#drakel

"Please," Match pleads, shoving uselessly at him as he shakes even harder, but the only actual issue Kon's having with riding him blind is that the bastard's actually going soft on him while he's still in him, which: rude much?

"You're so bad at this," he marvels again, just shaking his head and curling his own fingers against the other's chest. Match sobs again, shaking his own head frantically and then letting go of Kon's thighs and snapping his hands up to cover his face. Like he's trying to, like, hide or something. "I still know whose dick I'm sitting on, dumbass, do you think I'm gonna forget just 'cuz you're too embarrassed to look at me?"

"Please, please," Match begs senselessly, and Kon thinks—how many times has Match let anybody know he was bad at something, anyway?

Has he ever?

He also thinks about how Match letting the directors or Spence or Waller or who the fuck ever know he was bad at something probably would've turned out for him, and feels this moment of burningly vicious longing to hurt somebody about that.

Somebody besides Match, obviously, but Match is the only person who's actually available right now.

"Seriously, how the fuck can you not keep it up right now?" Kon says. "Fuck's sake, man. Maybe I will fuck you next; just I won't bother bein' nice about it."

"I'm sorry," Match sobs, digging his fingers into his face. Kon can see—can feel—tears leaking out of his screwed-shut eyes behind them. "I tried, I'm sorry, I—I really tried!"

Kon really, really wants to hurt somebody about this.

"Yeah, I'm definitely gonna fuck you now," he says roughly as he pulls off the other's cock, already leaning over to grope for the lube he'd abandoned on the floor after prepping himself but still staring down at him. Match whimpers, then shudders. "Shut up and spread 'em. You're so fucking clueless about this shit, try and learn something."

"I can't, I can't, I don't know how," Match sobs, shaking his head harder, which is . . . probably actually true, even if it's not actually what Match means. Kon remembers trying to actually learn shit for the first time, though—shit that hadn't just been uploaded straight into his brain whether he was "trying" or not, he means. It'd been so frustrating it'd literally fucking hurt, and it'd stayed that frustrating for way too damn long.

And Match'd gotten a way better quality of uploads than he ever had back in the day, so the prick'd probably managed to go a lot longer than he had before he'd even had to learn anything.

"I can't," Match repeats, and still sounds like he's begging. Kon just shoves a thigh up between his, since the asshole hasn't gotten around to spreading them himself yet. Match spreads his fingers just enough to look up at him for a second, and Kon gets one glimpse of huge white eyes that've never looked so expressive before he snaps them back shut.

Fuck, Kon thinks very, very feelingly, and shoves the other's thighs apart.

"You're gonna," he retorts as he snaps the lube open, and feels Match's TTK shudder before it digs into and through him and clings. He's still angry—still wants to hurt someone—and the fact that Match is hiding his face from him while he tells him he doesn't know how to do something and is only holding onto him in a way that pretty much no possible witness would be able to notice is not helping that.

Yeah, no, it's more like it's making it actively worse, actually.

"Relax," Kon says as he slicks up his fingers, knowing Match can feel what he's doing, and Match just shudders again and keeps his hands over his face and his TTK on him and his thighs spread exactly as far apart as Kon shoved them. "You'll like this. You're still gonna get a nice fat cock to embarrass yourself on."

"Superboy," Match groans into his hands, which in even Kon's opinion is such a stupid thing to call someone in bed, and which makes Kon wanna fuck him through the bed.

Well, he's just taken two loads up the ass from the worst fuck he's ever had—much less the worst fuck he's ever fucked repeatedly—without even getting close to coming himself, so yeah, he's been getting pretty goddamn pent-up here. Kon's had to get himself off pretty much singlehanded every single time they've fucked because Match is just genuinely that bad in bed. Which, like, a selfish prick who never learned how to "people" except for how to fake it while pretending to be somebody else—yeah, obviously Match would be bad in bed, even if the asshole had fucked more people before him.

Or literally anyone, apparently, though Kon continues to need to not acknowledge the fact that he apparently punched this stupid bastard's V-card for him, or this time he's gonna embarrass himself.

