clvdheart

his shoulders straightened slowly. “is that so?”

you twirled your pen, feigning innocence. “well, you said the league of nations responded decisively to the manchurian crisis, but if you’re grading on effectiveness, I’d call that… generous.”

clark set the marker down and turned fully toward you, arms folding over his chest, “so you’d have handled global diplomacy differently?”

“i’m just saying,” you shrugged, leaning back in your chair, “words don’t stop invasions. maybe they should’ve tried a little less talking, a little more doing.”

his eyes narrowed, a faint spark beneath the lenses. “you prefer action to rhetoric?”

“depends on the action,” you said, meeting his gaze. “but if the goal was results, Professor, history’s pretty clear—you’re defending failure.”

clark’s jaw ticked once. a slight smile formed at your lips. 

he turned back to the board, grip tightening on the chalk. every time he wrote, muscle shifted beneath the fabric, impossibly distracting. you can’t help to stare.

clark’s voice rose, calm and final.

“see you all friday.” 

the room emptied in a blur of chatter and scraping chairs. 

you swung your bag over your shoulder, halfway to the door when—

“Uh-uh.”

you turned. “What?”

“you stay.”

he sat at the edge of his desk, legs stretched out, hands gripping the edge on either side. the posture was relaxed, but the muscles in his forearms flexed every time his fingers shifted; the fluorescent light caught on his glasses.

“do you like getting a rise out of me?” he asked, tone low but even.

you blinked, playing innocent. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“oh, don’t play dumb with me,” he said, leaning back just slightly. “you know exactly what you’re doing.”

you tilted your head. “then tell me—what am I doing?”

he pushed off the desk, walking toward you with slow, measured steps, like he was dissecting the moment as he moved through it.

“you like to test me. correct me. watch how i  react. you want to see if i’ll lose my temper.”

his eyes met yours, steady. “is that what you want? For me to lose it?”

you opened your mouth, but no sound came out. the silence pressed in until you felt it in your chest.

“oh,” he said quietly, almost surprised, “for once you have nothing to say.”

he stopped just short of you, hands in his pockets now, gaze searching. “is that all it takes? just being called out?”

“i don’t want anything to do with you,” you muttered, more defensive than convincing.

he raised a brow. “is that why your heart’s beating like that?”

your brows knitted. “how do you—”

“i can tell,” he said simply, moving one hand up to brush a strand of hair away from your face—barely touching, careful. “tell me what you want.”

you blinked at him, words catching somewhere between your throat and pride.

“tell me,” he said again, quieter this time.

you let out a boastful laugh, turning as if to leave, but he caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you. his voice softened. “i’m a gentleman. but keep testing me, and that might start to slip.”

you stared at him, pulse a storm beneath your skin. then you yanked your wrist free and smiled—a sharp, knowing little curve of your mouth.

“you know what i want, mr. kent?” he waited. “you.”

“lock the door.”

you tipped your chin. “touch me.”

his palm slid along your jaw, thumb fitting beneath your cheekbone like it had been carved for you. the first kiss was not hesitant—it was patient. he kissed like he taught: layered, precise, each angle learned, each pause intentional. 

you made a noise, small and unruly. you felt him smile against your mouth, felt the smile break when you tugged his collar and bit his lower lip just to hear how quickly he could forget patience.

“brat,” he murmured, breath warm, and the word tumbled down your spine and pooled low.

“make me behave,” you said, shamelessly.

he didn’t pin you,he arranged you. his hands guided you onto the edge of the desk, your knees parting for him without question. wood pressed solid under your thighs. he caged you in his arms, braced on either side.

“you’re going to listen,” he said, kissing your throat once, a stamp of heat, “for once.” his hand traced down your ribcage, not possessive, mapping.

you nodded too quickly. he stilled. “Words.”

“yes,” you said, breath catching. “i’ll listen.”

“good.” his knuckles skimmed your jaw, a reassurance. “you’re shaking.”

his laugh was soft and disbelieving. then he kissed you like he was trying to prove a point.

your hands found his forearms, thumbs dragging over muscle as it bunched under your touch. the texture of him made you greedy. you chased the sound he made when you tugged his sleeves higher, when you mouthed at the inside of his wrist and felt his pulse kick.

“you’re going to be the end of me,” he said into your mouth.

“promise?” you pressed closer, wrapping your legs around him, allowing him to step fully into the mess you were offering.

“say what you want,” he told you, lips at your ear, voice scraped low. “don’t be smart. ask.”

