as long as there's light we got a chance

When Kon finally wakes up again, it's to the thrumming of the first heartbeat he'd ever tried to memorize under his ear and his head on the chest it's thrumming inside, and . . .

Clark's stroking through his hair again—or still—and making a low, rumbling sound in his chest. Kon's never heard that sound before, but it makes him feel . . . it makes him . . .

He's just—never heard that sound before.

"Mmm, back with me, baby?" Clark hums quietly, drawing his fingers through his hair again and still making that kinda—rumbly noise in the back of his throat between the words, and kind of in them too. Kon feels—it's just still not a sound he's heard before.

Kon buries his face in Clark's chest and starts crying again. He feels Clark smile, and the other smooths his hair back for him.

"Sorry," Kon croaks, his voice cracking in an ugly, embarrassing way. He doesn't lift his head from Clark's chest, even knowing he really should. It doesn't seem like Clark minds, but Clark minding isn't the problem. Clark's feelings about it aren't the problem.

But Kon's . . .

The way Kon feels about Clark letting him cry on and sleep on him is absolutely the fucking problem. Like . . . he's lost time a few times now, and definitely passed out at least a couple times too, but the other times . . . the other times he'd just . . . he'd just figured Clark had done whatever he'd wanted, the other times. Like—to him, obviously, but also whatever else he'd felt like doing. He'd just woken up somewhere different and with Clark wherever he'd felt like being; hadn't even really remembered passing out to begin with. Just this time . . .

He'd fallen asleep right where he'd woken up, this time. He remembers falling asleep right where he just woke up.

And Clark's right where he'd been when he'd fallen asleep too.

Kon doesn't know how long he was out for, obviously, but . . .

"Aren't you adorable," Clark sighs fondly, pressing a kiss into his hair. Kon's eyes drip more useless, stupid tears all over his chest. Clark smiles a little wider and a little more . . . indulgently, Kon guesses, and keeps his hand in his hair. Kon sniffles a couple of times, feeling pathetic and disgusting about it, and squeezes his eyes shut. Clark toys with his hair for a few moments, then tousles it lightly before dropping another kiss into it. Kon feels disgusting.

No—Kon feels like he is something disgusting. He must be something disgusting, for how all this is actually making him feel right now.

This shouldn't be making him feel like this. This version of Clark is a bad, bad person, and isn't even his Clark, and Kon shouldn't be feeling like this because of him. And even if it was—if it was his Clark . . .

If this was his Clark, it would be, because Kon doesn't have a Clark. Because Clark doesn't want to be anything like that for him. He'll be that for countless other people, but not for him.

Not for—Supernova, or Superboy, or . . .

So Kon doesn't have the right to feel any of it either way, because either way it's not his to feel.

Clark slides a hand down the back of Kon's neck; he shifts under it reflexively, expecting pushed down to—

Clark laughs, quiet and indulgent and amused and—affectionate—and just gives the back of his neck a steady, easy rub and . . . holds him there, then. Just . . . where he already is.

Kon doesn't . . .

"You really are such a good whore, Kon-El," Clark says, and says it like it's a compliment, like it's something worth admiring, like it's . . . like it's just something he likes about him.

Like he likes anything about him.

"You don't, uh . . . don't want . . . ?" he starts awkwardly, his voice still this stupidly weak and half cracked thing, like it could split right open and say way too damn much at any moment. He glances up at Clark's face, but can't quite meet his eyes.

Can't miss the other's mouth curving into a wider version of that amused, approving smile, though.

"Oh, no, sweetheart," Clark hums, tugging his face up to press a light little kiss to his lips. Kon still can't meet his eyes, but his own close reflexively for being kissed anyway, so . . . so it's fine, he thinks. Clark still thinks he's done good enough to deserve being kissed, so . . . it's fine, yeah. "I want everything you've got."

Kon's face flushes, and it's goddamn humiliating.

"I . . ." he tries to say, and feels his throat try to close up around the words. Feels his skin prickle, and his stomach turn, and his eyes burn, and like something disgusting—

Clark kisses him again without letting go of his jaw; trails his fingertips across the pulse in his throat. It feels vulnerable. Which—it feels like that because it is that. Clark could crush his throat barehanded, if he felt like it. Could crush his throat one-handed, if he felt like it. That's not something many people could do, these days.

And he wouldn't have to actively make his TTK resist for any of the others.

"Such a cute whore, too," Clark murmurs as he presses the pad of his thumb to the center of Kon's lower lip, his own words still shaped like a smile. Kon doesn't know if the thing his body does in response to that is a shiver of arousal or a shudder of revulsion, but it might just be both. He can hear his own heart rate spike with stress or nerves, and feels his gut twist with anticipation or nausea, and his whole entire stupid useless head swims with . . . with . . . "So responsive, and so grateful for what you've earned. So grateful to be such a gift for me."

