#matchkon

"Fuck, you're so bad at this," he says, and tears finally spill out of Match's eyes and down across his cheekbones and temples, and Kon twists the chunk of his cheek he's pinching, and Match just fucking cries, the fucking embarrassment.

"Th-thank—th-thank you f-for—for—" Match cuts himself off with a pained gulp, more tears spilling down his flushed, screwed-up face, and Kon's whole body burns.

"For what, loser?" he asks, watching him intently as his skin prickles in anticipation.

"Thank you for—for b-bothering to—to pop my—my w-worthless—fuck, fuck, fuck, just fuck me, fuck me, you fucking—AH!" Match cuts himself off with a shocked yelp, teary eyes flaring wide again as Kon snaps his hips into his. Just the once, again; just the once, and then he grins down at the bastard sharp and vicious.

"Naw, you gotta earn it better than that, bitch," he goads. "C'mon, lemme hear you."

Match screws his eyes back shut and buries another whimper in the crook of his elbow as he turns his face away—like that can even hide his face from him, fucking Christ—and Kon feels the other's expression crumple as he shudders even harder.

"THANK YOU!" Match cries, face still turned away and "hidden" in the crook of his own arm, and Kon's atoms burn. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou, please don't stop, please don't, fuck me, fuck me, fuck my pathetic loser hole, fuck me with a real dick, please!"

"God, you're so fucking gross," Kon mutters as every single one of his burning atoms splits. Then he yanks back and yanks his dick right out of him—Match keens in distress about it, which does not do a single damn thing to keep Kon's atoms intact—grabs the other by the hair, and flips him onto his stomach so he can pin his face into the bunk as he shoves his dick back into him and just fucking pounds him. Match shrieks against the mattress and fists his hands in the sheets.

The mattress rips. Kon zero percent cares.

"KON!" Match wails. Kon fucks him to the root, and Match does the shittiest possible job of trying to buck back against him and get him deeper.

"Fuck, fuck, you desperate slut," Kon pants roughly, pinning him down harder. Definitely something in the box spring breaks; definitely Kon negative percent cares. "Whatcha think, huh? Lot better than whatever fucking lab equipment you were desperate enough to try shoving up there before, yeah?"

"I—I didn't—!" Match stammers, half-muffled against the mattress, and Kon puts muscle behind the hand he's pinning the other's head down with. "AH!"

"Sure you didn't, freak," Kon says as he grins mean and leering, because he knows Match is gonna feel it. "Bet you never borrowed any of my toys while you were playing 'Superboy' either, right?"

Match chokes into the blankets, his whole body jerking. Kon grins wider.

"Which one was your favorite, baby brother?" he asks. "Bet you liked fucking yourself in my bed, right? Did you use your TTK or your hands for it? Or did you just do whatever you could to let you pretend I was doing it for you?"

"I—I didn't, I—!" Match whimpers, and Kon snaps their hips together and makes sure Match's cock is pinned against the mattress.

"Yeah?" he rasps. "Too bad, Matty. Maybe you'd be better at this by now if you had."

Match bursts into tears again as he comes into the sheets and buries his face in the mattress himself.

"I—I—" Match stammers past cracked, desperate sobs, clawing at the mattress a couple times as he tries to dig his knees into it enough to push back against him and then fists his hands in the sheets again on a harsher sob.

The useless prude's TTK is gripping him almost as tight as his hole is.

"Y'like it, right, baby bro?" Kon croons mockingly, making a point of stroking down the other's spine with his fingertips. Match's TTK—and hole—both clench, and Kon sniggers meanly at him. "Aw, I knew you'd like it. Feels good being a nice tight hole for big brother, yeah? Feels good not having to do anything but feel good?"

Match whines.

"Yeah, that's right," Kon says, and grins meanly again, fisting his hand tighter in his hair. "At least you're better at taking it than you are at giving it, though it'd be pretty fucking hard to find a way to be worse. I'm gonna enjoy gettin' to go all-out on your invulnerable ass."

"You—you—" Match stammers again, and Kon thrusts hard, and Match yelps.

"Don't bitch when I'm already being way fucking nicer than you earned, moonbeam," Kon retorts, patronizing and smug and dragging the other's head back to pull his face out of the mattress. "Doesn't matter if you can't keep up for shit like this, yeah? You can blow your load as early as you want, and big brother'll just fuck you 'til he's satisfied either way."

Then he actually thrusts hard—harder than any just-human hole could ever take—and Match actually fucking yelps, the total fucking lame-ass, and scrabbles senselessly at the sheets as he bucks up underneath him. Kon laughs at him again.