Fucking hell, Match is such an unbelievable asshole.

At least now Kon knows the guy is also completely pathetic and a total loser, he guesses. Like, that's been some comfort or whatever. That's been gratifying and all.

Or ninety-nine point nine repeating percent of what he's been getting himself off for every single time they've fucked, but who's counting?

This time Kon wants the prick to put some fucking work into him getting off, though, because even if Match is sorta cute when he's being a pathetic mess and total fucking embarrassment, Kon has actual fucking needs, okay? Needs that he very much doesn't want to get stuck using his own hand for again. He can already jerk off whenever he feels like it without having to put up with getting incompetent dick first, even if it's kinda fun to get to be the one pushing around and taunting said dick for once. They've done that enough times by now, so sue him if he wants more variety in his sex life than that.

"Just try not to embarrass yourself before you get that nice fat cock in you," he says to Match, who whimpers into his hands but still doesn't try to close his legs.

Good, Kon thinks. At least the loser can manage that much.

Then he shoves a couple of slicked-up fingers into Match's hole. Match yelps, jerking sharply underneath him, and Kon plants a hand flat low on the other's stomach and throws his TTK behind it to really bear down. Match yelps louder and tries to jerk back. Which doesn't work out for him, obviously, because Kon's already got him all wrapped up in and pinned down by his TTK, and also doesn't work out for him because he's a pathetic, horny mess who's currently got the coordination of a concussed fish in half an inch of water.

"Not a great start on not embarrassing yourself, baby bro," Kon informs him, and Match grabs onto his shoulders and moans. Kon's whole nervous system lights the fuck up same as it does every time the prick actually holds on to him and he immediately starts fingerfucking him without giving him any time to adjust. They're invulnerable and have TTK; it's not like he's gonna actually hurt the prick or whatever.

Match'll probably be sore after, but Kon would really like Match to be sore after, so that's not exactly an issue for him.

"Learnin' anything yet?" he taunts, crooking his fingers roughly inside him. Match just whines, his head shoving back against the mattress and eyes rolling back in his head.

"Shut the fuck—the fuck up," he tries to snarl and mostly just chokes, digging his fingers harder into Kon's shoulders—clawing into them, really. So maybe Kon's gonna end up a little sore after this himself, if Match keeps pulling that kind of shit. Or if he lets Match keep pulling that kind of shit; whichever. "Shut up shut up shut—ah ah ah ah AH!"

"Aw, I know, baby bro, it's hard to learn stuff you didn't get uploaded for you, right?" Kon coos. "S'okay. Big brother'll help. He'll teach you just what you need to know to get him off for once."

Match squeezes his eyes shut on a whimper, and his hips stutter up onto Kon's fingers.

Kon bursts apart on the atomic level or spontaneously combusts into a red giant or just gets harder than he's ever been in his fucking life, then thrusts his fingers in deep. Match's whole body jerks under him, and the prick makes a sob of a moan and claws harder at his back and fumbles his way through trying to rock his hips against his fingers. He fucks it up like he's never worked with anyone on anything in his life, but like—fucking obviously he fucks it up like that, yeah.

But he tries to do it, and keeps trying even though he keeps fucking it up.

So yeah, Kon is definitely harder than he's ever been in his entire fucking life right now.

"Yeah, you like that?" he rasps, watching Match's expression intently as he twists his fingers inside him. Match squeezes his eyes shut tighter and gets a weird and ugly and stupid-looking screwed-up expression on his face, shaking his head senselessly. Kon's too busy burning alive over Match looking stupid—over Match letting himself look stupid—to actually bother treating that like it's an actual answer. "Yeah? Y'wanna learn how to be a good fuck for your big brother? Want him to show you how to not be such a fucking worthless piece of shit in the sack? Or maybe just how to finally almost be worth fucking?"

Match whimpers.

He also claws at Kon's back and tries to rock his hips down harder and screws his face up even tighter and uglier and stupider-looking, but the whimper is what really gets Kon's dick aching.