Kon whines.

Clark smiles.

"Of course you are," he croons. Kon swallows roughly, ducking his head and burying his face in Clark's collarbone with a strangled noise that he doesn't mean to make. Clark just lets out a soft little chuckle and tips his own head back as he strokes one flat palm down the side of Kon's throat and the other down his flank. Kon doesn't—he doesn't know what it feels like. "There you go, sweetheart. Does that feel nice?"

Kon wants to throw up. Wants to throw himself into a fucking black hole.

Into a collapsing star.

"Please," he croaks, digging his fingers into the mattress on either side of Clark's shoulders, and feels—and feels—

He thinks he actually hates having Clark's DNA in him, because there's nothing else that could've given him the stamina to actually be hard again right now.

It sure as fuck isn't Lex Luthor's fucking DNA, anyway.

His supreme-asshole level of creepy fucking parasocial bullshit might be involved, though.

"'Please'?" Clark coaxes, sliding his hand down across his hip and over his ass. His fingers splay across it and Kon bites his lip roughly, and his hips . . .

His hips should stutter, but they don't. They—squirm, more than anything else, as his body tries to press down tighter into Clark's—tries to press down closer into Clark's.

"Please," he manages again, his voice cracking again too, and that's all he can manage. Clark just smiles that same indulgent smile and shifts one of his thighs up to let him—let him ride it in slow, shuddery little rocks of his hips that still won't at least fucking stutter, if nothing else.

"It's alright, Kon," Clark hums—hums the name he gave him—and strokes his hands over his ass and throat and jaw, and keeps letting him ride his thigh, and—and—"You know you don't have to ask."

"I—I need it, please, I—" Kon gasps helplessly against Clark's collarbone and shoulder, and then buries his mouth in Clark's collarbone just to shut himself up, and Clark laughs quietly and gives his ass an encouraging little squeeze that feels exactly like the reassuring little squeezes he's given his shoulder before, once or twice or a more specific number that Kon's always pretended not to be counting, because—because he could count it, because he could remember every single time it'd ever happened, because—because—

Because he'd wanted so bad to not have been able to count every time, but there haven't been enough of them that he could ever actually lose track.

"You can have it, sweetheart," Clark promises him just like he promises other people things, and Kon whines again, and whimpers, and can't even decide between grinding his dick down against the other's thigh or dragging his—dragging his cunt down it, because as hard as he hates being for this, he's at least that wet. And . . . and he can't help thinking . . .

Clark's the biggest partner he's ever taken, the exact body that his own was made in the exact image of, and Cadmus probably would've fucking loved to—to—

Westfield would've loved the chance to get "his" Superman inseminated with the real one's sperm. Fucking Dabney Donovan would've definitely loved it. There were probably a lot of people at Cadmus who would've been interested in or excited by or—happy about that.

He's not sure if Luthor would.

But they'd made him like this, and they'd made him like this for a reason.

They'd made him like this for . . .

"All of it?" Kon asks, or begs, digging his fingers harder into the mattress and riding Clark's thigh more desperately, long and slow and hard grinds of his hips that almost nobody else could take without breaking bones, and definitely nobody else could take without fucking bruising. "S'what they made me for, they made me f-for—for you to come in, for y-you to—t-to—for you, I'm for you, that's all I'm for, please—"

Clark wasn't going to push him down to suck him off again; wasn't trying to touch him any more than he already was. Wasn't starting anything; wasn't even really responding to the idea of . . . starting something. Wasn't talking about—about giving him—

Clark wasn't doing any of that, but Kon needs him to.

Because he's this disgusting, disgusting thing, and this is what they made him for, and he needs to hear Clark—needs to hear Clark talk to him like—like he's—

He needs to hear Clark talk to him like he talks to Jon again, and this is the only thing he knows that might give him a reason to.

This isn't what they made him for, but . . .

But this is how they made him, so it's what they made him for either way.

"Hmm," Clark muses, cupping the back of his head with one hand and sliding the other around the small of his back. There's something about his eyes that makes Kon feel nauseous, and disgusting, and the closest thing to what he's always assumed he'd feel if Clark ever actually looked at him. If Clark ever actually . . .

If Clark ever actually saw him, maybe.

Kon doesn't actually think this version of Clark is really seeing him, but he's at least been looking. He's at least been acting like he thinks there's something there to see.

And he's been acting like he likes what he's seen. Acting like . . .

