#roosterwhale

"Huh?" Kon looks away from the TV and blinks at him, looking puzzled. "I dunno, I didn't really bring anything else. Who cares?"

"I do," Bart says reasonably. Unfortunately, Tim understands. He remembers how Kon had looked in just the crop top and shorts in the changing room and remembers Kon being in his lap in just the crop top and shorts in the changing room. He doesn't lose his grip on reality and vibrate into an entirely different frequency of existence, but it's a close call.

Though he does very definitively remember that Kon has thighs.

. . . Tim really, really needs Cassie to catch up with the rest of them here. He needs someone around to be having more obvious reactions that he can hide his own behind.

Though also, Kon still hasn't finished the lollipop, so maybe that's a bit too proto-supervillain a thing to wish on a teammate.

"Why?" Kon asks with a puzzled frown.

"I could be cold," Bart says reasonably, which is not actually "I AM cold", very obviously. "Can I borrow it if I promise not to cut the sleeves off?"

". . . no cutting anything off, Imp," Kon says, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Okay," Bart agrees. Kon eyes him for a moment longer, then just shrugs his jacket off. Which involves him shrugging, and involves his biceps getting bared and flexing, and his chest pushing forward just a little bit and—

Tim stops noticing things about Kon in self-defense. Kon hands over his jacket to Bart, who vibrates.

"Thanks," Bart says, then bolts over to Suzie. Both of them immediately and shamelessly fold themselves into the jacket like it's their get-along shirt. Kon gives them a weird look, then just shrugs and looks at the table instead.

He still has biceps, unfortunately, Tim notes, and the crop top is somehow actually even clingier than he remembered it being from the mall, where he was already remembering it as being very, very clingy. Then he stops noticing things about Kon, dammit.

It's a doomed effort, clearly, but look, he's doing his Bat-trained best here, alright?

"We should really move this stupid thing already, we never even use it unless the Justice League's in town and feelin' judgy anyway. We could push up the couch and chairs and whatever," Kon says, twirling the lollipop by the stick as he peers back over his shoulder at their collection of salvaged furniture all gathered up in the back of the room, shifting his center of balance in the process. Shifting his center of balance requires him flexing his thighs, and his shorts ride up to just above his—

. . . lead box containment has failed, Tim notes.

. . . . . . . . . alright, forget the moral approach; he's willing to be a bit too proto-supervillain in this situation. He is not gonna survive this situation if he doesn't get a little bit proto-supervillain about it.

"Sure," he says. "Impulse, can you go ask Wonder Girl if she can give Superboy a hand with moving the furniture in here?"

"Okay," Bart says, then grabs Suzie, jacket and all, very briefly blurs out, and a beat later snaps back into focus with a trail of mist tracing back to the door and Suzie squeaking in surprise against his side, and announces: "She just kinda screamed when we asked, dunno what that means."

"Oh my god, Wonder Boy, you don't have to be in charge of everything," Kon says in exasperation, rolling his eyes. "I can move some friggin' furniture by myself, for cryin' out loud."

"Well, you haven't," Cissie points out, raising an eyebrow at him, and Kon scowls sulkily at the menu screen.

"Whatever," he says sourly, tossing the remote back over his shoulder towards the table—it lands, Tim can't help noticing, exactly on top of a bag of marshmallows, and doesn't bounce off them. He's pretty sure the marshmallows were on the other side of the table a minute ago, but equally sure if he tries to say so much as "good arm" or comment on Kon's spatial awareness, Kon will find a way to spin it like he's patronizing him or something.

It is so, so much easier to talk to Kon as Tim Drake. At least Tim Drake has the freedom to admit to the crop top being mind-meltingly distracting, if nothing else, and judging by all prior interactions—and against all odds—Kon would actually be pleased by that. He would definitely not, however, be pleased about finding out that his team leader has been desperately trying not to stare at his abs since he walked into the cave tonight, though.