"You're so pathetic, hell," he groans appreciatively, burying his fingers in the other to the knuckle on his next thrust in. Match just about fucking writhes against the bunk. "C'mon, yeah, move 'em for me, moonbeam, show me what ya got."

"I can't, I can't, don't call me that," Match chokes frantically, shaking his head in the same senseless way again, and his voice is actually small.

At this point Kon might skip red giant and just go straight to white dwarf.

"Aw, what, you don't like that one, moonbeam?" he croons mockingly, dropping a kiss on the other's nose. Match screws his eyes shut even tighter on a rough shudder, his nails digging in against his back. "Okay, how about 'moonlight'? 'Moonstruck'?"

"Shut up," Match begs, and Kon drops his head to nuzzle into his throat, grinning sharply against it as he twists his fingers deeper inside him again. Match whimpers louder, his head dropping back against the bunk again too and whole body shuddering.

"Naw," Kon says breezily, then bites down on the other's pulse and rolls his skin between his teeth. Match bites his tongue and shudders near-violently, his nails digging in even deeper against Kon's back and knees knocking in against his sides. "God, you're so lame. You're lucky they gave you my pretty face, baby bro, nobody'd ever put up with how shit you are at this otherwise. We both know it's definitely not your personality anybody likes you for. I mean, not that anybody actually likes you, but whatever, it's an expression."

"Just stop, please stop," Match groans pathetically, trying to shake his head again, and Kon just buries a snort of laughter against his throat, then bites it. "AH!"

"I still can't believe you even can say 'please', fucking hell," Kon laughs incredulously, then presses a mocking little kiss to the bite before biting down on it again hard. Match yelps in pain and tries to yank his face away from his neck, and Kon just laughs again and weighs him down—anchors him down—into the bunk. Match makes another pathetic little yip of a sound and fumbles another attempt at trying to pull him off him. Kon just bites him harder to punish him for it, because who the fuck gave him permission to do that?

With all the shit Kon puts up with from this useless prick, what the fuck makes Match think he gets to tell him even one damn thing to do here?

"Stop acting the fuck up," he sneers against the other's throat, curling his fingers inside him roughly and shoving them in deep. "You're not in charge here. You don't even know what the fuck you're doing here, dumbass."

"Stop," Match begs hoarsely, tipping his head back even farther against the mattress as he fists his hand in the back of his hair, like Kon's actually stupid enough to even believe he wants him off him anyway. "S'too much, I can't—I can't, I—s'too much!"

"Too much, huh?" Kon breathes, feeling like he's just had an electric cable jammed into his gut. "Fucking loser. Stop being such an embarrassment or I'm gonna shove my dick in right now, whether you're ready to take it or not."

"Don't, don't, I'm not, I can't," Match gasps, his voice spiking up anxiously as he shoves uselessly at Kon's shoulders; as he chokes so hard on the words that he nearly gags on his own voice.

So Kon does, obviously, immediately shove his dick into him.

Match shrieks.

He's so fucking embarrassing.

"Fuuuuuck, you're tight, baby bro," Kon pants, putting all his weight and all his TTK into keeping the other pinned into the mattress and his cock hilted up deep inside him. Match just makes desperate, desperate panicky sounds and thumps the heels of his hands up against his chest and collarbone.

"Big!" Match chokes, his voice cracking shrilly. Kon laughs at him.

"Yeah, I know, dumbass," he says, then rolls his hips down tighter into Match's. Match yelps, his eyes flaring wide. "How's it feel, baby brother? You like our big thick dick too? S'nice, right? Gonna fuck this tight little hole you've got 'til even your clueless ass fits it perfect."

Match whimpers.

Kon grins, and then thrusts his hips down into Match's.

Match WHIMPERS.

Whimpers, and . . .

