoman.

Or at least, he thinks not even Superwoman.

He should pretend he hadn’t heard—what she’d said when he was feral. Just pretend—pretend he hadn’t—

She won’t have to feel like she has to explain why she doesn’t feel that way anymore to him, then.

He thinks he’d just fucking die, if he ever had to listen to her explain that to him.

“They made me to hurt you,” he says roughly into her shoulder, just so nobody in this conversation’s stupid enough to forget—so he’s not stupid enough to forget—and Clara . . . exhales, very slowly, and then strokes his hair.

“Well, they didn’t do a very good job, clearly,” she replies dryly, and he kind of—laughs, or sobs, or both at once, or something totally different he can’t make his brain work long enough to figure out. If she was still wearing her cape he’d be gripping the sides of it in his fists, like he even deserves to fucking touch it, but doing it anyway just to—just to have someplace that wasn’t her to put them.

But she’s not wearing her cape right now, because he'd dropped it and she hadn't even cared enough to glance after it, because she'd thought—because she'd—

Because she still thinks he’s a person, and she cares more about people than anything else in the whole damn world, because of course she does. Because of course she always does. Because of course she always has.

So she cares about him, because she still thinks he counts as one.

“They could’ve just cloned you, if they’d really just wanted another Superwoman,” he croaks, voice cracking and going even rougher as he tries to keep himself from crying on her anymore, because he doesn’t have the right to be crying on her. “They could’ve at least used a female omega’s DNA to patch up all my fucked-up parts, anyway. They made me like this so—so I could hurt you. They thought I fucking would hurt you, if they made me like this.”

“They had no idea what they were even doing,” Clara says, not exactly—stiff, but . . .

But it makes him feel disgusting, that anyone'd thought he’d—before he'd even existed, even—before they'd even started designing him, probably—

They’d thought he’d hurt her, and they’d wanted him to.

“They knew,” he says dully, and can’t keep his stupid fucking voice from cracking again. “They made me—I wouldn’t be fucking like this, if they hadn’t fucking known.”

The fucking—their fucking ideal alpha—their ideal male alpha, made with Lex Luthor’s DNA, with fucking obnoxious pheromones and an aggressive and bullheaded personality, this much fucking bigger than Superwoman and nothing like anyone she actually was attracted to and—and—

And they'd given him a practically fucking insatiable sex drive and a knot that’s actually—that’s—a knot that’s big enough—and invulnerable enough—that he could actually fucking hurt her with it. Because they'd wanted him to hurt her with it.

With specifically it.

They'd known exactly what the fuck they were doing, when they'd made him. Lex Luthor had known exactly what the fuck he was doing, when he'd made him. Everything he’s always thought meant they were all—were all just fucking stupid sexist creepy weirdos who’d never spoken to a single fucking omega in their lives—everything he’d ever thought that about—

They’d done all that on purpose, so he could hurt her.

So he’d fucking want to hurt her.

They were trying to make someone who’d want to hurt her, and he was their best design for that.

“What they thought they were doing isn’t what you are, Kon,” Clara says, and she keeps calling him that, she keeps treating him like he’s a person; she let down her fucking milk for him! Like he’s not—like he isn’t only—

“They didn’t make me to be a superhero,” he says, and hears the hysterical fucking crack in his voice, and tries to—hunch in on himself, or pull back, or—or—but—but he can’t—“The only reason I ever got made was because they were trying to fucking RAPE you!”

And they’d had her body, and they could’ve done anything they’d fucking wanted to do to it.

They had done anything they’d fucking wanted to do to it, whether they’d actually done anything like that or not.

“That’s not—” Clara starts, and then—cuts herself off, and grits her teeth, and then buries her face in his hair and grips him hard. She crushes him in tighter against her body again—her body that Cadmus and Lex Luthor had done whatever the fuck they'd wanted to to, and she’d said she didn’t regret it because—because it was how they’d made him. 

But she’d also said she tried not to think about it. 

Tried not to. 

So she—so she’s thought about it. 

She’s thought about it, and she still thinks he’s a person. 

“They made me to—they designed me to—” he chokes on it, because he can’t say it again, but he doesn’t deserve to not say it again, he—he’s just a fucking—“People make fucking jokes about us and make fucking—there’s fucking porn about us, for fuck’s sake—about you, because I fucking exist! They just—they made me for that, so people’d fucking think of you like that and so I’d fucking hurt you like that!” 

He sobs harder, feeling stupid and selfish and like a fucking monster, and she doesn’t loosen her grip on him at all. He wants to—he wants to hold onto her too, he wants to fucking cling to her, but—but this fucking body, and what they made it for, what they made him for—

How could he ever even think about holding onto her, knowing all that? 

“I don’t care why they made you,” Clara says, low and tight and even; stroking her hand back through his hair again the same way, over and over again. Like he’s actually a person. Like she doesn’t care about the front of her suit being open or about having a body that was fucking designed and built to hurt her pressed up this close to hers, or . . . or like . . . “They made you out of me. They gave you our crest, and my name. They don’t get to decide what those things mean to you just because they stole them. They don’t get to decide what those things mean to me. They’re mine, and I want you to have them. I want you to exist, Kon-El, and I want you to exist exactly the way that you are.” 

He can't do anything but sob harder, hearing that. Even knowing—even knowing he doesn't deserve to hear it, doesn't—

He doesn’t even deserve the name, but she still keeps saying it like he does. 

"That's—they—" he chokes helplessly, and shakes his head just as helplessly, because he doesn't—he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't . . .

He's—he's just so— "I'm sorry," he chokes again, even though it's useless, and hates himself for letting himself hide his face against her shoulder. He feels her jaw tighten again; feels her fingers pull through his hair again. She's . . . she . . .