Kon turns around and snatches up a few of the heavy chairs circling the meeting table to hoist up onto both of his shoulders in precarious stacks. Tim spares a moment to wonder why he's bothering to use actual physical muscle to do any of that, given his TTK is clearly what's actually handling the majority of the weight and definitely what's handling the balancing act.

Then he short-circuits into oblivion and nearly has a cardiac event.

“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.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

“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.

.

.

.

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.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he sneers, baring his teeth at the idiot, and Superboy bares his back, and it’s fucking irritating. It just–itches, the way Superboy acts sometimes. Most of the fucking time, in fact. 

But there’s one specific way Superboy acts that scratches that fucking itch, though–scratches that itch in a way that nothing else ever does–and Match, to his own disgust, can never seem to get enough of. 

He can’t even really explain what he means by that. There’s just–usually Superboy acts wrong, is all, and it’s fucking irritating and Match wants to smash him through a building or ten over it. 

But sometimes for a moment or two he acts right, or at least smells right, and then the only thing Match wants to do is fuck him through a building or ten. 

It’s such aggravating bullshit. Most of the time Match doesn’t have to deal with the irritation and nonsense of sexual attraction at all, and the fact that Superboy of all the damn people is one of the only people who makes him actually have to put up with it just adds insult to injury. 

Though it's also exactly like the idiot, so probably Match should've expected it from this goddamn useless fucking excuse for a concept sketch some drunk intern scribbled on the back of a sticky bar napkin anyway. 

“C'mon and tell me something yourself, asshole,” Superboy taunts, then plants a hand on Match's chest and shoves. Match snaps a hand around his wrist and grips it roughly to keep himself from stumbling back with the shove, narrowing his eyes at him as he does, and Superboy grins back at him nastily, wide enough to let his fangs show. 

They're alone right now–very thoroughly alone, because they're halfway up a mountain beside a rocky, halfway to frozen lake in the middle of both winter and literal goddamn nowhere. Neither of them has a reason to be here, except for each other. 

Match doesn’t even know which one of them heard the other first this time. It doesn’t matter anyway: one of them heard the other, and the other heard them too, and they were both in a mood and then met in the middle. Or–

Match actually isn’t sure if it’s that he heard Superboy, actually. He’s heard Superboy before and not given a damn about it. But today he heard him, and today . . . 

Today he smelled him. 

So today they met in the middle, and now they’re here. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Match orders flatly, and Superboy bares his fangs in an even wider grin and shifts his center of balance the exact way he always does when he’s about to shove in and kiss him, and Match beats him to it by jerking in and headbutts him in the mouth instead–Superboy curses–and then he grabs the back of his hair and kisses him, hard and vicious and right on his already-swelling mouth. 

Obviously, because that way it’ll hurt. 

And maybe the reminder will teach the bitch how to behave already. 

“Asshole!” Superboy snarls against his mouth, but he kisses him back–like he fucking should, Match thinks vengefully, because the fucking idiot should know when to listen–and tries to grab him by the hips. Match shoves one of his hands back with one of his own; fists his other tighter in his hair and yanks his head back with a snarl, and Superboy snarls back at him a beat late, and it’s the wrong fucking sound. 

Match kisses the useless fuck again–kisses him bruisingly again, and bites at his mouth. Superboy’s mouth tastes copper-sharp, which is almost more irritating than having to force the other to act any illusion of right to begin with, mostly because it’s a reminder of having to force the other to act any illusion of right at all. 

It’s fucking aggravating. Superboy should know who’s in charge here. 

He should just know how the hell to behave by now, if nothing else. 

For a second, Superboy claws at his hip; grabs his bicep with the other hand and claws at it too. For a second, that feels right, and Match’s gut burns–and then fucking Superboy grabs onto him instead; grips him tight and digs his fingers into him instead of his nails. 

Fucking–

“You’re such a fucking pill,” Superboy snarls rougher, and Match bares his teeth again, and they half-grapple in place, and just–this stupid fucking–

Match growls, and hears Superboy’s heart skip a beat. It almost sounds like it’s a response, like it’s an acknowledgment, and Match’s gut starts to burn again. 

