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rottenerror · 19 hours ago

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Well Fuck Me -CK

Synposis: You gave Clark Kent one boundary. One. And he broke it. Don’t fucking respond to Lois Lane. The betrayal sends you into a whirlwind of rage and heartbreak, storming out and cutting contact for 24 hours. But space means nothing when your boyfriend is Superman, and when he comes to find you, he’s determined to make it up to you the only way he knows how—by dragging you back into his arms and proving, over and over again, that you’re his. Even if he has to fuck the rage out of you to do it.

cw: Intense emotional argument. Profanity. Depictions of anger & yelling. Mild physical violence (kicking, hitting—non-injurious). Power dynamics (Superman vs. human strength). Sex while still angry (consensual). Dom/sub undertones, rough sex, choking (light, consensual), creampie, oral (f receiving). Angst with eventual comfort. Heavy on the angry sex.

You couldn’t remember ever feeling this angry in your life.

There wasn’t even a word for it—this wasn’t “mad” or “pissed” or even “livid.” This was a seething, boiling rage that had you shaking as you stormed out of the apartment last night, keys clenched so tight in your fist they left little crescent-shaped cuts in your palm. And it was his fault. Clark fucking Kent.

You’d set one—one—clear boundary: “If Lois texts you, you don’t answer. Not under any fucking circumstance.” It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t unreasonable. And what did you catch him doing? Texting her. Behind your back.

You’d looked over his shoulder while he stood at the kitchen counter, phone in hand, and saw her name lighting up the screen like a warning shot. You’d watched his thumbs fly over the keyboard, casual as anything, and in that moment, it felt like the floor dropped out from under you.

You’d snatched the phone right out of his hands before he even knew you were there. And sure enough. There it was. A whole thread of messages.

Lois: You’ll always pick up when I need you, right, Smallville?

Clark: You know I’ll never ignore you. What’s going on?

That one had been enough to make your blood go cold. “You fucking coward,” you hissed, the words trembling from your lips as you threw his phone back at his chest. It hit him square in the middle of his broad torso with a dull thunk. “You couldn’t even tell her to leave you alone. You just had to respond, didn’t you?”

“Listen to me—”

“No!” Your hands curled into fists. “You don’t get to explain. You don’t get to make excuses. You crossed the one boundary I asked for. The one.”

His jaw tightened. “It wasn’t like that. She needed—”

“I don’t care what she needed!” you screamed. “What about what I needed? Huh? Did you even fucking consider that for a second before your goddamn Boy Scout complex kicked in?”

The argument only got worse from there. Shouting. Tears. Him standing there with that impossible calm, letting you burn yourself out because he knew if he pushed too hard, you’d explode.

And you did. You stormed out. You didn’t go home. Didn’t answer his texts. You stopped sleeping at the apartment. You didn’t even show up at the Planet because you knew he’d be there

It had been 24 hours.

You’d avoided him as best you could, which was laughable really, because if he really wanted to find you, he could. There wasn’t a place on the face of the earth Clark Kent couldn’t track you to.

Which made it worse. He was giving you space.

That thought alone pissed you off all over again as you stormed down a narrow Metropolis alleyway, boots clicking on the wet pavement.

You didn’t want his space. You didn’t want his pity.

You wanted him to suffer.

So when you heard the faint rustle of air behind you, felt the slight shift in pressure, your jaw tightened.

“Go the fuck away, Kent.”

There was silence. And then a low chuckle. “I gave you your space. A whole day, sweetheart,” he said softly, like he wasn’t five seconds away from getting your nails down his face. “Now it’s my turn.”

You spun on your heel. “Fuck you.”

“You’ve been doing that in your head since last night.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“—but I’d rather you do it in my bed.”

“CLARK!” you shrieked. You lunged at him, fists swinging. He caught your wrists like they were nothing, pulling you close, his arms like iron bands around you.

“Let go of me! I said I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to hear your excuses—I don’t want—”

“I wasn’t texting her back because I wanted to,” he interrupted, voice firm now. The softness was gone. The Superman steel crept in. “I did it because she said it was about work. A source.”

“I don’t care—”

“You do care,” he murmured, pulling you tight enough to feel every hard inch of him against your body. “You care so much it’s killing you. I shouldn’t have answered. I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop talking to me!” But your voice cracked. You kneed him in the crotch and ran out of his grip.

One second you were angrily running down cracked concrete, and the next you were weightless. A hard arm cinched tight around your waist. The wind howled in your ears as you shot up into the sky, the alley shrinking to a thin line below.

“Clark Kent!”

“You’re mad at me.” His voice was calm. Maddeningly calm. His lips brushed your ear over the roar of the wind. “And you’ve been avoiding me. You’re not safe walking around alone this late.”

