#(S)

[statistical-distr-of-polls]

Shape: Unimodal, Skewed Left

Just saw a post asking how tall people are and now I want to make it a poll. Apologies to people in the fringe height categories, you do not get specifics.

I had to consult a chart for this

[maythray]

(slots another estrogen pill into ralseis mouth)

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for S behind the cut; “Clark panic-adopts his teenage clones (yes, including the supervillain one)”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Asshole,” Thirteen mutters, then–hesitates, and glances warily over towards Superman, half-settling back in his seat with an uncomfortable frown. “So like . . . then what were you thinking, man? Like . . . no labs, not the Fortress, and not, like–here, so what else even is there?” 

Superman looks pained. 

“Nothing involving assigning you anywhere, for one thing,” he says, which is a mystifying thing to lie about, and then even more mystifyingly additionally lies: “Or anything involving security, surveillance, or manual labor either. Just–is that actually what you think I meant? That’s really the first thing you think, that I’m talking about just getting you both a job? Not, I don’t know, high school?” 

“Uh–no?” Thirteen says, looking bewildered. “Fuck no, when I go to high school supervillains happen to it. Like a lot of supervillains happen to it. Like there’s a reason I did home school in Hawaii, on account of, again, all the supervillains and shit. And like, what the fuck do you think’d happen if Match went?” 

“The Agenda would immediately send a retrieval team to any school I might potentially be identified as–attending,” Match informs Superman, his lip curling slightly as he barely manages to keep his full level of disgust at that idea out of his voice. “That would actually be an ideal extraction situation for them to recover me from your possession, given it would involve a target-rich environment occupied by hundreds of noncombatant minors that you would feel the need to prioritize over maintaining possession of me. An execution squad would also be a possibility, if the DNA was determined to no longer be worth the investment.” 

“. . . ‘execution squad’,” Jonathan repeats slowly as he and Martha share another one of those strange expressions between them. Match has no idea if he should consider those expressions relevant or not–or concerning or not. 

“If the DNA is no longer worth reproducing, there wouldn’t be a point in recovering the target alive or bothering with the effort of body recovery,” he clarifies on the assumption that the obvious logic behind deployment of one is less obvious to civilians, and also presuming that Superman would expect him to provide requested information to his–parents. Being difficult with or keeping things from Thirteen is one thing, but–not Superman’s parents, presumably. It’s necessary information, anyway. Superman won’t be pleased with him if he has to deal with an Agenda kill squad without forewarning, especially if noncombatant civilians are injured or killed in the process. “In that event personnel would only need to be sent to reassert ownership of the asset and confirm to other assets under the Agenda’s custody that they should resist being stolen to the fullest extent of their capabilities to avoid the necessity of a similar assertion.” 

“. . . you didn’t ‘resist’ being stolen,” Superman says after a long moment. Match stares blankly at him. He doesn’t know why Superman said it that way. 

He also doesn’t know why Superman is so stupid.

“I attempted to resubmit myself to the Agenda’s authority and informed you of the inconvenience that acquiring sole proprietorship of me would cause to you when you prevented me from doing so,” he says. 

“No, I mean–you didn’t try to run off or . . . fight me,” Superman says slowly, his tone turning a little more careful. Match keeps his eyes on the man’s face and his stare exactly as blank. 

Superman is so stupid. 

“Physical resistance would have devalued the product,” he says, because maybe Superman just thinks he’s stupid. Stupid enough not to know his “fullest capabilities��� as far as actually physically fighting Superman of all people, or just stupid enough to damage the product, when Superman had clearly wanted the product for–whatever reason, and would obviously not have been pleased to receive it damaged. “Superboy wasn’t compromised enough to require immediate medical attention, so there wasn’t a suitable situation in place to delay or distract you.” 

And the Agenda was already going to dispose of him for refusing orders, so it hadn’t actually mattered what he did anyway. 

It’s never actually mattered what he does, just . . . 

It hadn’t actually mattered. 

“I think I wanna disassemble this fuckin’ tectonic plate,” Thirteen mutters under his breath, his teeth gritted. Match ignores him. Thirteen’s opinion doesn’t matter either. 

The only actual opinion that’s currently a concern is Superman’s inscrutable and clearly unstable one. 

So that’s–information that Match is currently in possession of. 

“I don’t see why this is relevant,” he says. “You’ve asserted primary ownership over me. I’ll perform to expectation.” 

“. . . what do you think that means, Match?” Superman asks, looking very briefly tired, and Match only doesn’t stiffen because he was already prepared for Superman to ask him something stupid, but–

But questions like that are just–traps. That’s all. 

“It means I’ll obey your orders and the orders of any provided authorized handlers as given and will not attempt to either subvert or engage in malicious compliance of those orders,” he replies, matter-of-fact and neutral-toned and without adjusting his facial expression in the slightest; not including any opinion or analysis or unnecessary filler statements. “I’ll complete assignments as directed to offset any fiscal or legal inconveniences that my presence causes and will not perform in a way that would necessitate decommissioning.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Superboy mutters, putting his elbows on the table on either side of his plate and dropping his face into his hands. “Well, I did always wanna know what having an actual conversation with you would be like, guess I did wanna know that. Cool. Cool cool cool.” 