“It’s not your fault what some morally bankrupt bastards said or wanted,” Clara tells him, and her voice is so gentle it makes him wanna fucking puke. He doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve her to still think he’s a person. Doesn’t—doesn’t—"What anyone says. That's not anything you did, Kid."

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, and half-gulps, and half just sobs. “I’m really—I—I don’t—I’d never look at you like that, I never even did, I . . . I don’t think you’re just that, I . . ."

"Kid," Clara says, and her voice is still gentle, but also a little—stiff, now, even as she keeps stroking through his hair. "Just being . . . attracted to me wouldn't mean you were thinking of me as less of a person. It's—normal, if that's something you've . . . felt, or . . ."

"I don't," he chokes, shaking his head helplessly again; wanting to hold onto her even more, and still not able to let himself. He can't. He never can again. He never deserved to at all.

He wants to so bad, though.

"I really—I really don't," he rasps roughly into her shoulder. "I never—it's gross, the stuff they put in my head about—about that. But I don't even—not even without that. That's not how I . . . but they made me just to hurt you like that. Just because maybe they thought you'd come back, they . . . they made me like that."

". . . the 'stuff' they put in your head about me," Clara echoes, and he gulps back a sob. It was always so fucking embarrassing, before. The stuff they . . .

It was embarrassing, before, so he hadn't really talked about it much. But now . . .

It's not "embarrassing" now. Now it's just fucking horrifying, and he's so stupid, that he'd ever thought it was just fucking embarrassing, of all the fucking things.

"Sorry," he croaks around another sob. "S-sor—I'm sorry."

Clara's fingers dig into him, just for a moment, and she lets out a very, very slow breath.

"They put that in your head when you were that early in development," she says. Not like she's asking a question. Just like . . . just a statement. Just—like she's just stating a fact. "When your brain was that early in development."

"Rao," Kara mutters, and all at once he remembers she's still here and remembers Lois was still on the line and just—just cringes, like he even has the fucking right to, like . . .

"Sorry," he croaks again. "Sorry. Sorry. I—I'm really sorry."

They were trying to build his brain around shit like that, probably; build it that way from the ground up. Trying to make him . . . make him be . . .

And if he wasn't so stupid, they would've made him that.

So if he hadn't been stupid enough to be embarrassed—if he'd just told Clara all that shit from the start . . .

If he'd told her all that shit from the start, she'd have known what it meant, and she'd have known better than to ever—to ever—ever think anything like she'd thought about him. Known better than to . . . to talk to her fucking mate about him like—that. Like . . . like Cadmus hadn't fucking built him like . . . hadn't made him like . . .

They'd put all that shit in his head, and Clara never would've thought of him like anyone who she gave a fuck about if she'd known about it. Never would've let him in close enough that he could've hurt her, whether he was too stupid to know that was what Luthor'd been telling him to do or not.

"That's not your fault either, Kon," Clara says, her voice stiff again; her arms still around him, because she—because she . . . he doesn't know why, when she should just . . . when she knows better now. "Just—whatever they showed you back then makes them even worse than I already thought they were, but none of it's anything you did. None of it's anything I’d ever blame you for. Anything that anyone should ever blame you for."

"I'm really sorry," he chokes, and it's stupid and useless and not anything he should be saying, but . . . but he doesn't know what else to say. Doesn't know what else he could say.

He's too stupid to know what else he could say.

"That's fine," Clara says in that same stiff voice. He can feel how tight her expression is even without his TTK, just from how tight her face is buried in his hair right now. "It's not—you don't have to be sorry. But it's fine if you feel that way right now. Just . . . you didn't do anything wrong, Kid. You just . . . you were just yourself."

"He thought I was gonna hurt you," he keens miserably. "He thought—thought it'd just be what I did. Even those fucking people down there—they said—they said—you heard them!"

"Wait, what people?" Kara asks. He feels Clara grimace, and all he can hear is—is what they'd said, what they'd called him, what they'd said about Clara because of him—because people just say shit like that about Clara, because he exists! Because of him!

"A few of the civilians on the street said—some things," Clara replies, her voice locked up even stiffer. He hates himself for putting that tone in her voice, except he's not even enough of a person to hate; it'd be like hating a fucking gun or something.

He still does, though.

"M'not—I'm not a fucking—exhibitionist or fucking stud or—I'd never do that to you," he says desperately. "Not to anybody, but—but especially not you! You're—you're not—I don't—"

"Shhhhh, Kid," Clara murmurs against his hair, stroking the back of his skull and down between his shoulders, and he feels nauseous. He's not a kid. Not—he's not—"I know. We all know. You don't have to say any of that. You don't have to tell any of us what you're like."

He sobs.

"It's so gross!" he wails, burying himself in tighter against her body like he even deserves to, like he even deserves anything, like he—"I'm so gross! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I try really hard not to—not to make people think that shit about you, I don't—nobody'd think any of that shit about you if I didn't exist!"

"Spoken like a true male alpha," Kara says dryly, and she's—she's probably trying to break his train of thought before he spirals any worse again; she's probably not really—not really serious about it. But—but he—

But he's only a male alpha because that was how they thought they could hurt Clara with him.

"I should pull my teeth," he croaks into her shoulder, because he remembers having the thought before, and now he can't think anything else. "Should pull my teeth and get my scent glands cauterized and get fuckin' snipped and—get fuckin' gelded, so he can't—so I can't—they did fuckin' program me, I'm not even a fuckin' person, Luthor can just—just turn me off like I'm not even real, like—like I'm just—"

And like, what else did she let him in the El pack for?

That's not what Clara's like.