Summary - Your boyfriend loves you. His friends think he worships you. You're alright with both interpretations.
Warnings - Fluff, the other boys. This is the 'rubbing my pet harder each time trend' except u do it to Matt help me-
WC: 0.6K
A pitiful group was sat in the courtyard. Matt, Nott, Malfoy, Zabini, Berkshire, and - regrettably - you.
Your friends had ran off to go to lesson, so you were consequently abandoned around this shady bunch.
Nevertheless, you were making the best of it. Mattheo was sat in front of the bench you lazed on, head leaning back against your thigh while your fingers languidly played with his curls.
You scrolled on your phone in boredom, not wanting to join the highly intellectual game of fuck, marry, kill; professor edition. One of them was also avoiding the game. Nott. Unsurprising, he was the quietest in general. He too was on his phone, rolling his eyes as Enzo described exactly what he'd do to that poor sub for astronomy, had he the chance.
Your phone buzzed in your hand - fuck's sake, you forgot to turn it off. The switch is flipped before you tap the notification, bringing you into messages.
"I dare you." From Theodore. Tapping into the video above ; 'Petting my dog harder each time until he runs away.' You bit your lip to stifle a laugh.
There was a long-running joke between Mattheo's friends - that you kept him in a cage, gave him sunlight and water once a week. That he was your pet. You thought it was hilarious. Your boyfriend, however, did not.
It stemmed from how gentle he was with you in comparison to his usual hobby of rearranging the bone structure of blokes that looked at him the wrong way. He'd make you tea, hold open doors, rub your back — lap dog behaviour, apparently. So… come on, you just had to.
You didn't bother to school your smile, setting your phone down on your lap as you let your second hand run along his nape, scratching the spot that made him sleepy. Mattheo tilted his head back into your touch, still muttering about something or other, in happy oblivion.
Your hand on the top of his head stroked firmly, then again, starting at the top of his forehead, rubbing so hard you smoothed out the permanent furrow of his forehead. And again, harder.
He had stopped talking by now, reaching up to grab your wrist. He tilted his head to look at you, voice quiet and confused. "What the fuck?"
"What, baby?" You murmured back with a soft voice, free hand resuming your abuse of his scalp.
He just grabbed your wrist again - with the same hand that was holding the other, mind you. "I'm not your dick of a cat, why're you petting me so hard? Want me bald, or something?"
Your eyes rolled. "That's my son you're talking about."
He mirrored your previous action, and let go of your hands.
You reached for your phone, easily annoyed and wanting misfortune on someone. You unlocked it and showed him the video that was the reason for his odd treatment.
Mattheo watched it and looked at Theo before pouncing on him, getting him into a headlock, while Nott just laid there and let him, too used to it.
"I'm not her fucking pet! When're you gonna get that through your thick skulls?!" He said as he looked around at his lazily amused friends.
You laid back on the bench, staring up at the sky, not listening to them.
He continued his rant to the boys. "I'm so bloody sick-"
"Matty, c'mere." You murmured, so insignificant he didn't realise the command.
And he did come to you, letting go of Theo and ending up conveniently on his knees beside the bench, because he wasn't bothered to stand up.
"You alright?" His palm squeezed around your thigh.
You couldn't help but chuckle to yourself. "Good boy."
His friends had burst out laughing already, but this just made it ten times better.
Your boyfriend shot them a look, finally getting the - very cruel very unfunny - joke.
Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was under your spell. At your feet as he should be.
Mattheo Riddle m.list
sorry to my babies for ghosting; your girl has been completely slammed.
as always if u have any ideas my requests are open <3
People wonder how someone like you— no offense— could stand someone like Simon. He’s too intimidating— too tall, too broody. He’s covered in scars, both from his dad and from his black ops. The man is built like a mountain, and towering over people in that skull mask of his doesn’t help his case. He’s a Ghost. No one knows who he is or anything about him. Those who get close enough usually wind up dead because lord knows the most socialization Ghost does at his job is killing some terrorist. Even his own teammates haven’t seen his face.
Little do they know Simon is a completely different person outside work. He never touches his mask unless you ask him to fuck you in it, so he’s free for you to caress and touch any time you damn please. His hair is fluffy! It’s so soft and fuzzy you could spend hours combing your fingers through it. Around you, his face is always covered in smiles; you also pepper it in kisses a dozen times a day.