“And you’re still fucking useless,” he shoots back sharply, and plants his hands on Superboy’s chest and shoves. Superboy’s feet skid back across the dried-out mast and cold dirt and his back hits one of the scattered rocks surrounding the lake. Match pins him to it, and Superboy–

“Fuck you!” Superboy snaps, trying to shove him off. 

–and Superboy reacts wrong again. 

Superboy reacts wrong again, but–

Kon and Match crash together and Match immediately tries to rip Kon’s throat out, which Kara considers very restrained of him under the circumstances, and Kon smashes him into the floor to keep from getting his throat ripped out, and Match hisses viciously and backhands him across the jaw. Kon snarls back down at him and Match claws at his face and Kon bares all his teeth, and Match’s breath–hitches, very noticeably. 

And then he tries to bite Kon’s throat out, which is also very restrained of him under the circumstances, Kara thinks. 

“About goddamn time,” the scientist mutters. “Subject Match will deal with this. You three, get the–” 

“Uh, sir . . .” one of the guards interrupts him warily, the other guards looking somewhere between confused and alarmed. Kara assumes it has something to do with them actually being combat-trained and therefore capable of noticing things like, oh, body language and intent and specifically how Kon and Match are fighting each other, and the equally specific ways they very much aren’t fighting each other. 

Like–very, very specifically, on both grounds. 

“Don't interrupt me!” the scientist snaps at the guard, who grimaces. “Call the collections team and tell Lab 4 to prep for a new sample set. Vivisection or necropsy, whichever we get.” 

Didn't even say “autopsy”, Kara reflects idly. Well, she already knew the asshole deserved this. 

 He deserves much worse than this, in fact, for keeping Match all locked up down here in a cell instead of letting him have what a kyn-tul on their cycle deserves. 

And for keeping her packmate’s kyn-tul from him, he deserves even worse. 

She is not in any way whatsoever going to even pity the Agenda, no. 

Kon and Match are wrestling more than anything else right now–well, as much as “if Kon fucks up Match will murder him” can pass for “wrestling”, anyway–and Kara remains impressed with Match’s restraint. She cannot imagine what her father would’ve done if her mother had left him alone in . . . how many heats must Match’ve had by now, if he presented about when Kon did? 

Kara does a few conversions to Earthling calendars and some quick math in her head. 

. . . actually, she needs something stronger than “good bitch” to go with here, because any Kryptonian-raised omega would’ve gelded Kon for putting them through this. 

The El packs owes Match such nice nesting materials. And his pick of places for nesting in, too, up to and including all their own personal homes and bedrooms and laps. And also literally every single thing he ever wants when he’s in heat or pre-heat for the entire rest of his natural-born life. 

She should probably text Kal and her other self about collecting some of those things after they get out of here, she thinks. Once Match has gotten fucked into a more talkative mood, anyway, and can tell her what said things are. 

Though the nesting materials she is definitely already making plans for. 

Match slams Kon into the floor hard enough to crater it–hard enough to shake the room–and Kon struggles underneath him clumsily, clearly overwhelmed and trying to keep control of things he doesn't actually need to be in control of right now. Kara obviously understands why, given he's never done this before, but . . . 

“K-Kara, I . . .” Kon pants from where he’s pinned and struggling underneath Match, his eyes flared wide and pupils almost as dilated as they can get. He keeps most of the alpha out of his voice, which is honestly fairly impressive too. “I feel . . . I wanna . . .” 

“Don’t pay attention to her!” Match hisses down at him as he grabs his throat and starts to choke him, leaning all his weight and an obvious amount of muscle into it, and Kon grabs onto his wrists with a strangled wheeze. “I’m right here!” 