"Oh, you really are eager, aren't you, Kon," Clark sighs fondly. Kon squeezes his thighs around Clark's thigh and rocks his hips down and feels disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, and Clark gives him that indulgent, amused little smile again and rubs his thumb into the base of his spine, and Kon's whole body feels hot and sick and—"Alright, alright. Daddy's here, baby."

"Please," Kon whines helplessly, pushing into the other's hands, into Clark's hands, stronger than anything and softer than anything and—

Kon's hands look almost exactly the same, just minus a few years. Same size, same length and width and thickness and weight and . . .

They look almost exactly the same, but he can't even pretend they'll ever be anything like Superman's.

Like Clark's.

Clark smiles wider. His hands are still on Kon's body, but aren't really doing anything. He's paying attention, but his heart rate hasn't picked up and his cock isn't . . . it's not completely soft, but it's nowhere near as hard as Kon's is.

And nowhere near hard enough to . . . to . . .

Kon bites back a whine and—and shifts his weight, and just . . . just . . .

He digs his knees into the mattress and pushes himself up higher on the bed—higher against—against Clark's body—and swings his other leg across Clark's to straddle and resettle down clumsily across his hips, and . . .

Clark keeps smiling up at him, looking amused about it, and slides his hands up his arms. Kon bites his lip and just . . . just settles down against . . .

Kon sits down against Clark's cock and settles his cunt down against Clark's cock, and then just . . . just drags his cunt against the length of Clark's cock. Clark smiles wider.

Kon fucking hates how wet he is right now. He actually hates everything about how he feels right now, and everything he's done here, and everything he's ever, ever, ever done, everything he's ever been, every—every—

Kon grinds his cunt along the length of Clark's cock again and again, and doesn't even pretend to be grinding his own cock against him. It's—he—he just—he just isn't sure how to—

He needs to make it good for Clark. He needs to make it good. He needs . . .

"Daddy," he manages, and Clark hums indulgently and runs his hands down his arms and then catches his waist and gives it a light little squeeze. Kon makes an embarrassing noise about it, but the way his cunt outright drips about it is all the way to fucking humiliating. "Please, I—can I—I can do—I'll do all the work, I—I—"

"You don't need to worry about doing the work, sweetheart," Clark says as he slides his hands down to his hips and gives them a light little squeeze of their own, and then grips them. Kon's heart rate doesn't even have the time to spike before Clark's pulled him down and rolled them over and—and done it languid, slow and easy and inexorable, and then pulled his hips down and—

Clark rubs the head of his cock down the length of his cunt and then back up it, and Kon makes an even more embarrassing noise and spreads his thighs as far as he can and grabs onto Clark's shoulders and trembles.

Clark smiles at him again.

He's definitely hard enough to fuck him again.

"You've been such a good whore for your daddy, Kon-El," Clark murmurs approvingly, cupping the side of Kon's face in one hand and leaning down to press a kiss against the opposite side of it, weighing him down with his entire heavier-than-human body in the process. It feels like when he used to wear his TTK real, real tight sometimes, back when he'd been the closest thing to a "kid" he'd ever been.

Except that wasn't . . . that was never something heavy and breathing and alive and warm; was never . . . was never really . . .

Was an imitation of this feeling, he guesses. A fake version of something he hadn't even known he'd wanted; hadn't even known was there to want.

So that sounds about right, for his life.

"Sorry," Kon croaks senselessly, not even knowing why he's stupid enough to say it, and Clark just smiles at him and kisses his forehead.

"There, there, baby," he hums. "Just let Daddy spoil you this time, mmm?"

"'S-spoil'?" Kon repeats uncertainly, and his fingers dig into Clark's shoulders and his voice comes out cracked. That's—what the fuck does that—?

Clark kisses his mouth this time, gentle and chaste, and slides his cock into him so fucking slow that Kon nearly comes over it. His cunt takes him eager and easy and like Clark's cock is the only one he's ever taken, and doesn't even feel as sore as it did before. It feels—sensitive, though. Sensitive and too wet and too open and too . . . too . . .

Clark bottoms out inside him with a fond little sigh and lifts his head to press a kiss against his forehead, and Kon comes the longest and slowest and hardest he maybe ever has in his whole damn fucking life.

"Ah," he chokes, his eyes screwing shut and fingers digging into Clark's shoulders and toes literally fucking curling as stars go off behind his closed eyelids, "ah, ah, ah, ah, ah—"

Clark nuzzles his temple and strokes the side of his face and fucks him so fucking slow.

"That's my boy," he husks lowly. Kon might come again, but it's hard to tell if it's not that he's just still coming. "There you go, baby. Oh, aren't you a gift. So responsive, every time. So tight and eager and sweet. Good boy. Good boy."