He wear normal, civilian clothes: hoodies that you borrow because they smell like him, soft pjs that are so comfy to cuddle against, sweatpants that have you shamelessly ogling his bits, sometimes going shirtless in only a towel that leads you to pull it down and suck him off…
He’s got favorite hangouts, hobbies that he enjoys, friends he could spend hours with. He likes taking you on dates on his motorcycle. He loves the way the wind blows against him when he’s not stuffed in gear. He loves your arms wrapping around his waist and your head resting against his shoulder. Sometimes, he’ll take you on picnics so he can lay his head on your lap and gaze up at the clouds or skies. He likes when you spoon him and sing him to sleep.
Oh, and he’s a chatterbox. He could talk your ears off. All day, he yaps about anything and everything. Doesn’t matter so long as he has a thought about something and you’re around to hear it. You’re half tempted to bug the place because you could swear he talks to himself when you’re away.
He’s a golden retriever basically. He’s capable of being a normal person. All he wants to do is be happy. He’ll follow you around like a puppy, pawing at you for affection and trying to get as much of you as he can. With the height difference, it’s almost comical how he’ll almost double over to snuggle his head into the crook of your neck or beg for a kiss. It’s a wonder he doesn’t tire of you, but he never will. He likes this piece of heaven he’s found. There’s a ring on your finger to remind you of that.
he likes taking care of you. in and out of the bedroom. it doesn’t matter if it’s a small or big action—it never fails to make your face heat up, the way he coos whenever you avoid eye contact. he makes you feel loved, which isn’t something you’re too use to.
but with him, you’re going to have to.
especially when he’s pressing kisses to your tear stained cheeks, scarred hands squishing your waist and playing soft skin. three orgasms in, and he’s tapping your twitchy clit with the tip, face flushed and expression happy as ever. it get on your nerves—he had you shaking and twitching, and has the nerve to comment on how pretty you are.
“you’re doing so well,” he hums, and his eyes flick down to your hips. the couch is definitely ruined. he’ll clean it later when you’re napping. “i think you’re ready.”
he’s been holding off for a while now. you know that for a fact; you’ve seen the goddamn dick print whenever he walked around in nothing but his sweats, hair messy and mussed from sleep and toothbrush hanging from his mouth. you’ve felt it whenever he just ‘wanted to feel you’—and would proceed to grind and moan against you like you were a deity.
and while you aren’t one to be embarrassed so easily (lie), you flush and glance down, visibly shuddering.
“that is not. going to fit.”
and the way he giggles at you? you’re fucking dead.
“i hate you—mmh! i hate you, i hate you-”
“you’re so cute.” he moans right into your ear, hips stuttering as he tries to catch his breath. the sounds coming from your body that were a result of him pushing back in, making your eyes roll, were outright pathetic. if you were in your right mind, you’d be ashamed of yourself.
well, you were ashamed, but your brain had turned into mush by now. you couldn’t put much thought into it when your boyfriend was rearranging your guts, and you swear you hear angels singing when he presses his weight down and stays there.
“haah . . . i told you i would make it fit.”
it would be easier to hate him if his smile wasn’t so bright—so pleased and loving as he watches your eyes roll back when you cum.
— kamado tanjirou , MIDORIYA IZUKU, YUJI ITADORI, HAKUJI/akaza, MARK GRAYSON ; all of your favs if you want lolol
" he's so loud.. " 𝓶egumi grumbled into your nape, annoyance prominent in his tone.
𝔂uji was snoring loudly, large bulky arms draped over you and megumi's waist as a result of his rather uncontrolled sleeping habits of moving around a lot. his head rested on your bra, mouth agape and drool pooling in your cleavage. " it's annoying. "
" when are you not annoyed by something? " you asked, combing through his pink strands. you felt his hands tighten around your waist, squeezing gently. he just let out a low hum at your statement — not confirming nor denying.
time passed, yuji's snores turned into hiccups as he prepared for a yawn, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "g'morning..." the kiss he put on your lips was lazy and gentle, full of sleep.