"Too much," Match gasps like he's not still trying to buck up under him, "too much too much too much, S-Superboy, fuck, it's TOO MUCH!"

"Oh my god, shut up, you're fine, you fucking moron," Kon snorts derisively, rolling his eyes again. "Just be a good hole and keep your TTK up for me. You'll just get sensitive, won't get sore. C'mon, baby boy, trust your big brother. You know I'm the one who actually knows what I'm doing here."

"I can't, I can't," Match begs, and Kon just thrusts faster. "I can't—can't CONCENTRATE, fuck, fuck, FUCK, you fucking—FUCK!"

“You know anyone who saw you like this would know what you were, right?” he asks, tilting his head to one side, and Superboy’s eyes flare wide and his breath—catches. “With your legs spread like this—” Match sinks his cock back into the other’s hole to the knot—“for me.”

“Get off, asshole,” Superboy says, his voice cracking and thighs still trying to shake in the grip of Match’s tactile telekinesis. His own tactile telekinesis makes a weak attempt at pushing back against Match’s, but there isn’t—“leverage” is the wrong word, obviously, and “weight” isn’t right either, but it’s pressure.

Superboy’s tactile telekinesis is only pressure, though; not real force.

Not enough of a struggle to count as actually trying to fight, though, so Match rewards the good behavior again.

Specifically, Match rocks his hips back, and then shoves his cock and barely-deflated knot in him to the root.

Superboy shrieks. He tries to shove Match off with both arms, tries to get him off out and out of him and close his thighs, but that's not how this works and never has been.

And even if it was, Superboy's tactile telekinesis is clinging to him. Clinging to him with a lot more pressure than he was using when he was trying to push him off before. Enough that Match might actually not be able to pull away even if he was stupid enough to want to.

Good, Match thinks, and licks the back of his teeth again.

“There you go, bitch," he breathes, and rolls their hips together tight. Superboy shrieks again, and then again on the next roll. By the third, the bitch is clawing at his back and shrieking his name.

So Match sticks with the positive reinforcement angle. If that’s what it’s going to take for this stupid bitch to admit he fucking wants this . . .

“Match, Match, Match!"

. . . then that’s what Match is going to give this stupid bitch.

"MATCH!!"

Superboy keeps trying to pretend, but Match fucking knows what he is.

.

.

.

The next time they see each other, Superboy’s back to acting like he doesn’t know what gets him off, like he doesn't know what he wants—like he doesn’t know what he is—and Match is immediately irritated by it.

Irritated, but not irritated enough to let the stupid bitch make it a fight again.

Superboy tries, again, but Match still fucking knows.

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.

Sometimes Superboy—hesitates, almost, like there’s something else he wanted to do, but every time he does he does something absolutely fucking stupid instead. Neither of them fucks the other again, but that’s just because they keep getting interrupted every time they get close to it.

Match doesn’t fuck Superboy again, that is, because Superboy isn’t going to be fucking him again either way. Not unless Match feels like letting him, anyway.

Match thinks about fucking Superboy, though. Thinks about shoving Superboy down into the dirt or concrete or carpet or gravel and shoving his cock into his hole and—no, into his mouth. Shoving his knot into his mouth, if he has to. Just whatever shuts the bitch up for long enough that he can’t keep trying to make excuses for what they both know. 

Match knows, and he knows that Superboy knows, because even that idiot couldn’t be stupid enough not to know. Couldn’t be stupid enough not to—to actually not—

Match doesn’t feel much, but he feels this. This was the first thing he ever felt, after waking up and coming face-to-face with the face he’d been made in the image of, and already knew was nothing like him.

So it's still not a fight, and it won't be.

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“F-fuck you!” Superboy tries to snarl, and Match shoves him down harder into the concrete and pins him there with his tactile telekinesis—his tactile telekinesis, and also just by sitting on his chest. The bitch still needs shoved around, but Match still isn't going to let him act like there's a question of who's doing what here; isn't going to let him make it that same damn stupid fight he always tries to.

Superboy isn't doing that good a job of doing that right now anyway.

“You’re so fucking obvious,” Match sneers down at him, and Superboy bares his teeth back up at him. Match just forces the other's jaw open with his tactile telekinesis and roughly hooks a thumb into the corner of his mouth, shoving it in between his teeth and up against the diamond-sharp midline piercings stacked up his tongue. “Come on, you stupid bitch. Do you actually think there’s anyone out there who doesn’t know these fucking things wouldn’t feel good to anyone but me?”