"Oh my god, did you actually get it up again just from that?" Kon asks, laughing disbelievingly as he glances down at the other's dick just to confirm, even though his TTK can already feel exactly how hard it is. He doesn't bother to actually fuck him yet; just keeps himself buried inside him and lets himself enjoy the way the idiot's shaking and squirming and squeezing underneath him, his muscles clenching and twitching involuntarily. "After you couldn't even keep it up when you had it in me? Holy fuck, you gross-ass freak. Like—ew, that's embarrassing."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, sorry sorry—FUCK!" Match curses desperately, trying to shove him off again with literally zero strength behind it and actually being pathetic enough to try to squirm back across the bunk and out from under him, which Kon is absolutely not gonna let him do. "Take it out, take it out, s'too much!"

"Are you serious?" Kon demands even more disbelievingly with another laugh. He's not even fucking him yet, for fuck's sake. "What the hell makes you think I'd do that? This is the closest you've gotten to actually being worth my time."

"It's too much!" Match sobs miserably, and the screwed-up, teary-eyed expression on his flushed face and the weak-ass job that he's doing of trying to shove Kon off him and the desperate, frantic way his TTK is fucking gripping him even tighter than his damn hole is all just . . .

Yeah, that all gets Kon to a whole new level of "hardest he's ever been".

Krypto flies fast, and the whole world blurs and it’s all rushing wind and speed, and the stupid fucking puppy is still fucking scared, and Kon–and Kon–

Kon had felt a whole lot safer curled up against Krypto’s chest, it feels like, stupid as that thought is. 

The puppy really, really wants to hide again, though, and Kon can’t think about anything right, can’t even–can’t–

He just wants Clark to show up and fix this, even if he’s gonna give him another stupid lecture about not being so reckless and stupid and–

He just wants Clark at all, he thinks, even though it’s a stupid fucking thought. 

Then the blurred world and rushing wind and speed all stop all at once in a jarring jolt as Krypto lands–somewhere, Kon’s too dizzy to really figure out where just yet–and in the same instant, and a voice exclaims, “Krypto! What are you doing, boy, you know better than to come to the apartment like this!” 

Krypto sets Kon down all nice and neat on a concrete balcony and wags his tail, and Clark comes out through the sliding glass and onto the balcony too, looking stressed and looking around like he’s looking for something, but Kon doesn’t care, because it’s Clark. 

He tries to say that, on some stupid crammed-down reflex–tries to say “Clark” or “Kal” or even “Superman”, or just “HELP me!”, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic and scared-sounding yelp. Clark pulls up short, looking startled, and looks down at him, and seems to just be noticing him for the first time. The stupid puppy-brained puppy feels exposed and vulnerable and terrified of the huge looming scary thing taking up the whole stupid world and whimpers in fright as it skitters back between Krypto’s legs clumsily and tries to hide underneath him even more clumsily than that. 

Krypto barks as proud as every time he’s ever shown up dragging a supervillain by the cape or “fetched” a whole-ass tree out of the ground instead of the normal-sized stick somebody’d tossed for him, then plants his butt on the balcony and wags his tail even harder, panting happily up at Clark as the stupid fucking puppy burrows in and hides against his stomach and whimpers again. Because it’s fucking scared, and Kon just wants Clark to make it better but Clark’s big and scary right now just like the scary bad man was and Clark’s gonna be so mad that he messed up something as basic as just some random fucking robbery so bad, and Clark’s gonna think he’s so stupid and gonna tell him he’s so stupid and–and–

And Clark’s gonna be disappointed in him again. 

He’s so stupid. He’s so stupid, he’s so stupid all the time, he never just thinks and right now he’s even worse at thinking than usual and Clark’s gonna think he’s so stupid and so dumb and gonna hate him and–! 

“Oh,” Clark says, and drops down to one knee, his face and posture and everything all going all soft all at once as he reaches out with a big and planet-crushing and gentle hand. “Who’s this? Are you lost, buddy? Need some help getting home?” 

The puppy wants to be home, and Kon knows where home is, so that’s all his stupid crammed-down brain can process before the both of them are bolting forward into Clark and trying to jump up into his arms, all freaked-out panic and distressed yips and whines. 

“It’s alright, buddy,” Clark murmurs, his voice just as gentle as the hands that could crush a planet are wrapping the puppy–and Kon–up into themselves and pulling them in to cradle against his chest right where the “S” goes. Right where the El crest goes. 