"morning, yuu. how'd you sleep?" he murmured a "good" against your lower lip before kissing you again, your hands molding his face gently. yuji loved your attention when he first woke up, it was the most awaited thing once he opened his eyes. it was simply routine.
megumi watched over your shoulder, leaning up on his elbow. he didn't say anything, just... observed. he had that familiar, faint dent in between his dark, thin eyebrows. he looked the same as he always did, but more annoyed than just plain grumpy. yuji eyed him, curious but in a teasing way. " jealous? "
" stop, " he got a hold on your jaw, turning you to face him. yuji stuck his tongue out at him, which megumi saw out the corner of his eye but chose not to comment on. " you haven't given me any kisses today. "
" yes, i have, " you corrected.
" mm, " he kissed where your jaw met your earlobe, trailing down to the corner of your lips. " it sounds like you have favorites to me, " he murmured.
" told you. he's jealous! " megumi pushed two fingers to his forehead, moving him back to prevent the chances of his interrogation of your favoritism being interrupted. you hadn't taken megumi to be the jealous type at all, if you were being completely honest, but you weren't complaining at all.
you puckered your lips. " no. you come get a kiss. i'm not kissing you. "
" ooh, picky. " yuji's commentary got him a pinch.
you gave into his demands with a slight laugh — there was only so far you could push megumi to be outwardly needy for affection. the kiss was special in comparison to your other kisses. more sweet, more savory, more apologetic for the fact that he was accusing you of favoritism. your hand gripped his jaw, tongues brushing against each other, relishing in the aftertaste of each other's chapstick.
they were both your favorites — your lovely boys to kiss, to love, to do anything and everything with. you pressed kisses to both their faces, alternating.
the comment just slips out of nobara’s mouth like it’s nothing. “honestly, he’s like a dog.”
you blink. “who?”
she levels you with a bland look. “who do you think?”
she nods her head to yuji, who’s walking past with megumi. he’s all smiles and as if summoned by the universe itself, he looks up, eyes landing on you. his smile softens, he waves.
your heart does an embarrassing little somersault.
nobara leans in. “exhibit a.”
“i don’t see it,” you say weakly.
“if he had a tail, it’d be wagging right now. he likes you.”
“…no, he doesn’t,” you mumble unconvincingly.
“please. he’ll start bringing you sticks if you asked.”
you feel heat creep up your neck. “you’re exaggerating.”
nobara snorts. “am i? call him a good boy, see what happens.”
“i am not doing that,” you choke.
she just hums, already bored with your resistance. “suit yourself. you’re missing out on prime entertainment.”
so, naturally, later, when you and yuji are asked to pick up supplies from storage (extra training mats? you weren’t quite sure), nobara’s words linger in the back of your mind.
he grabs the boxes without complaint, and reaches over to add the ones you had in your arms to his pile.
“i got those,” he says, easy and bright.
“yuji, you’re already carrying like—five.”
he grins. “six isn’t that different.”
your chest does that stupid flip again, and: “thanks,” you say softly. “you’re such a good boy.”
silence.
yuji freezes mid-step, and you immediately regret everything.
“i didn’t mean—i mean, i did mean it, but not like—i just—” you start rambling, heat flooding your face.
he turns to look at you, and oh.
if nobara had been exaggerating before, she isn’t now.
his ears are bright red, eyes wide, and his smile, that usual easy grin of his, has gone all shy around the edges.
“i—what—” he stammers, voice cracking. “wha—did you just….”
you briefly consider faking your own death. “i just meant—”
his expression softens, deepens, turns warm and a little dazed. “say it again,” he blurts.
you blink. “what?”
“th-that,” he says, flustered. “what you just said.”
your pulse is loud in your ears. “…good boy?”
if possible, he gets even redder.
“man,” he laughs nervously, ducking his head. “that—uh—felt really nice.”
your heart melts, reduced to a puddle on the floor.
“it wasn’t, like…weird?”
“no!” he blurts immediately. “i, uh—you can say it again. only if you want to! just—yeah.”
he looks at you with those soft brown eyes, that gentle smile.
nobara was right.
you smile despite it. “c’mon, good boy. let’s drop these off.”
you don’t miss the way his entire face lights up this time “right!” he says, grinning. “i got it!”
yeah. if he had a tail, it’d be knocking things over.
If Yuji was asked to describe his girlfriend? There was only one way ⸻ pink, glittery, vanilla scented, pretty.
But don't be fooled. Most men would want a way out. Yuji does not. In fact, if he could be anywhere in the world, he'd choose to be with you.
He is exactly where he wants to be.
"Yuji?" You're sprawled on his bed, watching as he games. It's some dumb fighting game he'd insisted on buying.
"Hm?" He doesn't glance up from the console.