Kon definitely comes again, but it's so overwhelming he can barely even fucking react to it.

He moans near-voicelessly, his whole body all lit up and overheated and throbbing, and Clark fucks him at the perfect pace, perfect depth, perfect fucking angle to make his whole body burn and boil and shudder and shake and tremble and throb and—and his cock is so hot in his cunt and feels like it just—just fits there, like—

it feels so fucking good, better than he even knows how to touch himself, and it makes Kon want to sob and sob and sob 'til he fucking pukes about it; 'til he fucking dies about it. It feels like Clark's been paying attention to him in a way he hasn't even figured out how to do for himself. It feels like he's going to burst into a fucking star or just burst into tears and cry and cry and cry.

It feels like being what he was made for, and like he'll never be good enough for anything else.

"Da-Daaaaaddy, Daddy, Daddy, p-please, please, pleasepleaseplease," Kon sobs, clinging to Clark as tight as he can and burying his face in his shoulder and—and clinging to him again. Wrapping his arms around him and hugging him again, because he wants to so bad, because he actually knows this Clark will let him and maybe even like it, but also . . . but he wraps his legs around him again too, because he's just a fucking whore, he's just whatever other people can use his body for, just whatever Clark can use his body for, and it doesn't matter what else he wants to be or—o-or—or what he—

Kon doesn't get anything he hasn't earned, because that's not how getting things works. That's never been how it works. He knows it's not. If he wants it, he needs to earn it. That's just how it is.

But he can't earn what he really wants, because that's not . . . because that's not how being somebody's kid works.

Definitely not how being somebody like Clark's kid works, anyway.

But Kon thinks . . .

Kon thinks this is how he's heard people describe feeling, when they'd described feeling "safe" as . . . as something physical, not just . . . as not just having cleared a building or ended a fight or made an escape or . . . just—just as something physical. Something instinctive and built-in and . . . and not an assessment or an observation or . . .

Or at least, aside from the sick waves of nausea in his gut and the painful crushing sensation in his chest, he thinks it's what they'd described.

It's the closest thing he's ever felt to that, anyway.

"Daddy's here, sweetheart," Clark hums lightly, sliding a hand up Kon's side and under the small of his back to pull him up closer to him. Kon stifles a whine against his shoulder. He feels Clark smile, and really feels Clark roll his hips in deep.

"AH," he gasps, his whole body jerking up, and Clark lets out a quiet little laugh and nuzzles his temple, and keeps rolling his hips in just as deep again, and again, and again.

"I'm here, Kon," he murmurs affectionately, pressing another kiss into his hairline. Kon has to stifle a sob after that. "There you go, baby. Good boy. Good boy. You take me so well every time. Just such a perfect, perfect gift. So well-made. So good for me. My perfect homage."

He isn't fucking him like he's using a toy, this time.

Kon squeezes his eyes shut, but it's not like he can't feel it all either way. He can feel Clark's hands; Clark's skin; Clark's weight and breath and body heat and cock.

He can feel Clark smiling at him.

He definitely feels it when Clark catches one of his hands and tugs it down to pin between their chests right where the S-shield—the El crest—the S—is supposed to go, and wraps his own hand around it, and—and holds it.

"Please don't stop," Kon pleads hoarsely. Clark's smile just widens again. Kon can't let himself feel anything about how many times he's made this bastard smile since the other first saw him. Can't let himself feel anything about the fascination or interest the other'd responded with; the immediate delight he'd responded with. About how he'd forgotten everyone and everything else just over seeing him; just over finding out he existed.

About how he'd looked at him like he was a present just for him.

Like he was just something worth looking at at all.

"Not 'til I've spoiled you, baby," Clark promises in a croon, his voice low and rumbling, and Kon feels his voice vibrate through their pinned hands and chests and into his own ribs, deeper into his body than even his own voice can go. Like Clark was there first, or like Clark just has something better to say than he ever could, or—or—like even his own body only wants Clark inside it.

It does, he's pretty sure.

Why wouldn't it?

"Please, please, please, please, please," he begs senselessly, and just keeps begging over and over and over, like he can't say anything else at all; like there's not room in him to say anything else at all, with Clark already there. Clark laughs softly in response; kisses his cheek and jaw and mouths down his throat. Kon's head tips right back for him, and Kon's body clutches right up for him.

Clark sighs, soft and adoring, and murmurs, "My perfect little boy."