The El family crest, that Clark still lets him wear. 

Kon bursts into sobs that the puppy makes as hitched, stuttered whimpers, and Clark smoothes a big-heavy-gentle hand down their back and makes a soft little shushing, soothing sound and keeps cradling them right there. 

The puppy feels almost as safe as it did hiding under Krypto, and Kon feels–Kon feels– 

Kon feels stupid and useless and weak and scared and like the most worthless fucking Super that’s ever existed, the most useless El that’s ever existed like he’s even really a real one of those, and–a-and–

And safer than he’s ever, ever felt in his whole stupid, useless, worthless existence. 

Kon cries mortifyingly harder, and the puppy snuffles and whimpers and whines, and Clark holds them soft and secure and safe and murmurs gentle, gentle things in a tone of voice that Kon can’t even process the sound of; can’t even understand the words of. 

He doesn’t think even Ma’s ever talked to him like that. 

Everything’s still so, so scary and all weird and wrong, b-but . . . but he . . .

Krypto barks proudly again and wags his tail happily, and Kon mostly manages to stop crying, and Clark keeps stroking that big-heavy-gentle hand down his back over and over again even while he does, and . . . and it’s fine, it’s alright, it’s okay now; it’s fine. Krypto was smart enough to save him and smart enough to bring him to Clark and Clark is smart enough to save him too, smart enough to find someone who can help and take him to them, to someone who can fix him, so–so it’s fine, and he’s okay, and the scary bad man’s not here and can’t get him or the stupid puppy’s stupid puppy-brain ever again, because Superman has them, so they’re–so they’re–

So they’re safe, Kon thinks in a weirdly painful kind of relief, and the puppy buries their face in Clark’s chest. 

Next time, Damian tells himself as he collects his coat and bag and takes them out to the towncar, feeling–bothered, not to have considered that. To not have thought of that. Father would not–

Damian . . . hesitates, and thinks . . . he does not know, actually, how Father treated his Pocket when he had her. If he was respectful of her, or . . . 

He let her fade. So . . . he must’ve neglected her, to let her fade. Must’ve . . . 

Beloved chirps on his shoulder. Damian wore his good coat today, which he usually reserves for events and occasions. It has shoulder straps, though, which his daily-wear coat does not, and therefore is more suitable for Beloved to secure himself atop. 

He does not know if Father ever made such considerations, when he still held Mother’s Pocket. 

In the car, Beloved sits atop Damian’s schoolbag and sorts through and takes inventory of his own bag and the belongings contained therein. Damian considers what else Beloved might require for his bag, though obviously a Pocket does not truly require much. More food, he supposes. A Pocket does not need to consume food, but given the hungry, underfed look of Beloved . . . 

Damian will have to source some form of rations for him. Just–something small, for Beloved to have to hand as he pleases. 

When they arrive at the academy, Beloved hides inside the collar of his coat, and then hides inside his school bag after he divests himself of it at his locker. Damian does not see any point in dissuading him from the course of action. If Beloved prefers to go unseen . . . well, that will only make it simpler when Damian does not have to explain what happened to him later, once he has faded himself. That will be–difficult, should it be necessary. 

Especially given Gotham gossip might care a bit too much about his father’s blood son gaining a Pocket at this age. Damian is aware that it is somewhat unusual for prepubescent children to have Pockets; generally people do not manifest a Pocket until their mid to late teenage years. Drake has already been noted to be unusual for manifesting three. Possessing two Pockets is somewhat rare itself, but having three is practically unheard of. 

About as rare as manifesting one before the age of fourteen or fifteen, in fact. 

Damian knows the statistics factually, as recognizing an unusual Pocket can be . . . beneficial, on occasion. For either a detective or an assassin, in fact. And he knows why he manifested Beloved, given the condition of the other. 

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They still don't fight about it—though Superboy still tries to fight about it. Or Superboy at least tries to convince them both that he's trying to try to fight about it, anyway, stupid an idea as that is. Like he actually thinks Match is that stupid; like he's actually that stupid himself.