"Do you know where my lipgloss is?"
He immediately abandons his game, clocking into his boyfriend duties. "Which one?"
"The clear gliterry one." You reply, watching as he searches the wrinkles in his duvet, under his pillows, the floor, his desk.
"Have you checked your bag?" He asks as he peers under the bed.
You glance towards your little pink handbag. "No." You frown. Reaching for the bag, you rummage around a bit. "Found it! Thank you, Yuji. You're the best."
He beams at the praise. "Of course, baby." He tosses himself down beside you, watching as you apply the lipgloss.
As the designated taste-tester, once you've coated your soft, juicy lips in shimmering gloss, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours.
You make a small whiney sound in the back of your throat. When he pulls back, your lips are pushed out into a pout.
He licks his lips. Vanilla flavoured. "10/10, baby." He says trying to go in for another taste.
"Stoppp," You giggle, pushing him back. The sound makes him smile.
He is absolutely, undeniably obsessed with you.
"Fine." He relents with a dramatic, mock sigh, rolling over theatrically.
"C'mere." You whine.
The second he rolls to face you, you're on top of him, your thighs on either side of his torso. His hands instinctively find your hips to hold you there. You take his face gently, holding his chin with one hand, as you lean closer, applying the shimmering gloss to his lips. Your breath mingles with his. Yuji stays perfectly still until you're done, then his tongue darts out to lick his glittery lips.
"Yuji!" You huff as he laps up the gloss off his lips. He grins up at you unapologetically.
can’t and won’t stop thinking about eva stratt and ryland grace as two sides of the same sacrificial coin: one who offered herself to the cause as the world’s scapegoat and celebrated by no one, and one who is made the lamb without his consent yet celebrated as the savior he never agreed to be.
and it’s exactly in said coin’s nature — two sides always meant to be tied to another, and never meant to face each other again.
✧･ﾟ:clark’s a coddler. It doesn’t matter what kind of sex you were having—rough, slow, nothing but hand stuff or full, deep, thick rolls of his cock into your dripping pussy—Clark is going to treat it like you’re a fragile, priceless work of art that he just spilled all over. Baths, food, water, carrying you around like a princess; nothing is off the table. Not for you. Not to him. The whole world can wait until he’s made sure. You’re comfortable and safe.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
✧･ﾟ:he isn’t very insecure about anything, but he also finds it egotistical—in a way he never really wants to indulge—to have a “favorite part” of himself. If asked what his favorite part of you is, he’ll list things off until someone shuts him up. Your eyes that look at him like he’s the sun, your mouth that curves into the prettiest smile in the world, your hands that work so carefully on everything and fit perfectly in his, there’s no limit to your beauty. Not in his eyes. But that also means that if you push him for his favorite body part, he’ll cave just to make you happy. Giving the easy answer—his hands, because he knows you love them—just to shut you up and go back to singing your praises.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
✧･ﾟ:when he was younger, Clark was a little disgusted by his own anatomy. It was the least human part of him—visibly—and he thought it would make it harder for him to have intimate relationships with humans. When he came, it was brutal. So much of it that he didn’t even know what to do, and limited himself to jerking off in the shower to make the cleanup easier. Then he meets you, and learns that—for all your sweetness and clever talk—you’re a little bit of a fucking degenerate. You get on your knees and beg him to put it all on your face, and when he tries to tell you to stand up, that you don’t have to do that just for him, you glower and snap that you want to. And who is he, to ever tell you no?