“I told you, Kon, you have my permission,” Kara reminds him patiently. Again, she understands why he's trying to keep a rein on his alpha, because he's never gotten to not keep a rein on his alpha, but that's the literal opposite of what the current situation calls for. “Don't you know what your Match needs from you? Don't you know how bad your Match wants you to give him what he needs from you?” 

Kon makes another strangled sound, and Match looks away from him just long enough to glare at her, baring his omega teeth in an alpha sneer–

Baring his neck, and leaving it unprotected. 

He doesn’t know what he's doing, doing that. 

But Kon's alpha does. 

Kon’s eyes snap into full eclipses and he lunges up and throws his arms around Match as he buries his teeth in his exposed throat with a full-on alpha snarl, and Match–well, Match doesn’t have irises to eclipse, but his eyes still flare the exact same way Kon’s did even as his body reflexively stiffens–as whatever these stupid humans taught him makes his body reflexively stiffen–and then, as its actually honest reaction, just melts completely down into Kon’s teeth. 

Because of course it does. Because Match is a good bitch who Kara can very clearly smell just slicked up enough to soak his hole over that bite, and is willing to let Kon prove that he’s a good alpha. 

Kon drags Match down and rolls them over and slams the other to the floor flat on his back, and Match’s expression goes all dreamy and heat-drunk and he tries to smash Kon’s temple in with a fist. Kon digs his teeth in harder and catches Match’s wrists, and Match makes a breathy, omega-soft sound and then brings a knee up into his gut, and they both shove down and claw at and cling to each other. 

Kara watches contentedly as Kon and Match thrash and struggle and crack the floor underneath themselves, all hisses and snarls and gasped-out little grunts and moans. They’re a little clumsy about it, but it’s their first time together, and she still can’t help finding it sort of adorable how their pheromones are all tangled up and smell like–well, a candy she’ll never taste again and a roaring fire, but also the quiet intimacy of a human bonfire off alone in the dark and the kind of sticky-soft-melty marshmallows that humans roast on them. 

. . . or toast, maybe? Maybe it’s toast, she doesn’t really know. Mostly she just burned hers to charcoal, the times Kal got her to try it. 

It’s a nice scent, though. Kara likes the thought of it all intermingled with and absorbed into their pack scent: the tangled mess of a compatible alpha and omega, all mixed up in each other ‘til even their own packmates won’t be able to tell the difference between their scents half the time. It might break her heart a little every now and then, but so does everything that’s ever mattered to her, from her parents to Krypton to Kal to their pack to finding out this was even a option. 

For now, though, it’s just a submission bite and not actually a mating one–obviously, because Kon isn’t the kind of bastard who’d ever force something like that–so for now their scents are still separate enough to recognize as separate scents. Kon’s teeth are still in Match’s throat, and he and Match are still struggling on the floor, and all tangled up like this they smell warm and melty and burningly horny, which is both a good sign for their compatibility and also zero percent surprising at this point. Especially since their “struggling” is increasingly less and less about the “struggle” part and more and more about getting their hands all over each others’ bodies and dragging and grinding them both together. 

And maybe about one other thing, Kara can’t help but think when she notices Kon fist a hand in the symbol on the chest of Match’s suit and shred it off him. She understands the temptation, with some other pack’s crest sitting there. 

Also now Match is showing significantly more skin, which seems like a very Kon kind of solution to the problem but is also an undeniably effective one. 

Kon pulls back just enough from Match’s throat to snarl down at him, his fistful of torn emblem held balled against the other’s chest, and Match stares up at him with eyes that can’t eclipse, that already look like moons anyway, and then–very obviously, and very deliberately–tips his head back against the floor and pushes his chest up against Kon’s clenched fist, fully displaying–and exposing–his throat and pectorals to him in the process. 

Rao, that’s the kind of submission display most omegas wouldn’t even do in porn, Kara thinks, barely resisting the urge to cover the nearest guard’s eyes for propriety’s sake. 

Well–Match doesn’t know any different, does he. He just knows what his omega is telling him it wants. 