This isn’t a conversation. Even if Match had any interest whatsoever in talking to Thirteen, he isn’t stupid enough to have an actual conversation in front of Superman. 

“It’s unnecessary to decommission a resource that retains the potential to be lucrative, so I’ll perform as a justifiable investment at your discretion,” he says to Superman, and then realizes he’s talking too much again and feels like an idiot for it. Just–apparently the stupidity is catching, is all. He’s talking too much; over-explaining obvious things; things that don’t even need explained. Running his mouth. 

Just–Match knows when to shut up, unlike Superboy. 

So Match shuts up. 

And Superman stares intently at him, the microscopic pinprick-centers of his irises burningly, blazingly crimson. Match stares back blankly. 

He thinks he should’ve shut up sooner.

[saintormentor]

deep throat c. s

in which . . . chris fucks your throat raw. this is a consensual power-exchange dynamic. contains rough content, viewer discretion advised.

content warnings . . . dom!chris, oral sex ( m!receiving ), deepthroating / throatfuck, gagging / choking ( consensual ), tears from oral, degradation, praise kink, rough use / use kink, spit / drool / bodily fluids, hair pulling, use of mouth as a “ reward ” or release, creampie ( oral ), cum swallowing, minimal aftercare, power imbalance / D/s dynamic ( consensual )

his voice was low the second the door shut behind him.

“on your knees.”

you didn’t even speak. didn’t need to. your body moved before your brain did, legs folding beneath you on the living room floor, still in that little sleep shirt he liked so much—the one that barely covered your ass and clung to every soft inch of you.

chris looked wrecked from the day. hair messy from the wind, jaw tense, eyes dark. the tie around his neck was already loosened, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease a sliver of his chest.

he stood over you and palmed his cock through his pants, watching the way your lips parted already, like you knew what he needed. what you were—a release. a reward. a toy. his.

“open wide, baby. i’ve had a fuckin’ day.”

your mouth obeyed instantly. the second he pulled his cock free, thick and already hardening from just looking at you, he was tapping it against your tongue, smearing precum on your lips before gripping the back of your head.

“you know what i like,” he muttered, thumb dragging along your jaw as you hollowed your cheeks. “all that drool… yeah, that’s it. that’s my girl.”

he didn’t ease into it. didn’t ask. just slid deep, the weight of him heavy on your tongue, until the head hit the back of your throat and your eyes watered.

but fuck, he loved that.

“look at you—fuck—you’re already crying for me.”

he started to thrust. slow at first. then rougher. more desperate. hips snapping forward as your spit coated his cock, your throat tightening around him each time he bottomed out. you gagged, a choked moan bubbling up around his length, and he groaned deep.

“don’t pull away,” he warned, fist tightening in your hair. “stay right there. let me fuck that throat raw.”

his pace turned punishing. balls slapping your chin. tears streaking your cheeks. you dug your nails into his thighs for balance, jaw aching but pussy soaking. he growled through his teeth every time you whimpered.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this. ruined just from sucking dick. you were made for this, huh?”

you couldn’t respond. only gagged, swallowed, let him use you. let your tongue cradle his shaft and your nose bury into the rough hair at his base.

he came with a hiss. one deep thrust, cock buried down your throat, and his warm release spilled straight down it. he held you there as he twitched, hips pressed to your face, groaning low.

“don’t waste a fuckin’ drop.”

and you didn’t.

you stayed there, obedient, until he slipped out—your chin slick, lips swollen, his cum thick in your chest.

he knelt after, tugging you onto his lap, thumb stroking your jaw with a softness that contradicted everything.

“such a good girl,” he whispered. “always take care of me.”

and you did. every. single. time.

a / n . . . beautifully filthy.

[savebylou]

Please tag Liam's new show.

Hi everyone so Liam's show is coming up and I wanted to ask that in case that you share content from that show please use the tag #building the band so I can filter the content.

I really don't want to see the content because I don't want to cry or feel sad, it can also help someone else that also doesn't want to see it.

I know that not everyone like to tag stuff but please tag anything related to the show. And please boost this so more people see this. Thank you in advance ❤️.

[bgm05]

Has anyone else noticed that the outgroup is weird as fuck while the ingroup is normal and chill

[vk20002]

I haven’t gone a day without thinking of you ever since our very first conversation

[fastglimmeringdoom]

Make you worship and serve me as your real tranny Goddess and let me own you and make you please me in any way I am number one priority. You work for me. You save for me. You look after yourself, for me. Everything you do. It’s for me. Csyburton@gmail.com.Kik . 1965andrews

That's the real you honey

[medusasbush]

i found the tenth circle of hell: it's where your fave blows up on tiktok

[respiridicarta]

♥️✨

[roua-poemului]

can i get lost in your arms for a while?

[adropofhumanity]

[retrogamingblog2]

[bexiescorner]