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Since he’s supposed to be a good, well-raised, kind boy, Clark views most of his own desire as a dirty secret. He respects women, they’re for more than sex, and thinking of anyone like that makes him worry he’s no better than a man who can’t keep his dick in his pants. But that doesn’t stop the hunger. He craves it, craves you, so much that he has to just lock himself in the bathroom some days, to breathe through his nose and ride the hunger out. He wants to do things to you that are not progressive or nice. For such a good man, it sure does make his cock rock hard to think of manhandling you around and spitting in your mouth. Always the quiet ones, they say. And Clark sure does keep himself quiet, when he’s jerking off to the idea of marking you up and fucking you until the bed breaks.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Clark doesn’t really sleep around. It’s not his style. If he wants someone, he wants them entirely, and casual isn’t exactly viable when he has to worry about his powers. A hookup will notice the… not so small anatomical differences between him and a human. They’ll notice how they scratch his back and nothing happens, and the cum, and the other stuff. As such, Clark doesn’t have that high a body count, but he’s devoted. When he’s with you, he’ll memorize everything that makes you tic, and “experience” won’t be something you’re thinking about at all.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
There’s an animalistic part of Clark he controls almost everywhere. He’s not going to rut like a dog against your leg, he’s not going to bite near your neck or back you against the wall just to smell your neck. He’s controlled, in the daylight. But only in the daylight. When he’s got you in bed, there’s nothing he loves more than rolling you on top of him, pinning you down on his cock, and fucking up into you like a feral animal. It’s safer to go a little harder when you’re over him, and there’s nothing like watching your tits bounce in his face, feeling your thighs tremble around his waist, and knowing that between his hands and gravity, he’s deep enough inside of you that you can’t even form a sentence.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
The first few times, when he’s worried about breaking you, Clark is deeply serious. The idea of hurting you terrifies him, worse than a nightmare, and he holds you like you’re glass, brow knitted and jaw clenched as he tries not to let a single ounce of control slip. But then you get used to each other, and Clark gets less afraid, and it’s all jokes and smiles and kisses all over your face before he sheathes himself deep into your cunt. He might get more serious when you’re approaching orgasm, but the small smile never drops from his face. He’s not good at being serious when he’s comfortable, and he’s never more comfortable than when he’s with you.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Clark keeps everything about himself well groomed. It’s not something he actively even thinks about, just a way to feel a little more clean and human and collected. He’s got a decent bush and snail trail and scattered of hair on his arms and chest and legs. It’s warm and easy to curl into. You try to talk him into a beard to match the rest of it. He laughs and always says no, but you’ll get him one day. In the far, far future, you’ll get him.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
There might not be a more romantic man in the world. It’s not even something he puts a lot of effort into, that’s just the way he is. He kisses every inch of you he can reach, praises you with low, soft words that he means right now to the bottom of his heart, and chants that he loves you like a prayer until you fall over the edge together. He sees loving you as a proper form of worship, and there’s not really a better place to tend to the alter than when you’re this close. If he could, he’d keep you like that forever. Warm and loved and his.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
He does it more than he ever wants to admit. He almost can’t help it sometimes, his cock aching with need, you not in arms reach, sweat beading on his brow and his hand mindlessly palming against his bulge. He learned how to take care of himself, when he was just pining after you from a distance. Sometimes he calls you, when you’re on a work trip, just to hear your voice and fuel himself for later in the shower. After you get together he does try to limit it, but he’s got a higher sex drive than a human and he doesn’t want to wear you out. Sometimes, when you’re spent on he’s still hard, you tell him to just jerk off over you and cum on your tits. He thinks you’re far too good to be real.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Clark doesn’t like admitting to most of his kinks, so you find out about them through observation. After months of being together, it occurs to you that he’s always rutting his cum into your cunt after, pressing you into the mattress with a hand splayed on your stomach and a focused knit in his brow. It’s after he fingerfucks his release back inside that you ask him if he’s got a breeding kink, and he blushes like a teenager caught with a porno magazine. He mumbles that it’s just an instinct he can’t help, and you kiss his pouting lips and tell him you like it. After that, he becomes insatiable about it, filling you up until your eyes are rolling back, until you’re worried that your birth control is going to be useless.
After the breeding, you notice that he grinds against you in his sleep, that you often wake up with his hand under your shirt and his cock pressed into your ass. You guide him up to your breasts, and murmur that if he just needs to take what he wants, you trust him. After that, you find yourself being woken up by soft kisses over your clit or his cock pressed into your pulsing cunt as he rolls slow, soft thrusts. You come apart as you wake up, smiling at him all dazed and sleepy, and he somehow never feels bigger.