They still don't fight about it, though.

They still don't fight about it, but Superboy very, very much does keep trying to convince them both to fight about it every time, the stupid ungrateful bitch.

Even Superboy can't actually be that stupid, and sure as hell Superboy can't think he's that stupid, so Match doesn't understand why the bitch keeps wasting both their time like this instead of just acting right.

If anyone was going to do anything that pointless and pointlessly annoying, though, it would be Superboy.

So this time Match just pins him down—because he always has to pin him down, because Superboy won't just fucking shape up and act right—and keeps not letting him make it a fight.

If Match has to keep fucking it out of him 'til it sticks, then fine; he'll fuck it out of him 'til it sticks.

He'll fuck it out of him 'til Superboy can't even try to pretend anymore.

So this time Match just pins him down and keeps not letting him make it a fight. He doesn't let Superboy get away with pretending he could make it a fight, either; doesn't let him touch his own cock or knot; doesn't even let him have his half-blown knot to come on. Though he does make sure to make him come enough times to overwhelm even their physiology.

Still doesn't give him even his half-blown knot, though, and doesn't even act like he might.

Not 'til the bitch bares his throat for him and starts shrieking his name again, anyway.

Match dips his head and nuzzles the bitch's throat the softest he's ever done anything in his life—nuzzles the bitch's throat the softest he's ever done anything in his life and breathes in just how good the bitch smells right now, the rightness of how the bitch smells right now—and then fucks the bitch 'til he's screaming his name.

Positive reinforcement doesn't come naturally to Match, but it has its applications.

"Gonna hold out long enough for my knot this time, bitch?" he breathes out low and ragged, and Superboy throws his head back as far as he can—bares his throat as much as he can—and comes with another scream of his name.

His name.

Match isn't even all that attached to having one of those, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get off on hearing his bitch scream it.

He nuzzles Superboy's throat soft, soft, soft; listens to him whine for it and thinks about knotting him right here and biting his jaw deep enough to scar. Thinks about making sure that anyone who comes looking for Superboy now or later or ever even sees him again knows exactly what he is. Knows exactly whose he is, once and for all.

He thinks about showing everyone exactly what and whose Superboy is and always has been; what he's known Superboy was since he first woke up and first saw the other somewhere outside of his uploads—the first thing he ever learned for himself, from experiencing it himself.

Even before Match knew what he wanted to do about it, he knew this.

And he could make sure they all knew. Could show everyone and anyone what he's always known and Superboy's always refused to admit. Everyone.

If he wanted to, Match could make sure that every random civilian that Superboy ever saves to any total stranger that he meets on the street would see a bite scar in the shape of Match's fangs cut into his jaw. He could show everyone from Robin to Wonder Girl to even goddamn Superman who came looking and caught the bitch coming on Match's knot—caught the bitch locking Match's knot, and doing it too tight and too needing and too desperate to pretend he didn't mean it this time.

Just catching the bitch on Match's knot at all, maybe, because Match likes the thought of his bitch coming already knowing that everyone knows exactly what and whose he is.

Coming for knowing that everyone knows exactly what and whose he is.

Match doesn't actually "like" much, but he'd definitely like that. And he isn't going to share, obviously, but he wouldn't mind the showing. His bitch is a stupid, ungrateful, thick-headed idiot of a stubborn fucking whore who always tries to make everything a fight, always refuses to admit the obvious, always tries to pretend, but . . .

"One of these days I'm gonna make sure you do," Match murmurs low, low, low against the other's jaw right where he wants to scar him, and Superboy jerks up into him and clutches up the tightest he ever has around him and comes all over himself all over again. "GOOD bitch. I'll make you come on my knot just like that, so they ALL know what you are."

Superboy sobs underneath him, and the bitch's tactile telekinesis clings to him like it thinks it can keep him inside it—and him—for good.

Match kisses the other's jaw right where he wants to scar him and fucks his own orgasm into him long and slow and dragged-out, and his bitch clings to him with his whole body and all of his powers and sobs even harder.