Superboy freezes into motionlessness like he always does when he’s trying not to do something and stares up at him with the same big stupid eyes and same stupid conflicted look on his face as always, and Match curls his lip just enough to bare his fangs back down at him. Superboy stays very, very still and doesn’t do anything at all, just like every time he’s trying not to do what he should do.

Match just rolls his eyes and shoves his dick into the stupid bitch’s mouth.

“Fucking OBVIOUS,” he emphasizes in a low, snarling rumble, and then makes sure to make the bitch choke on it.

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.

The bitch does choke on it, but he swallows too, and every single drop of Match’s come ends up inside him just the same as last time.

"Stop, stop, just let me—let me concentrate, just—just give me a fucking second, you fucking—FUCK!" Match curses in frustration, clawing at the mattress again and ripping it even worse as his voice cracks. Kon continues not to give a fuck. "Just—fuck, just a second, I—fuck fuck FUCK!"

"Are you seriously trying to bitch at me for not waiting for you?" Kon demands with an incredulous laugh. Talk about fucking ironic. "Fucking hell, man, how tone-deaf are you?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm really trying!" Match sobs, fisting his hands against the mattress again. "I can't—I can't concentrate, just let me concentrate!"

"Just figure it out, you fucking whiner, it's not that hard," Kon shoots back in exasperation without missing a beat fucking him, just breathless enough for his own voice to catch. Nowhere near as bad as Match's voice is, though. "Unless you wanna be too sore to walk after this. Fuck it, maybe you'll have a harder time being such an annoying frigid bitch if all you can think about is how hard I rode your pathetic ass and how much you miss having a cock up there, huh?"

Match sobs, and his whole body tenses up, and his hole clutches up, and Kon just fucking jackhammers him for it. Match goes back to the shrieking, but doesn't have the mattress to muffle his voice anymore, which just makes Kon want to fuck him even harder.

So he does, because fucking obviously he's gonna do that.

"I can't, I can't, stop it, STOP!" Match keeps shrieking, because the fucking useless moron can't even keep it together enough to just shout or yell, because the fucking useless moron can't even try to keep it together, because the fucking useless moron really is that fucking useless—

"You never get to bitch about anything I do again, I fuckin' swear, you pathetic creep," Kon pants roughly, and fucks him deeper. "You literally just need to keep your fucking TTK working. Or, I dunno, just fucking stop letting the super-senses get you for five fucking seconds, dumbass?"

"I can't, I can't!" Match wails, shaking his head frantically. "I can't, just let me go, get off me, it feels too fucking good!"

"That is really, really not a thing I'm gonna do," Kon says, voice gone even rougher. Even if he might've even thought about doing it, he definitely isn't gonna do it when the asshole just admitted something felt good.

.

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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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

"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. )

"You're so fucking embarrassing," Match says, curling his lip in disgust. Superboy stiffens, and bristles, and—

Swallows, and doesn't take his eyes off the belt. Doesn't take his eyes off Match's grip on the belt.

So definitely a fucking embarrassment, yes.

Match could say something else about that, but the bitch isn't actually running his mouth for once, so why bother?

He grabs the stupid garish "S" on Superboy's chest and yanks him forward by it, shoving into his space at the same time. Superboy tenses up and moves to either grab onto or push away from or shove him off. Match doesn't give even half a fuck which; he's not giving Superboy permission to do anything either way.

So he just says "No," low and rough and rumbling, and snaps his belt around the bitch's neck with a bolt of super-speed. Superboy goes dead still and his pupils instantly dilate to near-completely eclipse his irises.

And he looks right, again, for just a fucking moment.

Then the idiot braces his hands against Match's arms and tries to jerk back and away from him after all, because he's still an idiot. Match is irritated, but not exactly surprised either. He just wraps his tactile telekinesis through every inch and millimeter and atom of the belt around his throat and yanks it tight around the other's neck.

It's still not actually tight enough to restrict Superboy's breathing, but the bitch still makes a breathless sound that goes straight to Match's knot.

"No," Match repeats, lower and rougher and rumbling. Superboy freezes up again, his spine going stiff and hands locking against his arms and eyes blown wide and pupils dilated, dilated, dilated. Match has never seen Superboy's eyes this wide before. He looks stupid and clueless and useless and like every single one of the most annoying experiences of Match's life all rolled up into a single personification of idiot.

He also looks right. Just—actually fucking right.

Match is going to do whatever it takes to keep him that way.