Clark doesn’t even know he likes overstimulation until you ask him to do it. At first he thinks it would be cruel, but then you say you’d like it, and he always wants to do something you’d like. It’s fast after that, when he realizes that there’s nothing better than making you nonverbal and trembling, looking at him like a savoir even when he’s the one who tortured you in the first place. You keep pleading for him, even when you can’t raise a hand. Watching your whole body seize up and hearing your screams of his name when makes you cum again and again, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
For all of his dirty talk and filthy fucking, Clark really just wants to fuck in a nice, soft bed. To him, it offsets the borderline whore-ish way he’s treating you, and makes everything softer and more intimate. He spits in your mouth and tugs your hair, but you’re wrapped in his blankets and being fucked into a soft mattress that absorbs the force of every thrust. It makes it easier to clean you up after, when the bathroom is right down the hall and he can wrap you in a warm shirt after he turns you into a boneless, drooling mess.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
There’s a level of Clark that’s turned on by almost everything you do. Soft hands brushing on his arm and kisses to his cheek make his cock twitch. Watching you mouth off and boss him around makes his gut heat, and just a teasing smile makes his skin heat. But the thing that gets him going more than anything else is when you just stare at him. When he’s already got sweaty palms from proximity and you lean just an inch forward, tracing your fingers up his inner thigh, the engine already revving in your hungry gaze. He licks his lips, asking if you’re sure, even when he’s barely holding himself back. You nod, and all bets are off.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Clark will give it to you rough, but never too rough. He demands safe words, even when you’re barely doing anything, always worried that he’s going to snap you in half. You can talk him in to trying almost anything new, but he’s always going to be overly cautious. Most of his turn offs involve complete degradation, because while dirty talk and toying with you can be mixed with praise, treating you like trash just makes him feel too mean. It’s alright, though. He’s got a dirty enough mouth to fully make up for it.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
You on your knees for him is a dream he’s never been able to get out of his head. Your hands braced on his thighs, your eyes watering with the size of him being forced down your throat, it’s the one selfish thing he indulges. You love it too much for him to feel bad about it, grinding down onto his foot or a pillow between your thighs, maybe just the air as you beg and moan for friction. He cums down your throat and all over your face, and you never look prettier. He’ll grab you by the hair and pin you to the bed after, losing himself in the flood between your thighs, making you clench and gush and scream. You’re already on the edge from sucking his cock, and that just makes it all the better for both of you.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Clark loves both, depending on what you beg for. Fast until the bed breaks and you’re choking on his name, or slow when he’s trying to worship your body and keep himself under control. Ironically, it’s when he has the most control that he fucks you like an animal, splitting you open on his cock, tossing you around, and making you suck on his fingers while he turns you into a gushing puddle. When he’s more unsure or on edge, he takes the time to use you to regain that semblance of control, kissing over your breasts and dragging his cock through your wet folds until you’re begging.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Clark doesn’t love quickies. He’s wants to give you his full attention when he touches you, and anything less than that feels disrespectful. However, if you give him full, begging doe-eyes, he’s doesn’t really have the power to deny you. He’ll use his fingers or mouth to get you off when you’re really desperate, taking you apart quickly and kissing your parted lips with a promise of more later. The real danger is when you don’t let that be enough, and the quckie is suddenly taking an hour.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
The only person that can talk Clark into experimenting is you, and it takes a lot of effort. Promises that you’ll be okay, that you know you’ll like it, that he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, but you think he’d like it to. He’s rarely the one receiving rather than giving, so his worry more comes from that fear that he’ll overexert you or cross a line. He wants to try choking or bondage or whatever, but he needs to really be sure that you want it to.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
All night. Every night. Another, secret benefit of the yellow sun. His stamina and durability go just as far in his sex life as they do everywhere else. He can go as long as you let him, fucking you for hours straight and never tapping out. If he’s trying to hold back, it’s mostly for the sake of not drowning you in his cum. He could reach his peak and still be harder than anyone else you’ve ever been with. It’s a perfect torture that you never want to lose.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