Positive reinforcement really was the right choice.

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.

Match thinks that, but next time Superboy still tries to make it a fight, because Superboy is a stupid, ungrateful, thick-headed idiot and a stubborn fucking whore, and at this point Match is just fucking pissed off about it.

So he pins him into the cracked pavement hard enough to crater it and orders him: "Stay down, bitch."

This time Superboy doesn't listen, though. This time Superboy snarls and curses and struggles and doesn't do even a single fucking thing that Match can reward him for, which—fucking fine. Fine. If Superboy's going to keep acting like he doesn't want what he wants every time, then Match is going to make sure the other knows how it feels not to get it.

And he's going to make sure this stupid fucking bitch knows to be fucking grateful the next time he bothers to shove his knot in him.

So this time he only lets the bitch rub off against his thigh; doesn't get his own dick involved at all. He knows Superboy can feel how hard it is either way, and knows the bitch wants to feel it a lot more ways than that. Knows the bitch is thinking about how he wants to feel it, even while he's trying to pretend he's not.

Match isn't going to give him something that he's going to refuse to act right for, though.

He pictures Superboy buried in his bed all alone tonight, when it'll be late and dark and there'll be nothing and no one around to distract himself with or use to lie to himself, and wonders what the bitch'll try to fuck himself with when he's trying to get what he's so busy refusing to admit he wants right now. What the bitch even could fuck himself with without crushing or breaking before it could even get him off.

The tactile telekinesis needs concentration to work, is the thing, and Match already knows this stupid fucking whore can't concentrate for shit when he's got something up that desperate fucking hole of his.

He thinks about listening for the other tonight, just to see if he can figure out what the bitch'll try to use. Just to hear if the bitch'll cry in frustration when it's not enough, or cry for him when it doesn't work, or just fucking cry.

Match knows what this stupid idiot is, and knows what this ungrateful whore needs, and knows he's going to do whatever it takes to make sure his bitch finally act right.

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( that night Match pictures Superboy buried in his bed all alone in a tangled mess of blankets and pillows that all smell the exact kind of right that Superboy should ALWAYS smell; pictures Superboy buried in his bed and blankets and pillows all curled up and regretting not admitting what he'd wanted from him today, what he'd NEEDED from him today, what he ALWAYS needs from him, and STILL wanting—wanting to come, wanting to be treated like the bitch he is, wanting to ACT like the bitch he is, wanting and wanting and WANTING and—

Match pictures Superboy buried in his bed all alone and wanting HIM; wanting his cock, his knot, his TEETH, and NOT wanting to lie to either of them about it anymore, and actually—and KEENING for him, keening HIS name and no one else's, keening for HIM and no one else, and—

if he did, Match could find him. could pin him down and nuzzle his throat and bite his jaw to the BONE so everyone would know, and know for GOOD; could give his bitch something he could fuck himself on as hard as he wanted to; something he could COME on as hard as he NEEDED to; something—

Match doesn't actually know what Superboy's bed looks like, though, or anything about where he sleeps at all and what is or isn't there, and he doesn't hear him keen for him even once.

doesn't even hear him say his name at all. )

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Stupid bitch.

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Punishment really doesn't work, no, so Match is just going to have to make Superboy act right enough to earn the positive reinforcement. He can do that, if he has to.

He can do a lot more than that.

He'll make Superboy cry for him every fucking night, because he'll make sure his bitch will never be able to go a night without him again.

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.

"What, you wanna go again already, Rematch? Gettin' kinda needy lately, aren't you, bitch?" Superboy taunts, the grin he's wearing sharp and mean even before his voice drops into that ugly, grating rumble. It doesn't suit him, because it never once has, and just the first glimpse of his face has already made Match want to fuck it into a drooling, come-soaked mess.

That'd suit the stupid bitch.