"This isn't coming off 'til I come," Match informs Superboy as he twists his grip on the belt to tighten it just the slightest bit more. Superboy just digs his nails into his biceps and stares blankly at his face. He doesn't try to shove away or hit him or even grab the belt, and he keeps looking right.

So—positive reinforcement, definitely, Match decides, and kisses him.

Superboy makes a strange, pitchy noise and melts right into the kiss—acts right, just for a moment—and then belatedly tenses and freezes up again. The stupid bitch won't stop doing that, no matter how right he looks. But if freezing up instead of acting out is the closest the stupid bitch can get to behaving, then fine, Match thinks. He'll just get him the rest of the way there himself.

He kisses Superboy harder, slow and dragged-out and demanding, and licks up the line of one of the other's lip piercings, and then up the line of one of his fangs, and then up the line of all of his tongue piercings. They're the same set of diamond-sharp barbells again, because even if Superboy's a stupid lying bitch, he's at least that good of one.

Whether he'll admit it or not.

Superboy hisses into the kiss, and reacts to and returns everything Match does just a beat slower than he should. His hands fist in Match's sleeves and his muscles tense and flex mostly purposelessly, and his tactile telekinesis grips him. Superboy's kissing back like he doesn't even know how to do it, which Match knows isn't even remotely accurate. Usually Superboy's the one who won't stop kissing him; the bitch likes it too damn much for any reasonable person to like anything, much less anything that's such a pointless waste of time as kissing.

He's also, unfortunately, one of the only people Match has ever kissed who's actually good enough at it to almost make him willing to waste the time.

Almost.

But positive reinforcement, so Match will waste a little time, if that's what it takes.

Superboy moans, stilted and cracked, and Match's skin prickles and his gut burns, and he kisses him with his fangs in it. Superboy whines, and barely even manages to kiss him back at all.

So the positive reinforcement angle is still working out, Match decides. Then he grabs Superboy's jaw and sticks his thumb in the other's mouth and presses down on those piercings, just to make the point. Superboy makes that strange, pitchy noise from before again, his body strung up somewhere between melted and frozen, and Match presses his thumb down harder and leans back in to bite the other's lip.

And pulls the belt tighter around his neck, too.

Superboy makes a noise that nearly makes Match blow his knot right there, his nails digging in almost hard enough to actually scratch him. Match thinks about biting Superboy's jaw to the blood and bone, deep enough to scar, and thinks about Superboy's nails scratching up his back. They're not as sharp as they should be, he can't help thinking. They should be sharper.

They should cut him.

So Match is finally going to fucking prove it, this time. Superboy probably thinks it's his "turn" to top here, if nothing else, even though it should never be his fucking "turn" at all unless Match decides it is—but that's what's been happening, the bitch keeps fighting him about it so that's how it's been. So this time Match isn't going to let the bitch fight him about it, because that's the mistake he's been making: letting the bitch make it a fight.

If it's an actual fight, that's acting like there's actually a question about who's in charge here.

The bitch needs to act right, so this time Match is just going to make sure the bitch doesn't get away with tricking him into not acting right himself.

"Bitch," he snarls, and feels his voice come out of his throat—different, somehow. It does that sometimes. Usually Match doesn't care whether it does or doesn't.

But the sound of it like this makes Superboy's heartbeat stutter and eyes dilate, so right now Match does, in fact, care.

"MY bitch," he snarls even lower, and Superboy's heart beats triple-time, fast enough to outright thrum, and his jaw tips—up, just a little, and heat flashes through Match's gut—and then the stupid bitch stiffens up and snarls up at him again instead of showing him his throat, struggles under him again and tries to throw him off, and Match wants to smash his stupid skull open. Goddamn useless little—

No. Not this time. It's not a fight, and he isn’t going to let Superboy make it one again; isn't going to let Superboy fucking challenge him again. Like the bitch thinks he's the one in charge here, like the bitch thinks Match isn't good enough to fuck him—like the bitch doesn't know Match is the only one who's good enough to fuck him.

The bitch needs to act right, so Match is going to act right too.

"Stay DOWN," he snaps, and Superboy's whole body tenses for just an instant, and his heartbeat skips—and then he bares his teeth and growls back up at him and just struggles harder, the stupid—

"FUCK you!" Superboy snaps back, and Match's lip curls in disgust at the sound of that rumbling difference coming from his throat. It doesn't belong there. The only thing that should be coming out of this bitch's throat right now is begging. Begging to get fucked, begging for a knot, for his knot and his—his—

There's something—else, Match feels like. Something else the bitch is supposed to be begging him for.