And Kon, presumably, knows what his alpha wants, but is just holding himself still and frozen above him; above that exposed offering of a posture from an omega who probably doesn’t even really understand why he’s doing it or what it really means; from a compatible omega who very obviously differentiated to be specifically compatible with him. 

“Aw, I knew you liked each other,” Kara hums approvingly, mostly to confuse and stress out the Agenda’s idiot lackeys even more than they already are. They deserve a lot worse, frankly. And also, Kon and Match are stuttered to a stop and do both need and deserve to hear some encouragement. “The House of El is very pleased to see it.” 

“What the hell are you talking about, you alien freak?!” the scientist demands, visibly sweating from nervous tension and struggling to regain his composure. Kara doesn’t bother looking at him, but bares her teeth sweetly all the same. 

“Come on, Kon, give your Match what he needs,” she coaxes lightly, and Kon starts panting harder again, his own chest just shy of outright heaving. “He’s so angry all the time, isn’t he? So unsatisfied. Doesn’t he need someone to treat him right?” 

“I really . . .” Kon chokes, a shudder going all the way down his spine and to his respective grips on Match’s wrists. “I really . . . Kara.” 

“Doesn’t he smell so good, Kon?” she asks, just a little more coaxing in her tone–and her pheromones, obviously. “Isn’t it just how you’ve been waiting for him to smell?” 

Kon makes a strangled sound, and she hears Match’s teeth grind together. They’re both still stuck in their standstill, neither taking their eyes off each other or moving to either accept that offering or retract it. 

So Match doesn’t want to stop, and Kon doesn’t know how to start, and again: they don’t know how this goes, but Kara does. 

“Relax, Kon,” she says, dropping her voice and pheromones both into soothing notes. Betas soothing anxious or overwhelmed or overemotional alphas and omegas through their cycles is as natural as cycles themselves. “Go with it. Your body just wants you to sympathy-cycle for your Match. Wants to put you in condition to take care of your Match. So let yourself go. Give him what he needs. It's alright.” 

“Subject Match!” the scientist snaps sharply, his voice just barely avoiding cracking. “Kill Superboy! Kill him now!” 

“So they are definitely trying to poach me more than they’re actually interested in what I’m doing, research-wise and all, a girl genuinely doesn’t know how to feel about that one or why the Mickster is apparently totally groovy on it,” Serling says as she tucks her hair behind her ear with the end of her pen, gets the rubber pompoms caught in her hair, and then attempts to shake them out with an annoyed little huff and just gets them more tangled. Kon pays attention to his TTK and uses it to untangle all the little strings and keep the rubber from sticking in her hair as she pulls the pen out of it. 

He expected her hair to be soft, but it’s kinda dried-out and has a lot of heat damage, it feels like. She definitely puts the effort in when she’s styling it, though, so he doesn’t know if maybe she’s overdoing it with the hair dryer or not getting, like, some fucking vitamin or another, but like–definitely he thought it’d be softer. Which is probably a stupid-ass thing to be noticing right now, much less be thinking right now, just . . . 

“Ugh, that’s–there we go!” Serling declares triumphantly as she finally gets her pen free without even yanking any hair out with it. Kon’s not actually sure if she noticed him helping her out there, but probably not. Like, there are several reasons he’s never shut up about TTK a single day in his weird-ass xerox of a clone-life–

( JUST that, he reminds himself; just the weird-ass xerox who doesn’t even actually know how to set a fucking table or how any of this shit even fucking works, not anyone–anyTHING that Clark would have ever actually–ever REALLY– )

–but “people don’t fucking notice it if I don’t talk about it” is the main one. But also, telling her he was touching her hair enough to notice heat damage is probably actually a fucking creepy creep of a thing to tell her, so . . . yeah, maybe he just isn’t gonna say anything this time, he thinks. “Anyway, like I said, they–oh, wait, I think I'm supposed to meet ‘em back over–” 

Kon reflexively glances the way she's pointing, but his eyes sort of–refocus, kinda. Or–focus past where she’s pointing, maybe; back towards the stage just past it. There’s a few people scattered around it, but on it . . .