“i want your hands,” you said, dizzy with honesty. “i want you to hold me there—” you guided him, shameless, where your body ached for pressure “—and tell me i’ve been driving you insane.”

“that,” he said, obeying, heat and weight flooding in exactly where you needed, “you don’t need me to tell you.”

“say it anyway.”

his mouth found your jaw, your throat, the vulnerable place below your ear where you were already fireworks. “you’ve haunted my lectures,” he confessed, voice rough. “you sit in the third row and watch me like you’re cataloging my weaknesses. i write on the board and feel your eyes. you correct me, and i spend the rest of the hour imagining how to make you speechless.”

“clark—” his name slipped out, on accident, before you could apologize—

“that’s better,” he said, and dragged you closer, and the world narrowed to his hands and your breath and the rhythm you built together, slow then urgent, careful then not at all. 

every sound was yours, his startled inhale when you tugged his hair, your broken little laugh when he cursed softly and told you to be good, as if you’d ever learned how.

your orgasm came rushing through you, your fingers pressed white into the back of his shoulder. he held you through it, solid, present.

“you okay?” he asks, stroking your hair.

his voice is softer now—none of that sharp, commanding tone from earlier, just warm silk and quiet concern. you nod, still catching your breath, the edge of his shirt balled in your fist. his thumb brushes along your temple, lingering like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops.

“good girl,” he murmurs, the words almost reverent. you melt into his touch, all fight gone, only the steady rhythm of his hand grounding you. when you finally look up at him, “you sound worried, professor,” you murmur, the corner of your mouth curving. “didn’t think you cared that much.”

he exhales through his nose, a low laugh that sounds more like surrender. “always got something to say, don’t you?”

you tilt your head, smug even in the wreckage. “well, if I didn’t, you’d get bored.”

his thumb pauses in your hair. the look he gives you is half warning, half fondness—the kind that says he’s one word away from reminding you who’s really in control.

“careful,” he says, quiet but laced with heat.

He lifts you up and sets you down on his desk. Papers scatter. His laptop slams shut. The lights stay on.

“I should punish you,” he says, dragging your legs open. “But I’m too damn obsessed with you to wait.”

He drops to his knees.

And he devours.

He doesn’t tease this time. Doesn’t slowly warm you up. No, no. He’s feral the second his tongue meets your center. Moaning into you. Gripping your thighs so tight they might bruise.

“You’re gonna cum quick,” he pants, breath hot against you. “You’re already shaking. Be a good girl. Give it to me.”

And you do. Your orgasm crashes over like a wave, eyes forced shut, head tilted back.

With you biting your lip to keep quiet. Your hips buck as he growls into you, drinking every drop.

He stands, face glistening with your slick and his saliva, pupils blown wide behind those damn glasses.

“I’m not done,” he says.

He frees himself from his slacks, thick and heavy and aching. You reach for him, but he swats your hand away.

“No,” he says. “You walk into my place of work dressed up like that?  You just sit there and take it like a good little girl.”

You gasp at his words.

His cock twitches. “You look so fucking good in this little skirt,” he murmurs, lining himself up. “God, baby, were you just imagining this? What I’d do to you, hmm? Were you this wet, this ready? So ready for me?”

He pushes in.

You cry out—but he kisses you, swallowing the sound as he begins to thrust.

He’s deep.

The kind of rhythm that makes your spine curl and your mind go blank.

“Can’t be loud,” he whispers, slamming into you. “You want the whole office to hear you sounding like a bitch in heat?”

“C-Clark—”

“You want Perry to walk in and see me stuffing my cum into you?”

You shake your head desperately, tears welling from the stretch, the pace, the heat.

He grabs your jaw. “Eyes on me.”

You look at him in desperation, tears forming in your eyes.

“You came here to be filled, didn’t you?”

You nod.

He fucks you harder, the desk creaking beneath you. The air smells like sweat and sex and ink.

You’re sobbing now. The pleasure is too much. His words push you over every edge you’ve ever known.

“I’ll marry you in this building,” he growls. “Right in front of Lois and the others. Just so they all know you’re mine.”

He grips your thighs and slams in once—twice—and then spills into you with a strangled groan.

“Take it,” he pants. “Take it all..”

And then—

A knock at the door.

You freeze.

He grins, sweat dripping from his brow, still buried inside you.

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“Mmhm, keep going.” Gojo drawled, his tongue trailing his bottom lip.” Sweetheart, don’t stop just because I’m watching.” His free hand pressed to the bulge in his sweats, a low groan slipping out as he watched your face contort with pleasure. “Fuck—look at you. Falling apart for the camera already.”