It's gross. It's gross. It's disgusting and awful and the worst thing he's ever—

Clark kisses back up his throat and squeezes his hand, and Kon just needs him. Just needs—just needs anything he'll give him, anything he'll let him have, just anything, as long as it's Clark, as long as—as long as—

"Dad," he sobs, and grips Clark's hand tight, and Clark smiles wider again and rolls his hips in deep as he presses a kiss against the pulse in his throat, and it's so fucking obviously—so fucking obviously a reward, so fucking obviously a—a—"Dad, Dad, please, I don't—I can't—I—I need—"

"You can, sweetheart," Clark murmurs into his pulse, squeezing his hand again, and Kon bursts into tears again. "There, there, baby boy. You're alright. Daddy's got you. I'm right here. I'll give you everything you need."

Kon jerks his face to the side and screws his eyes shut—hides his face, more than anything else—and Clark kisses across his jaw and breathes against his pulse and is warm, warm, warm, warm and heavy and anchoring him down against the bed, against the planet, against the reality—

"You'll be such a good mother, Kon Kal-El," Clark sighs in praise, giving his hand another little squeeze and pressing a kiss in against the corner of his jaw and thrusting slow and deep and at the worst, most perfect angle inside him, and—a-and—"And such a good big brother, too, Kon-El."

Kon screws his eyes shut even tighter and digs his nails into Clark's back and squeezes his thighs in harder against his sides and doesn't think about—doesn't think—Mae wasn't—and Match never—and the twins don't—

( and whatever he is or isn't to Clark, he knows he's even less than that to Jon.

he knows—he knows whatever Clark thinks of him or not, Jon's never thought about him at all. )

Clark catches Kon's mouth with his own and kisses him, and it's not at all chaste this time: it's hard and hungry and all of his favorite ways to be kissed, which is so fucked-up that Kon wants to throw up. He wants to gag, retch, puke, just curl up and fucking die—

He wants Clark to look at him like he thinks he's something special and irreplaceable; like he's something special and irreplaceable to him. Just—ever. Even once.

Even if it has to be like this.

So he digs his heels into the small of Clark's back and kisses him back, and Clark lets out a low, huffed laugh.

"You know, I think you might actually be bruising me," he murmurs into Kon's mouth, seeming amused by the idea.

"S-sorry," Kon stutters uselessly. He keeps saying that. He can't stop saying that. "Sorry, I—I didn't—"

"Oh no, sweetheart, don't be sorry for flattering me," Clark hums, then rolls his hips in slow and deep and knocks any possibility of a response out of Kon's head. "Well, they do say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And you're certainly sincere, aren't you, Kon-El."

"I'm sorry," Kon chokes, because he thinks he's going to say something a lot worse if he doesn't. "M'sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry, I—Daddy, I—Dad, I—"

Clark kisses him again, and does it all of his favorite ways again, and fucks him all of his favorite ways again too. Like he's thought about him, or like he knows him, or just like—just like he wants to make him feel good. Like he wants to—spoil him. Like Kon's somebody that Clark could or would ever give enough attention to—to "spoil", or . . .

Or like he's somebody that is Clark's to spoil.

He's always been Clark's. He was Clark's when he didn't even know there was a Clark; when he didn't know there was anyone but Superman. He's still always been Clark's, no matter what.

But he's never been Clark's like that.

He's never been anyone's like that.

"Dad," Kon tries to say, but mostly moans, and he's so fucking disgusting, so fucking pathetic, so fucking awful, so—so—

Why's he even saying that?

( he knows why he's saying that.

he knows why he SHOULDN'T be saying that. )

"Come in me. Come in me. Please come in me, Daddy," he begs, and hates the stupid cracked and broken way his voice sounds about it. Clark's voice never sounds like that, except for when he's the one using it. "M-make me a—mommy. Make me a—a—"

Kon doesn't say "big brother". It's—if he says that, it's . . .

Clark isn't his—dad. Isn't his . . . Clark isn't his dad, so he isn't Clark's kid. So he isn't anyone's brother, either. He'd only be any of that if Clark had ever . . . had ever wanted . . .

But Clark didn't, and he'd never had the idea even occur to him, so Kon's not any of those things. Or—because Kon's not any of those things.

A real kid . . . a real kid wouldn't have had to . . .

"I don't need to, sweetheart," Clark rumbles low and approving and pleased, then catches his mouth in a quick kiss. "You're such a good, grateful little whore, Kon. You'd have gotten pregnant if I'd only come in you once. But I won't turn down such a thoughtful offer either."

"I—I—please," Kon chokes desperately, and maybe kind of claws at Clark's back and maybe grips his hand tighter than he's ever held onto anything in his life and maybe starts crying again and maybe just hasn't ever stopped crying and maybe—and maybe—

"You know you just have to ask, baby boy," Clark murmurs, and Kon does know that.