On it, there’s a few more people, though only one of them actually, like–catches his eye or anything, he guesses. Weirdly, it is not either of the tall babes in very high heels and very short skirts. It’s the guy standing between them, who’s–

Well, pretty fucking recognizable, even though Kon’s only ever seen the dude in photo or on video. His whole fucking chest burns all the way to the bone at the sight of him; all the way to his lungs and heart, it feels like. 

Honestly, for a knee-jerk second he assumes somebody's just cracked out the kryptonite, because the very recognizable figure he just caught a glimpse of is Lex fucking Luthor, reigning champ of "Worst Asshole in Metropolis" at least ten years running and Superman's least favorite person short of, like, maybe Darkseid. 

Maybe. 

Actually, probably Darkseid pisses Clark off less, because at least Darkseid he doesn’t have to put up with every five fucking minutes and also Darkseid doesn’t pretend to be anything but, like, fucking Darkseid. 

The burning only lasts a couple seconds, though, and Kon doesn't see anything glowing that familiar fucked-up shade of kryptonite green or anything like that. And anyway, kryptonite doesn't burn. It makes him feel sick and nauseous and weak and pained, but it doesn’t burn. And it isn’t the burn of anger, either–like, he’s not exactly thrilled and frankly kinda dubious that the dude’s here and also maybe feeling a little bit paranoid about how many shitty evil robots might be due to drop on this science fair, but he literally does not know Lex Luthor enough to be actively pissed off at just the sight of him. He knows he fucking sucks, but that’s about it. 

Kon’s chest still feels . . . weird, though? Like, still not anything like kryptonite-weird, but like . . . kinda tender, and kinda sore, and . . . and he doesn't know, exactly? 

But fucking weird. 

Luthor’s frowning, Kon realizes. Kon is vaguely aware that Lex Luthor frowning probably means the entire fucking world is about to end, but whatever, it's Metropolis. Clark will handle it if it does. Though like–it’s weird, kinda, that he’s still looking at Luthor. Right? Like, the guy's not actually doing anything. He's just standing there between two extremely hot chicks the size of literal Amazons and frowning off to one side, like he’s trying to figure something out or something. And like, obviously he's fucking dangerous and whatever, but Kon isn't–like, he doesn’t feel like he feels when he’s clocking a threat. He's just . . . looking at the guy. 

Why the hell is he doing that, he wonders, and isn’t even sure why he’s wondering it to begin with. 

Luthor's frown gets deeper for a second, then clears away entirely. Then he opens his mouth, and Kon–he feels like his ears just refocused, almost, same as his eyes did a minute ago. And he actually hears–

“Rip the hall’s security footage,” Luthor orders shortly as he makes a dismissive little gesture at the women beside him, not even looking at either of them as he says it, and the one in the honestly borderline Spirit Halloween “Sexy Chauffeur Costume” uniform pulls out a smartphone and gives the screen a few little taps while the one in what genuinely looks like a formal black cocktail dress and a real expensive-looking slouchy oversized trenchcoat rolls her shoulders back inside said trenchcoat and does a quick visual sweep of the room. 

“Mm,” Match says, mostly in echo of Superman saying it, though he forgets . . . whatever else Superman said. It didn’t sound as full in his head, so he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to, or . . . 

“Don’t worry,” Superman says gently, still stroking his hair over and over. Match doesn’t understand why he’s doing it. Doesn’t understand why he even did it the once, much less why he’s still doing it. “Your sem-zahm'll be here soon. Just a couple excuses to make first.” 

Match feels heavy and sleepy and blurred, but the only thing that sounded full in his head was . . . 

“. . . sem-zahm,” he mumbles, tightening his grip on the pillow and digging his fingers into it. That was–the thing that sounded “full”. 

“Yes. And the zehdh-voi will take care of you, same as always,” Superman says, steady and reassuring, and then the corner of his mouth quirks up wryly. “Just try not to disassemble too much of the Fortress this time, mm?” 