Your rhythm falters, hips jerking helplessly, chasing that high you can’t touch. The moment your thighs start to close around your hand, his voice cuts through—smooth, commanding, leaving no room to protest.

​​“Stop.”

The single word cracked through the room. His hand shoots out, catching your wrist mid-stroke. The camera dips, lens zooming on your soaked fingers trembling under his grip.

“Oh, you’re not allowed to finish with your hand.” He mutters as he tilts the camera to your flushed face. “Not when I’m here.” He cups your jaw, stroking it with his thumb, “You rather me fuck this cock into you, isn’t that right, love?”  You nod, eyes trailing down his body to his visibly hard cock. Your chest heaves, lips parted, breath stuttering. “Satoru, please—”

He smirks, thumb pressing harder into your jaw. he drags your hand away from your heat. “Nah, sweetheart. Beg harder. Tell the camera whose pretty little cunt this is.” 

Heat forms at your cheeks as you can feel the camera recording every second of your humiliation—the wet sheen of your fingers, the quiver in your voice, the desperate flutter of your thighs as he keeps you empty. 

Gojo shifts his grip, one hand steady on the camera, the other forcing your wrist against the sheets. His cock strains against his sweats. He groans softly, head tilting, pale eyes burning you with hunger.

“Say it,” he commands, sharper now. “Or I’ll make you watch yourself fall apart without ever getting me inside you.”

Your hips bucking uselessly into the air, wrist pinned hard to the sheets. The lens hovers inches from your face, unblinking, he’s so so mean.

“T-Toru, please, I can’t—” Your voice breaks on the words, throat closing around a sob.

He leans down, smirk sharp, tongue darting across his lip as if tasting your desperation. “You can’t what?” His tone drips mockery, but his grip doesn’t ease. “Can’t think? Can’t breathe? Or can’t cum without me?”

Your thighs tremble violently, shame burning as the camera zooms in on your ruined face. He knows you’re seconds from unraveling.

“Say it,” Gojo growls, voice suddenly harsher, rough edges slicing through the playfulness. “Say you’re mine. Say who you belong to, or I’ll keep you like this all night.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, your voice a shattered whisper: “I’m yours, Toru. I’m—fuck—I’m yours.”

The tension in his smirk cracks, blooming into something darker, satisfied. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, groaning as he finally releases your wrist.

The second you’re free, his hand replaces yours, fingers sinking inside you with a merciless thrust. The camera dips to catch it all—his long fingers working you open, the way your body arches, the broken cry that rips from your throat as relief floods your veins.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice ragged with his own arousal, “Can’t handle the second I touch you. Keep your eyes on the camera, sweetheart. Don’t you dare look away while I show everyone how a needy bitch you are.”

Relief floods so hard it almost hurts. Gojo’s fingers are thick and long, so long that they reach that gummy spot you could never on your own. Just as the rhythm builds, just as you're right there, he stops. Pulls out slowly, tapping your clit, making you clench on nothing.

The camera catches the way your hips jerk up, desperate.

“Aw, you poor thing.” His laugh is cruel, a sense of mockery. He sets the camera beside him, angling it so it can see all of you. “Already twitching, so needy to cum, and I barely did anything.”

Your voice manages a shaky whisper, “ Fuck you.”

He clicks his tongue, mocking. “Oh, what had happened to your manners? Are you upset, hmm?” he taps your cheek. “You’re upset because you can’t cum without me?” He fights back a smile at you pouting at him. “I hate you.” You choked out. 

His hand returns, trailing lightly over your swollen folds; it's more torture than pleasure. He lowers himself closer to your throbbing cunt. He drags his tongue across your clit, which makes you groan loudly, reaching your hand to stroke his hair. He grabs your wrist and pins it to the bed. “Unt, Unt, you don’t get to touch me.” He says, focusing his fingers around your slick, dripping down. The wet sounds fill the air, caught by the camera mic, so obscene. 

“C’mon, sweetheart.” His voice darkens, sharper now, as he brings the camera closer to you to zoom in on your wrecked expression. “Show them how needy you can get. Spread those legs for me—wider. That’s it. Keep them open, or I’ll tie them down.”

Your thighs shake violently, obeying, with another broken moan. He pushes two fingers back inside, curling them just enough to drag another cry out of you—then withdraws again, leaving you aching, clenching, undone.