( Match knows he keeps using the same word over and over. it just—ITCHES, not to use that word. itches and scratches and CLAWS up his throat, if he doesn't use it.

but it doesn't quite . . . suit, somehow, for what it's supposed to say. for what it's supposed to MEAN.

doesn't quite suit Superboy, either.

doesn't suit Superboy's VOICE even more, though, just like that ugly grating rumble doesn't either. )

It’s not a difficult question, but the disappointment doesn’t know if it’s allowed to answer it or not. It’s supposed to–it’s supposed to tell its master when the tests hurt, but not when . . . not when it’s afraid. Not unless its master wants to see it afraid, because sometimes he does. But the bright bird isn’t its master either way, so . . . 

Though the disappointment thinks it might rather belong to a master that was more like–

The disappointment doesn’t think that. 

“Can you hear me?” the bright bird repeats, soft as anything, and the disappointment–the disappointment–

It’s a question. It’s a direct question; simple and straightforward. That’s . . . permission. Even coming from a servant. 

“Yes,” it says, and doesn’t let itself look at the bright bird again. He’s too pretty for it to deserve to look at anyway, even if it weren’t a disappointment. 

The bright bird . . . exhales, slowly. 

“Can you look at me, please?” he says, and the disappointment doesn’t know–it doesn’t know what to do about that. 

But it’s an order, even if the bright bird gave it strangely, and when its master isn’t here it’s supposed to obey Hope and Mercy and the servants. And the bright bird is a servant, so . . . 

It doesn’t let itself swallow. Doesn’t let itself flinch again. 

It looks at the bright bird again, and the bright bird looks–strange, this time. He’s staring at it fixatedly, like he wants to cut it open for his own experiments. The disappointment knows that’s what they’ll do with its body once they dispose of it, because that’s what was always going to happen to its body once its master was done with it, but–but it–

“Were you . . . sleeping?” the bright bird asks carefully. 

“No,” the disappointment says. Its master never wants it to say any more than it has to, to answer a question. No explaining. No–excuses. 

Excuses are even worse than flinching. 

“Are you–does your body–” The bright bird cuts himself off; seems to struggle for some reason. The disappointment tries not to stare at his face. The bright bird told it to look at him, but . . . but it tries not to stare. It looks at the sunlight-gold embroidery on the collar of the bright bird’s wing-cut cloak instead, and thinks of . . . thinks about . . . 

It thought–it thought it might get to see the sun at least one more time. 

“Are you–a person?” the bright bird tries, his tone very careful again, and the disappointment feels something in the part of itself that used to think of itself as something else burn. 

But it knows that part of itself’s a liar, even if the bright bird asking that like it’s even a real question makes it–makes it feel–

“Max Mercury said Impulse got a Pocket this morning,” Captain Marvel says, still looking a little puzzled. “And, uh–that it was Superman. So, uh . . . is Impulse not here, or . . . ?” 

Bruce’s eyes narrow even further. Tim flicks his eyes warily to Stud, who looks indignant and has his cheeks puffed out. 

“Impulse has . . .?” Tim starts slowly, and Stud bristles. 

“Rob!” he protests angrily, zipping straight over to Tim and throwing his arms around his neck sort of–possessively, almost. Or at least–insistently, anyway. “Rob Rob Rob!” 

Tim feels a little weird about the idea of anyone being possessive of him, even his own Pocket. But he also can’t help noticing that every Pocket left still on Flash’s shoulder nearly falls off it the moment Stud takes off and has to catch their balance all at once–and not in the sense where Stud actually did anything that should’ve knocked any of them over. At least not all of them, anyway. 

That’s–something he notices, yeah. 

Just not something that makes sense. 

Though neither does Stud clinging to him actually possessively, really. 

“Lantern. You said Wonder Woman had a ‘friend’ in Gateway call her this morning,” Bruce says, watching Stud where he’s clinging to Tim’s neck with a perfectly neutral–and therefore perfectly suspicious–expression. Dick’s attention visibly spikes, which is not comforting. “Which friend?” 

“Uh–some curator, I think?” Green Lantern says with a frown. “Why is that a question right now? Why is the Pocket thing not the thing you’re focusing on?” 

“Hn,” Bruce says, and nothing else.