thinking about calling clark kent big boy during sex, but in a slightly condescending way.
you're riding him into the mattress, teasing him relentlessly by slowing down every time he gets too close, pinching his nipples when he squeezes his eyes shut, grinning when he inevitably lets out a whimpering 'golly'—because that's about the worst he'll say. and clark doesn't even complain, only sits there and faces your sweet torture with a small frown. he's being so good, so pliant, letting you use him exactly how you want, so you take pity. "d'you wanna come, big boy?" you coo, petting his hair. he only whines, bucking his hips in sync with the rolling of your hips. he knows better than to try and break your rhythm, so he holds back. "huh? is it too much for you?" it's sickly sweet, the way you say it, and he knows you don't really care wether it's too much for him or not, but his mind is hazy and all he can bring himself to do is cry out a pathethic, "yes!"
"look at you," you sneer, making his dick throb inside of you. "superman can't even handle a good fuck." it makes him tear up, even, and he sobs out, "i can! i can take it," but you're not convinced. you grind down om him harder. faster. meaner. testing his words. and when clark throws his head back with a loud, unrestrained moan, your smirk widens.
"i'm not sure you can, clarky," you pout at him. "you're already falling apart and we've barely even begun."
he whimpers, shaking his head frantically. he wants to be good for you, wants to hold back, but his heart is bursting at the seams. and so is his release. his fingers twist in the sheets, trying to ground himself and keep him sane, but it doesn't work very well because with a loud tearing sound, your bedsheets get ripped apart.
"clark!" you scold, but you don't stop. god, you don't stop and now clark only has two loose pieces of fabric to hold onto. so he forgoes them in favor of you, bracing his arms fully around your frame and burying his head in your chest with a sob. and you can't help but coo at him, threading your fingers through his dark curls as you bring him closer and closer to the edge. his cock twitches when you pull, and you know he's almost there. "c'mon, big boy," you moan, "let go f'me." and he does, he does. clark is crying against your chest, calling himself, "your big boy, 'm, 'm yours, yours," spilling his warm cum inside of you. and you're talking him all the way through, moaning his name as your own orgasm washes over you. "good boy, clark, my big boy, feels s' good."
so yeah, clark has developed some kind of pavlovian response to the words out of your mouth. he can't hear you say the word "big," definitely not combined with the word "boy" right behind it, without his cock twitching to life and an embarassing amount of precum staining his pants. but that's not your problem, is it?