“Every time you think I’ll let you finish,” Gojo murmurs, he grins, “I’ll take it away. And you’ll thank me for it.”

The camera trembles slightly in his hand, catching the sharp rise and fall of your chest, the tears streaking your cheeks, the raw need written all over your body.

“Look at the lens,” he commands, voice low, final. “Let everyone see how desperate you are when daddy won’t let you cum.”

He slams his fingers back inside you, no warning, no mercy. The sound of your wetness fills the room, obscene, caught perfectly by the camera’s unblinking lens. His hand moves roughly and relentlessly, dragging a scream out of your throat as your body arches clean off the mattress.

“Look at you,” he growls, thumb pressing cruelly against your clit while his fingers pound deep. “Falling apart so easily for me. Pathetic little slut—can’t even hold back for me.”

Your cries climb higher, choked and frantic, but he doesn’t slow. He leans close enough for his words to scrape against your ear, camera tilted down to catch the way your thighs shake, your cunt fluttering around his hand.

“Cum,” he orders, voice breaking with his own groan. “Right fucking now. Let the camera see who owns you.”

The orgasm tears through you violently, unrestrained—sobs ripped raw from your chest as you clamp around his fingers. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you come down. His pace is brutal, merciless, forcing aftershocks until tears streak down your cheeks.

“That’s it. Cum for me again,” he snarls, eyes glittering. “You’re mine, sweetheart. Mine to ruin. Mine to record. And I’ll wring every last drop out of you until you can’t even say my name.”

The camera wobbles slightly in his hand, but never turns away—it captures everything: your wrecked face, your spasming body, the way you break again and again under his command.

His fingers finally pull free. His chest heaves, the way his cock strains painfully against his sweats.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged. The camera lowers, set on the nightstand at just the right angle to catch you both. His pale eyes never leave you.

He yanks his waistband down in one motion, cock slapping heavy against his stomach, flushed and leaking. Your whimper breaks the air, but he doesn’t give you time to recover—doesn’t even let you breathe.

Hands spread your thighs, forcing them wide again, ignoring the violent shake of your legs. His tip drags through your soaked folds once, twice, just enough to make you twitch before he slams forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

Your scream splits the air. His groan answers it, head falling back, sweat-dark hair clinging to his forehead.

“Goddamn—” he pants, hips snapping again before you can even adjust. “So fucking tight after cumming all over my fingers. This pussy was made for me.”

“You wanted daddy to fuck you, huh?” His words are sharp, guttural, punched out in rhythm with his thrusts. “Now take it. Take every inch and let the whole world see who you belong to.”

Gojo groans low, head tipping back, jaw slack with the raw relief of finally being inside you.

“Fuck—you feel that? God, you’re choking me out. So tight, so perfect.”

The camera’s red light blinks on the nightstand, mercilessly recording the way his cock disappears into you, the wet slap of his hips against your thighs. He angles his body so the lens catches everything—your trembling legs pinned wide, the way you’re already coming undone around him.

His hands grip bruises into your hips as he pounds into you, pace unforgiving. Each thrust jolts through you like a shockwave, your cries mixing with his ragged groans.

“You begged for this,” he spits, sweat dripping from his temple onto your chest. “Begged daddy to fuck you, and now you can’t even take it. Look at you—squirming, shaking, like this cock isn’t the only thing you were made for.”

Your hands claw at the sheets, nails tearing the fabric, body thrashing helplessly under his weight. But he only laughs, cruel, snapping his hips harder, deeper, until your voice breaks into a sob.

“Look at the camera,” he commands, fisting a hand in your hair to yank your gaze toward the camera. “Look. Don’t you dare look away while it catches you falling apart for me.”

Tears streak your cheeks, your body spasms, and the orgasm rips through you violently, unrestrained, milking him in tight waves. The sound that tears from his throat is guttural, almost feral.

“Fuck—yeah, that’s it. Cum all over me, sweetheart. Show the camera how you lose yourself on my cock.”

He doesn’t stop. Even as you convulse, even as your voice breaks into hoarse whimpers, his thrusts keep coming—brutal, merciless, each one dragging another scream from you.

“Again,” he snarls, hips slamming forward. “I’m not done wringing you out. You’re mine to ruin, mine to record—and I’m gonna keep fucking you until this tape is nothing but your screams.”

Your body seizes around him once more, overstimulated and raw, and that’s all it takes for him to finally break. His groan shatters the air, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you, thick and hot, filling you to the brim.

The camera records the final thrusts, the frantic grip of his hands, your body twitching under his, until he collapses forward, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours.