“. . . yessir,” Match tries, not sure why he . . . is there a reason he’d disassemble the Fortress? A reason Superboy would’ve? That seems–stranger. That Superboy would’ve. 

“Kon,” Superman says, softening again and petting his hair more heavily. Match–Match just melts. Melts into something warm and heavy and useless and–and–

Useless. He’s–he– 

Match’s stomach knots, and roils, and suddenly feels worse than the cramps ever made it. He–he can’t be–he can’t be useless, he–he can’t be useless, if he’s useless he– 

“Kid?” Superman asks, stilling the hand he has in his hair and sounding concerned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Won't help me. Won't,” Match chokes roughly without even meaning to open his mouth, screwing his eyes shut and locking all his muscles with his TTK before he can–react. Before he can let anything else show. Superman can already tell he’s–how can Superman tell he’s wrong, what did he do, where did he–why is he–“Can't think right, m’all stupid, no use if I'm stupid, m'degrading, just gonna degrade and get scrapped and won't even be good enough to use the parts from, not–not worth anything if m'stupid–useless if I’m–if I’m–” 

“Kid,” Superman says again as he leans in a little, and the eucalyptus smell fills up the whole world, but–but it’s still– “You’re not stupid. Remember? This is normal. We'll take care of you and you'll feel better after it’s over, just like always.” 

“No,” Match croaks, and is shocked and disgusted and terrified to realize he’s this close to tearing up, and why–why can’t he shut up–“No. Not worth the investment. Not worth fixing. Results weren't good enough, experiment was a waste of resources. Stupid to indulge in the sunk-cost fallacy. I’m stupid. I can't be stupid, I have to be good enough.” 

“You’re not any of those things, Kon,” Superman says quietly, smoothing his hair back off his forehead. 

But he’s not saying that to Match. 

Superboy’s not the one who’s degrading, Superboy’s not the one who’s useless if he’s stupid, Superboy’s not here and–and Superboy–Superboy Superman might actually bother to fix, maybe. He’s done it before, for whatever reason Superman does anything. He’d even tried to get him to help him do it before. 

But Match didn’t help him, so even if Superman could fix him, he won’t. 

They’ll let him degrade ‘til he rots and then they’ll throw him away and won’t even use the scraps of him, he’ll just be nothing, nothing, nothing, he’s not a person so he’ll just be dead, gone, he isn’t going to leave anything behind, not a soul or a ghost or a single ripple in the world. There isn’t an afterlife or anything like that that’d take him even if there’d be something left to take, but–but there won’t, because there isn’t, because he’s not a person and he’s never even tried to be so he’ll just be–nothing, he’ll be nothing and it’ll never have mattered that he happened at all, nothing he’s done will ever have mattered, he was just a mistake, a waste of resources, a failed result, a bad and useless thing that never, ever mattered for anything or–or to any–anyone. 

He can’t even degrade right. 

He should’ve told his handlers he was. Should’ve told the doctors. Told a guard or–just someone. Told someone, so they could scrap the plan and adapt and schedule his–his autopsy, or necropsy, or dissection, so they could maybe build something less useless next time; something that could actually serve the Agenda’s purpose. 

Not out of any of his DNA, though. So maybe he isn’t even useful enough for that. 

Match’s eyes are burning. They’re probably rotting. Degrading. His vision’s all blurred and his eyes are burning and he can’t even breathe right, or maybe even at all, and he–he– 

Superman’s saying something, Match realizes from some small, crushed-down place inside himself where there isn’t even anywhere to go anyway, where there isn’t even really a place. There’s nothing inside him, so why would there be? He’s not–he’s– 

Superman’s–been saying something, Match realizes. 

“Kid,” Superman says tightly. “Look at me.” 

Match doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to even be here. Doesn’t want to even be anywhere.