He's never known anything like that about Clark before. Never known if he just . . . just asked, then Clark would . . .

He hates that this is the one thing he's known that about.

"Come in me," he begs again, clutching up as tight as he can around Clark's cock. "M'a good whore, right? A good mommy? I'll be good, be so good, I'll be anything, anything, anything—"

Clark smiles again; tugs Kon's hand up between their mouths and kisses the back of his knuckles—kisses the back of his ring finger, specifically, which makes Kon feel even more disgusting and fucked-up just to have noticed. He almost comes or almost throws up or almost does both at once—almost just has a panic attack or just a fucking tantrum.

Why is this the only way Clark's ever liked him?

And why is he disgusting and fucked-up enough to still want him to like him, even if it's like this? He could've—he could've offered before, if he'd known this might work.

He would've, he's pretty sure.

He hates the fact that he's even fucking thinking that more than he hates the fact he's pretty sure he would've done it if he'd thought of it then.

"I know, I know," Clark says soothingly, smiling softer but still approvingly at him and rolling his hips in again, and again, and again—"Keep it tight for me. Just like that. You really are so grateful, aren't you, Kon. Such a lovely, worthy homage. So perfect."

Kon blinks way too goddamn fast and feels overwhelmed and dizzy and nauseous and overwhelmed and doesn't know if—if this is what—if this is—he doesn't—

He really doesn't know what being loved by a—by a parent would feel like. He's never known. It's not . . . that's not a thing he was ever supposed to know.

And Clark's touching his body like he knows it and looking at him like he's worth looking at and calling him . . . and calling him . . .

He knows this isn't what it's like, but he also knows it's the closest he's ever going to get to it.

"Daddy's perfect little boy," Clark murmurs adoringly, resting on an elbow on the mattress to run a hand back over his hair, and Kon digs his fingers into the back of the other's hand and back of his shoulder blades and buries his face in his shoulder and just sobs into his skin.

It hurts. It fucking hurts.

It hurts so fucking bad, and it feels so fucking good.

Clark strokes through his hair again and kisses his temple again and fucks him like he's an actual person, like he's not even just a stupid, useless, fucking whore, like—l-like—

Like he doesn't actually know what, because nobody's ever actually fucked him like this before.

"Please," he mumbles hoarsely into Clark's shoulder, clutching up tight underneath and around him. "Please."

"I'm here, sweetheart," Clark murmurs again, and Kon sobs harder and harder and harder and clings and clings and clings to him. Clark touches him like he's the perfect partner, like literally every way he'd ever fucking want touched, and like he's the literal last person he'd ever want to be the person doing that touching. "Daddy's got you."

Kon comes sobbing, and what he's sobbing is—

"DAD!"

Clark fucks him through his whole orgasm, which means Clark holds him through his whole orgasm, which just makes him sob harder. And come harder, he's pretty sure, which is even worse.

"Oh, Kon," Clark sighs adoringly, and pins him down to the broken mattress and buries his cock to the root as deep as he can inside him and comes as deep as he can inside him. Makes sure to come as deep as he can inside him.

Kon asked him to come inside him.

Kon buries his face in as tight against Clark's shoulder as he can and clings and clings to him. His whole body feels like it could break apart; like it is breaking apart. Like he can feel it breaking apart down to his atoms, even. Like even his atoms might break apart, if he's not careful.

Or just split.

Clark really is touching him perfectly; really is touching him just right, and like he already knows every single way to make him feel good.

But it's too good. Too good, like Clark already did know everything his body would like, could like, ever would like—like he already knew everything that Kon likes; like . . .

Like he already knows everything this body likes.

Like it's too good, and like he looks too much like Clark. So maybe . . . so maybe he feels too much like him too, even with the human DNA and all the ways Cadmus made him different from him.

It just feels too good. Almost too good to even come for.

But he did. He came because Clark wanted him to, and he's done everything Clark wanted him to. The only time he's said any semblance of the word "no" was when he'd thought he wouldn't be able to live up to his expectations; thought he'd disappoint him.

He doesn't know how the fuck he couldn't have; doesn't know how the fuck he hasn't. Doesn't know . . .

He thinks—he thinks—

He could do this for . . . for everyone else's Clark. For his reality's Clark. He could just . . . could just . . . if he got the chance, maybe, he could just . . .

He could—grin, and duck his head, and stand to frame the El crest on his chest and just . . . offer everyone else's Clark the same thing he'd offered this one—the same thing he's always offered anyone he's ever wanted attention from—and just . . .