The red light still blinks. Capturing every second of your ruin.

Gojo stays inside you for a long moment, hips pressed flush, chest rising hard against yours as he catches his breath. The room smells of sweat and sex, air heavy, broken only by the faint whir of the camera still rolling.

Finally, he leans back just enough to look down at you. Your mascara’s smudged, cheeks streaked, lips swollen from biting down on your own cries. He grins—soft, but smug, as if the wreckage of you is his favorite masterpiece.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs, brushing damp strands of hair off your forehead. “You should see yourself. Ruined and shaking.”

You managed to form words, “I really don’t like you, Toru.” He chuckles, dropping a kiss to your temple. The press of his lips is warm.

 “You know, if anyone got their hands on that tape, they’d see the truth.” 

He reaches over and finally stops the recording. His hand finds your thigh, stroking absent circles.

His tongue flicks over you, just once. Testing. Soft.

Your hips buck, and he moans. A low, needy sound that vibrates through your core.

“Oh—oh my god, Clark—”

“M’sorry,” he mumbles, already dipping back in. “You taste so good—I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

His mouth devours you.

What starts as slow licks—delicate, reverent—quickly turns into something else. He’s starving. His hands grip your thighs tight, but not tight enough to bruise, and his tongue moves with more purpose now, more heat. He groans into you again and again, the vibrations sparking through your stomach, down your spine.

“You’re so good,” he pants, mouth wet and glistening. “So perfect. I’ve never tasted anything like you.”

He’s apologizing through it. “Sorry, baby—I’m trying—I’m trying to go slow but you taste so—fuck—so sweet—I can’t—”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You grind against his mouth because the pressure is too good. You’re trembling, thighs shaking, gasping.

And then—you fall apart. Right there. Your first orgasm on his tongue, and he moans like he’s the one cumming.

He pulls back slowly, eyes wild, lips wet, chest heaving. “I didn’t mean to do it like that,” he says, crawling up your body. “I was supposed to take my time.”

“You did,” you whisper. “That was perfect.”

His forehead rests against yours. His hips press against your thigh—and you feel him. Thick. Hot. Rock hard. Still straining in his jeans.

“Are you ready?” he whispers.

You nod.

He undresses so slowly, so tenderly. His body is carved like a god, but it’s his eyes you can’t stop looking at. The way they burn for you.

When he settles between your thighs, he reaches down, stroking himself a few times before lining up. You brace for pressure, but—

Oh.

He’s slow. So. Slow.

You gasp, fingers curling into the sheets. The stretch is deep. Full. But so, so careful.

He watches your face the whole time.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, eyes watering. “It’s so much. But—I love it. Don’t stop.”

His breath shudders. His arms tremble slightly, like he’s holding back with everything he has.

“You’re so tight, baby,” he groans. “So warm. So perfect. I can’t—fuck, I can’t believe this is real.”

He rocks into you gently. Slow thrusts, sweet and shallow, his hand on your cheek, his lips kissing away every whimper.

But something’s building. In him.

He tries to keep it slow, he does—but your moans, the way your nails claw down his back, the way your hips meet him halfway—it’s breaking him.

“Please,” he begs, forehead pressed against yours. “Please, baby, I—I can’t hold back much longer. You feel so—god, you feel like heaven—”

He whimpers.

Yes. Whimpers.

His pace quickens. Still careful, but faster now, deeper. He holds your hips tight, trying to keep control. But it’s slipping. Every moan that leaves your mouth makes him lose a little more of it.

“I want to make you feel good,” he pants. “You do feel good. You feel like you were made for me. I can’t—please let me give it to you.”

You grab his face, breathless. “Then take me. All of me.”

And that’s it.

He snaps.

His hips slam into you, and you cry out—but it’s bliss. Pure, delicious bliss. He’s pounding now, feral, lips crushed to your throat, groaning into your skin.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “All mine. You hear me? No one else gets this. No one else can.”

You’re gasping his name, body quaking around him, and he thrusts harder, faster, each stroke sending you higher until—

You break again. Shatter. Crying out his name, clutching him as you cum for the second time. And when you do—he loses it.

He presses as deep as he can go, burying himself with a loud, desperate grunt, shaking as he cums inside you. His body trembles over yours, chest heaving, arms trembling, lips pressed to your cheek.

And then—it’s quiet.

Just the sound of your breathing. His heartbeat. Your fingers softly stroking his back.