If Clark has toys, they’re only for you. He likes the remote vibrator more than he’ll ever admit, giving him a way to satisfy your needy pussy when he doesn’t have the time to take care of it himself. He can smell it from across the room, and feel that desperate, hopeful look raking over his body. He gives you a small smile and squeezes your thigh, and you whine. You’ll get the real thing the moment you’re alone, but this is almost better for him than it is for you, so he’s going to stretch it out.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Clark doesn’t know how to tease. He wants you, and he makes it obvious when he’s allowed. He goes to touch you because he needs to, and he never wants you to think he doesn’t just want to mold into you forever. If anything, all the teasing he does is completely by accident. Kissing you a little too deeply, squeezing your knee with only the intention of showing some affection, rolling up his sleeves in that damn white shirt, showing off the arms you want wrapped around your neck. Sometimes he just walks around the apartment naked, and acts like you’re the crazy one for getting worked up about it. He doesn’t see himself as the living wet dream that he is, sometimes forgetting that he’s 200 pounds of Kansas beef you want to shove your face into. HE gets sheepish when you remind him, and it’s adorable, right up until he fucks you like the dog he tries not to be.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He’s a whimperer when he’s in control, and shouter when he’s not. He worries that even too loud a sound will scare you, like you’re some woodland creature. You clench around him and roll your hips to pull out those deep, guttural moans. He sighs against your skin and groans with every thrust, and you think that just listening to him would be enough to get you off, all on it’s own.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
It takes a while to make him admit, but Clark’s a sucker for mutual masturbation. It’s a roll over from when he only allowed himself to beat his cock to the idea of you, trapping himself in the shower and moaning your name to the water. He likes studying how you pleasure yourself, watching you get wet from the sight of him touching himself, cumming all over you and then placing his face an itch from your dripping cunt, coaxing you into letting go with only praising words and encouragement. Sometimes he lays you down below him, just to watch you touch yourself for him. Thinking about you doing this alone, just for him, it’s enough to send him over the edge all on it’s own.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Alien dicks are real, and Clark is packing one. It’s so big you sometimes look at his pants and wonder how he even fits it in there. Veiny and curved, somehow still a grower despite being bigger than anyone else while soft. It’s a good thing Clark enjoys prepping you, because otherwise you’d never be able to take more than the tip. Sometimes he can’t even get halfway in before tears are stinging at your eyes, and he goes back to giving your clit more attention than you can take. At this point, you might be the number one customer of lube in the country, and that’s with Clark making you wet enough that you could take a fist.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
If you let him, he’d fuck you through a whole night, then another day, then a week. He’d never get anything done, if he indulged that side of him. He’d forget about being Superman, about saving the world, about doing anything but burying himself in your sweet little pussy and holding you close. At one point, he makes a rule for himself. Never more than nine times in a week, or he’ll forget why he ever even leaves your side in the first place.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Clark doesn’t need the same amount of sleep as a human, but he’ll lie in bed with you for as long as he can after. Petting your hair and kissing your brow, letting his eyes flutter shut until he’s called away, then right back once it’s taken care of. When he does sleep normally, it’s usually after you’ve worked him over and when the city is strangely quiet. When he’s truly exhausted—rare, but it happens—he sometimes goes over just to fuck you and give himself a good reason to sleep in your arms.
✦Clark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦Author's Note: i stand on him being filthy in bed and i will not back down✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
So what I think is that there's this default belief in patriarchy that men are superior to women and therefore the "masculine" sphere is superior to the "feminine" sphere. And so, as feminists have fought to expand the number of allowable female activities, men (on the aggregate over generations) have retreated from those activities because they're now seen as "feminine", and so partaking in them is incommensurate with their belief in their own superiority. And, unfortunately, as this has progressed, this has resulted in a lot of men sectioning themselves off from, frankly, everything that actually makes being alive worthwhile. It's a misery spiral, and the only way out is to abandon male supremacy.
You can see this very starkly in certain professions too.
Like mine, archaeology. It used to be dominated by men as late as the 70s. And back then it was highly regarded as this grand prestigious profession.
But starting sometime over the last 40 years the gender demographics of it have shifted drastically. Now it's split pretty evenly between men and women (still almost entirely cis though. Anna Prentiss and myself are literally the only two trans people, let alone trans women, that I know of in the field.) In some places it's even dominated by women! And look how its now regarded: its prestige is almost entirely gone. Some people in other acedemic fields barely even consider it an acedemic profession, most outright deny that its a science at all! And in the toxic manosphere its openly hated. Men like Graham Hancock have made an entire career out of demonizing the field of archaeology.
happy autism awareness day to all the girls who had “ friends” growing up who were actually bullying them . to the girls who always sat alone in the grass and wondered why nobody wanted to talk . to the girls who spoke to animals like they were listening . to the girls who created a little world in their room . to the girls who always felt ashamed for how deeply they love things and how passionately they enjoyed media . to the girls who covered their ears when they were overwhelmed by everything . to the girls who carrying a special thing around to feel safe . to the girls who never understood what they did wrong to feel so lonely . to the girls who were diagnosed later in life because they weren’t little boys who liked trains. you are so special and beautiful and you’re not worse for it, you love deeply and that is so wonderful please never try to push that down . I LOVE YOU !!!!!