“Uh–th-thanks, little dude,” Superboy belatedly tries, because he doesn’t really know what else to say, and the Pocket makes that churring noise again. It’s real, real quiet, but–it’s definitely that same noise again, yeah. “Um . . . don’t suppose you’d know how to get any of this other shit off . . .?” 

It’s a stupid question, but his head’s all cotton-thick and there’s blood on the cotton the Pocket’s pressing into his arm and he can’t even remember the last damn time he actually–actually asked somebody for . . . for . . . like, help, or . . . 

The Pocket–they’re his soulmate, right? And they’re . . . his Pocket. And they already took the needle out, so . . . so maybe . . . 

Superboy really wishes he could think better right now. Just–everything’s all cottony and heavy and dizzy and . . . and the little guy’s just . . . 

The Pocket stares silently at him for a long moment, then looks down and actually, like–checks if he’s still bleeding before abandoning the cotton and flying off quick. Superboy blinks, slow and groggy, and turns his head to follow him but doesn’t see him, for a second, and has this weird awful swooping feeling in his gut like that was too much, like that was too much to ask for and he just chased the little guy off, chased his own fucking soulmate off and he’ll never get out of these fucking cuffs and they’ll never get out of this fucking lab and– 

The Pocket zips back into view holding a weird-looking . . . keychain-looking thing, kinda, and Superboy feels another twisting swoop in his gut and doesn’t know what to even call the way it feels. The keychain doesn’t have any keys on it or anything, just a ring with a round little checker piece-sized tab hanging off it. The tab’s just flat, plain . . . plastic, or silicone, or . . . something, Superboy can’t really tell, but that’s all there is, so Superboy doesn’t–get it, exactly. 

“Uh,” he says, because asking would be stupid anyway, it’s not like the Pocket can really answer, and the Pocket darts down and presses the tab against the side of the solid metal strap pinning his chest down to the bed. A tiny pinprick-sized white light blinks on in the center of the tab, showing through the plastic, and blinks twice before turning green. 

Oh, Superboy thinks, staring blankly down at it. 

The metal strap–doesn’t dissolve, exactly, but . . . 

“Oh,” Superboy says as the whole thing pulls itself apart into tiny, tiny little metal specks so small he can barely even see them, like–nanobots, maybe, or something that was magnetically-charged to stick together, maybe? He’s not–sure, just–they’re so tiny, he didn’t even feel they weren’t one solid thing. Especially not through all the cotton in his head. 

Huh, he thinks, blinking slowly down at the retreating specks and disintegrating strap peeling back away from his chest. He feels every tiny little speck of it do it. 

And then he feels every tiny little speck in all the rest of the straps and cuffs, and jams his TTK in-between them all hard. 

The restraints explode off him and the Pocket ducks just in time to avoid getting smacked in the face by any of the world’s tiniest ball bearings, then peeks back up with a quiet, satisfied noise. Superboy still winces. 

“Uh–sorry, little dude,” he manages, half-rolling onto his side towards him, and then–

He needs to get the fuck out of here yesterday, obviously, but the Pocket is just . . . like, right there, and . . . 

Superboy stares at him for a moment or two, and then reaches out just enough to tap a light, awkward fingertip against the little guy’s chest. Not where the tattoo is, obviously–where the S-shield isn’t. 

Where the S-shield really, really should be. 

He . . . swallows, slow and awkward, and then glances towards the door. 

“It would be so helpful if you knew the way to yourself but that is probably not a thing, huh,” he mutters under his breath, because he can’t just smash his way out if his soulmate’s somewhere in this shithole. Like–not without finding the guy first, he means. 

Smashing their way out together would be very therapeutic at this point, though. 

The Pocket makes a quiet noise, then slips in past Superboy’s hand and up past his elbow and–and sort of presses himself in against his chest, putting his tiny little hands right on top of where his own S-shield should also be. Unfortunately “strapped down in a lab” is more a hospital scrubs situation, apparently, which Superboy does not love, so–yeah, it’s not there either. 

Well, whatever. He’s gonna go fucking fix that now.