He whispers your name like a prayer. Kisses your temple. Brushes your hair off your face with shaking hands.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You smile, blissed out, sore, full.

“I’ve never been better.”

He grins—wide, boyish, Clark Kent again. “I was gentle, right?”

You nod, laughing softly. “You were perfect.”

Your thighs wrap around his waist instinctively, and that’s when you feel it.

He’s hard. So hard.

Thick, heavy, massive against your center, still confined behind his jeans, but clearly already pulsing for you. You gasp, a soft, stuttering sound that makes him grin against your jaw.

“You feel that?” he whispers, hot breath against your skin. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day. Could hear your heartbeat from five blocks away.”

“Clark—”

“I wanted to be gentle.” He presses his hips forward, and your head falls back with a soft moan. “I tried to be. But you make it so hard.”

Your back hits the wall again as he grinds up into you, slow and devastating. You can feel the zipper of his jeans teasing against your thin shorts, and it sends sparks straight through your core. His hands travel—down your sides, over your thighs, gripping the underside like he’s claiming every inch. You feel like clay in his palms. Fragile, moldable. And he’s sculpting nothing short of ruin.

He peels your shirt off without effort—one smooth pull, as if the fabric was nothing—and his lips find your collarbone, then lower, and lower. His mouth is hot. Too hot. His powers are slipping. His restraint is unraveling.

“I’ve been holding back,” he murmurs, sucking a mark into the swell of your chest. “You don’t know how much. But tonight…”

His teeth graze your nipple, and you jolt, moaning his name, fingers diving into his thick curls. He hums in approval, swirling his tongue slowly, torturously, until your breathing breaks into pieces.

“Tonight, I need you to take it.”

He carries you to the bedroom without ever breaking contact—hands full of your thighs, mouth devouring your neck. The second your back hits the mattress, he’s standing at the foot of the bed, eyes glowing the faintest red, watching you like prey.

Then, he peels his jeans down.

Good God.

He’s thick. Long. Veins running up the shaft like a promise, tip already slick and flushed dark. You clench around nothing, thighs pressing together in desperate anticipation. His smirk deepens when he sees it.

“You gonna be good for me?” he asks, slowly stroking himself. His hand looks almost too small wrapped around that size. He pumps once, twice, eyes never leaving yours.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I’ll be so good.”

He’s over you in a flash—faster than your breath can catch. He pulls your legs apart and buries himself between them, tongue flicking over your inner thigh, teasing the edges of your soaked panties with his nose.

“So wet already,” he murmurs. “All for me?”

You nod, breathless, fingers tangling in the sheets.

He laughs—low and dark—and slides your panties to the side, exposing you to the cool air.

His tongue is devastating. Deep, slow licks that have your back arching and hands flying to grip his hair. He groans against you like you taste better than oxygen, like your pleasure is all he craves.

“Clark, I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he growls, mouth glistening, voice almost feral. “You will.”

Two thick fingers slide into you, and the stretch is unreal. You’re already so full, and it’s not even all of him. He works you open slowly, lovingly, but with that same simmering urgency.

“Ready?” he asks, settling between your legs.

You barely manage a nod.

When he pushes in, it’s slow. Excruciating. A stretch you feel in your soul. Inch by inch, he fills you, and by the time he’s all the way in, you’re breathless, clutching at his shoulders like you’ll fly apart otherwise.

“You’re so deep,” you gasp.

He bites his lip, sweat glistening on his forehead. “You’re so tight.”

He starts to move.

Deep, punishing strokes that make your vision blur. Your hands claw down his back, and he groans, hips slamming into yours harder. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs and fills it with his name.

The bed creaks beneath his force. The headboard taps the wall. And still, he doesn’t stop.

“Say my name,” he pants, lips brushing your ear.

“Clark,” you sob, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. “Clark—don’t stop—”

“Good girl.”

The words are a growl in your ear as he slams in deeper, faster, grinding against your sweet spot like he was built to ruin you.

Which, let’s be honest… he was.

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. You scream his name, body trembling as you clamp around him. He groans—loud, primal—and keeps going, chasing his own release like a man possessed.

He spills into you with a broken gasp, head buried in your neck, holding you like you’re his whole world. His body shudders with the aftershocks, and he stays inside you, not pulling out, not letting go.

Minutes pass before he finally looks up, brushing the hair from your face.

“I broke the headboard,” he whispers with a sheepish smile.

You laugh—shaky and ruined. “You’re buying a new one.”

He laughs. “You okay?” he asks, voice soft again, gentle.

You nod, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Never better.”