Clark shifts just enough to let his just-softened cock slip out of Kon's fucked-raw cunt, and Kon screws his eyes shut and lets out the most pathetic sound of his life. He feels so empty that it just fucking—that it just—

As sore and overstimulated and achy and exhausted and just fucking beat as he's felt with this Clark, feeling empty with him hurts so, so much fucking worse.

"Aren't you precious," Clark hums, pressing a kiss to his forehead as he gives his hips a reassuring little squeeze. "A little sore, baby boy? Or did Daddy just pull out too soon?"

He says it like he's talking to a little kid again, which is fucked-up, and Kon fucking hates it.

Especially he hates the way hearing it makes him feel.

"I—s'not—" he mumbles, burying his face in Clark's shoulder and just—gripping him. Just—holding on to him. "Sorry. M'sorry, D-Daddy."

He really, really hates the way he sounds when he says it.

Clark wraps an arm around his waist and shifts to the side to lay on his back; pulls him with him and against his side in the process. Kon turns into him reflexively, and . . . he doesn't burrow into his side, just . . .

Clark strokes down his side and strokes a hand through his hair and settles right in like he doesn't have anywhere else to be at all.

So he knows what Lex Luthor's DNA looks like. He even knows what Clark's DNA looks like, which is saying a whole fuck of a lot more, given Kryptonian DNA is so complicated it might as well be 5th-dimensional. And he definitely knows what his own looks like, because fucking obviously he knows that.

So like, it's real fucking obvious to Kon that Brody was built on the exact same template he was. Somebody with a little less experience with cloning—and being cloned—might think the kid was him, genetically-speaking; he's probably closer to his build than fucking Match is, for fuck's sake. Not that Kon's actually memorized Match's DNA, just—

The point is, all that aside, there is literally nothing in a single version of this binder that Kon can understand that even once says "Kon-El" or "Conner Kent" or "Superboy" or "Supernova" or even fucking "Experiment 13". There's also nothing that says "Tim Drake" or "Robin", even though Kon can sure as shit recognize his DNA in the records attached to Tam's genetic information.

The other set of parental DNA, though . . .

Tim's definitely her father, at least genetically. Emotionally . . . like, who the fuck even knows, "emotionally". As "emotionally" as a Bat or a Drake can be, Kon's pretty sure, but there's still a lot of options for how that's played out. But genetically, that's definitely Tim's DNA.

But the other parent's DNA . . .

"Pa, Pa, Pa!" Brody half-yells, squirming to his feet in his lap and starting to sound—upset, maybe, and yeah, no, never mind: Kon actually would not prefer the crying. He shifts Tam into one arm as she starts fussing, mostly to make sure Brody doesn't accidentally step on or smack her while he's fussing, and . . .

"Hey there, Dur-El," Kon says, because now he's got a pissed-off eighteen month-old—kinda—standing on his thighs and glaring at him right in the eye, and Tam makes more fussy noises and clutches at the sleeve of his borrowed T-shirt.

"Pa," she insists, her little brow furrowed in concern. Kon's heart kind of clenches, or kind of gets crushed in a promethium red-sun-powered hydraulic press. Like—whichever.

"Hey there, Synn Mat-Dre," he says. Then he feels kind of weird for thinking of them as "Brody" and "Tam" instead of "Dur" and "Synn", given he still pretty much thinks of himself as "Kon" even when most people outside of Young Justice call him "Conner" these days. But he still doesn't know which names came first, and . . .

Well, and "Brody" and "Tam" had been what Tim had called them in the . . . letter.

If Kon can actually call that fucking thing a "letter", anyway. Maybe a fucking cover letter or whatever, he guesses, or a fucking business email.

Kon's met a lot of people who'd had a lot of awful shit happen to them, but nobody's ever described their whole world ending to him quite as clinically as this Tim Drake did in that letter, much less their whole reality. It's been years, but neither version of Kara can talk about Krypton or Earth-Two anything like clinically. Hell, Clark doesn't even remember Krypton and sounds more emotional when he talks about it.

Though he guesses "is happening" is technically more accurate, in this Tim's case.

He knows it's already over either way, though, because there's no version of Tim that ever would've left Gotham if it weren't.

"Please pick," Kon chokes, his voice cracking around the words, and Bernard curses something that sounds like the kind of shit Cassie curses when she's spent another long weekend training with Artemis.

"Bernard," Tim says, and Kon's whole body shudders. "You thought my boy was cute when he was sitting on your dick, right?"

"Jesus, Tim," Bernard says roughly, and Kon hides his face against the other's shoulder. "Yeah, definitely. Absolutely definitely. He was friggin' adorable sitting on my dick."

Kon whines.

"I think you had a better view than me that time," Tim says, sounding just barely speculatively. "Show me what you were talking about."

One of Kon's knees hikes up a little as it falls to the side—falls to make his thighs more open—and Bernard's thigh presses up between them as easy as a reflex, and Kon makes this stupid little yip of a sound and—and just—

"Tim, you fucking—" Bernard starts to hiss, and an embarrassed noise slips out of Kon's mouth as he realizes—as he realizes that he just did that, and—

He digs his fingers into Bernard's back and keeps his face hidden in tight against his shoulder, and Bernard groans.

"Sorry," Kon stutters. "Sorry, I . . . I—please, I—I'll be—"

Fuck, why is he always so much at people?

"You'll let Bernard get a condom on, like a good boy," Tim says. Kon nearly falls off the sink. He's not even actually on the sink, just—just he—"And then you'll let him pick you up, so you can sit like a good boy."

Kon's entire brain short-circuits and fries into useless mushy mystery meat right in his skull. Tim apparently either doesn't give a fuck about that or just wants to fucking microwave his brain, because the fucker still keeps talking.

"I'm not letting him prep you any more, though," Tim says. "You don't need it. And you promised Bernard tight, after all."

"Robin," Kon chokes as an outright tremble runs up his thighs and he forces himself to stop grinding his cock against Bernard's thigh. If it takes some TTK to actually make his body listen to him, at least it still gets done either way.

"I am going to die and then also kill you, Tim," Bernard hisses under his breath. "The fuck do you mean, you want me to pick him up?! How is that supposed to—?!"

And, well . . . if it takes some TTK to make his body do what Tim wants it to do . . .

Kon squeezes his eyes shut tight and takes a rough breath as he wraps his arms around Bernard's neck and his TTK around and through Bernard's everything, and just—just grips that—"everything", he guesses. Bernard instantly cuts himself off with a choked groan and basically collapses against him. Doesn't even hesitate to, like he knows Kon won't let him fall as instinctively as Cassie or Bart or Tim would, even though Tim's the only reason Bernard has to think that.

Which—well. Kon definitely feels some shit about that, but he also understands that.

"Oh," Bernard says feebly. He still has a hand in the medicine cabinet, half-crushing the box it's currently death-gripping.

"S-sorry," Kon croaks, his knee hiking up higher again and—and he just—"Sorry, sorry, please—"

"God dammit, Tim," Bernard wheezes, sounding like he just got hit or something. Kon isn't trying to—he isn't—this isn't—

"Taking it my boy's already answered that one for you?" Tim asks mildly.

"Fuck you, babe," Bernard mutters vengefully, but then he drops the box on the back of the sink and drops his hands down to Kon's hips and slides them under his ass, and Kon just—he just—

Just—Tim already told him what he was supposed to do.

"S'too m-much, s'too much, can't take it, can't do it, lemme go, please lemme go, can't take it," Match chokes out between his sobs, and Kon gives the other's dick a pointed squeeze with his come-sticky fist. Match yelps and knocks his head back against his shoulder.

His dick doesn't even try to go soft.

"The fuck is this, you gross little creep?" Kon demands in exasperation as he gives it a few near-bruising strokes. "You can't even keep it this hard inside me."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, I don't—I don't know why it's so—why it's—" Match gasps out hoarsely, trying to shake his head, and Kon just rolls his eyes and outright jerks the other's cock. Match's voice spikes into another incoherent shriek and he comes again, because he's fucking embarrassing, and it pisses Kon off so much that he doesn't stop jerking his cock.

"You're such a selfish bitch," he snaps in irritation as Match shrieks again and does a fucking pathetic job of trying to get away from the grip of his hand—does it like that doesn't just mean the stupid loser ends up on all of his cock and still hasn't gotten away from his hand at all.

"Stop stop STOP!" Match shrieks, half-clawing at his forearms and still struggling in his lap and just sounding like he's about to have a fucking panic attack or something. Something equally embarrassing to be having over just being fucking incompetent in bed, that is.

Kon, obviously, isn't even gonna pretend to entertain the idea, especially not while the stupid fucking slut is still coming.

"Fucking selfish," he repeats sharply, and Match sobs.

"I'm sorry!" he wails, and very obviously stops trying to get away and starts trying to get more. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Yeah, we had that conversation, dipshit," Kon grunts irritably, hooking his chin over the other's shoulder as he unwinds the arm he has around his waist to reach down and grab his balls and grip them tight, and tightens his grip on his cock too. Match sits down hard on his dick and fucking wails about it. Kon doesn't do anything else but keep his grip on him, this time.

At least, doesn't do anything else with his hands.