“Put me down! Put me the fuck down!”

“No.”

You started hitting him. Your fists smacked against his chest—uselessly. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

“I hate you!” you screamed, struggling in his arms.

“No, you don’t.” His voice was quiet now, but there was steel underneath it. “You’re angry. And you have every right to be. But I’m not letting you walk away from this.”

“Stay away from me! I don’t want to fucking hear it!”

“You’re going to hear it.”

“Or what?” you spat. “You’ll lock me in your Fortress of Solitude until I calm down?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured.

He didn’t take you to the Fortress, though. He took you home.

Your apartment was different. The lights were dim. Candles flickered on every surface. There were roses scattered across the table—red, pink, and white. A home-cooked dinner waited, steam curling up from covered plates.

You gawked. “I made dinner,” he said softly, setting you on your feet. “You haven’t eaten. And I…” He exhaled slowly, tugging his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I know I broke your trust. I’m sorry. I’ll spend every day earning it back if you let me.”

“Clark…”

“Let me take care of you. Please.”

Your shoulders slumped. You were still pissed. You were still vibrating with anger. But God, you were tired too. And you missed him.

The bath was ridiculous. He’d drawn it for you—hot water, bubbles, rose petals, candles. The whole nine yards.

“I’m still mad at you,” you warned as he helped you undress.

“I know.” His lips brushed your shoulder. “You can be mad at me and still let me make it up to you.”

You sank into the tub with a sigh, the heat pulling the fight out of your body inch by inch. Clark crouched behind you, his big hands working the knots from your shoulders.

“You’re such an asshole,” you muttered.

His mouth curved against your skin. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Mm.” He dragged his lips down the column of your throat, his hand sliding lower as he began to massage your breasts. “Clark—fuck—”

“Do you forgive me?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“No,” you hissed, but your hips betrayed you, rocking back against his cock, already hard beneath the water.

Clark’s low laugh ghosted across your ear. “I don’t believe you.” His fingers pinched at your nipple gently, pulling until you gasped, water sloshing around your hips. “Your mouth says no, but your body…” He let his hand drag down your stomach, teasing the skin just above your core. “Your body’s begging me to fuck you.”

“You’re—” Your words broke on a sharp inhale when his fingers found your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles that made your toes curl against the side of the tub. “You’re still an asshole.”

You bit down on your lip hard, trying to hold in the moan threatening to tear out of your throat. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction—not yet.

“You don’t get to—”

“I don’t get to what?” He nipped at the sensitive skin under your jaw, then sucked hard enough to make you whimper. “I don’t get to touch you like this? I don’t get to remind you that no one else knows how to make you come like I do?”

His fingers slid lower, dipping into you with an obscene wet sound. Your head fell back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Still mad?” he whispered, curling two thick fingers inside you, stroking that spot that made your vision white out.

“Yes,” you gasped, your nails digging crescents into his forearm. “Fuck you, Clark—”

“You’ve been saying that for two days now,” he growled, rutting his hips up so the heavy weight of his cock pressed against your ass. “You keep screaming how much you hate me. But sweetheart…” He bit your earlobe sharply, his voice rough. “This pussy’s soaked for me.”

“Shut up.” Your voice was thin, high.

“Make me.”

Your hands flew back, fingers threading into his dark hair as you yanked his mouth to yours. The kiss was violent with all the anger you hadn’t been able to scream out at him yesterday.

“You drive me insane,” you panted when he pulled back, lips shiny and pink from your mouth.

“Good.” He smirked against your skin, hooking an arm under your knees. “Because you’ve been driving me insane too. I can’t sleep knowing you’re mad at me. I can’t eat. I can barely fucking breathe when you’re not in my arms.”

Before you could respond, the world tilted. He lifted you out of the water like you weighed nothing—water cascading off both your bodies and splashing onto the floor—and carried you to the bed.

You didn’t even bother to complain about the mess. You were still dripping wet when he dropped you onto the mattress.

“Clark—”

“Shh.” He knelt between your thighs, his huge palms curling around your knees to spread you open wide. His gaze burned as it dragged over your slick folds. “You’re trembling for me. And you want me to believe you don’t forgive me?”

“Because I don’t—”

That’s when his mouth landed on your pussy.

Your protest turned into a sharp cry, your back arching as his tongue flattened against your clit. He sucked hard, growling low in his throat when your thighs clamped around his head.

“Fuck, Clark, I—”

“You’ll forgive me.” His voice vibrated against you as he licked into your soaked heat, his thumbs digging into your hips to hold you still. “Even if I have to keep you in this bed for days. I’ll fuck the anger out of you.”

“You’re so—” Your words dissolved into a helpless moan when two fingers pushed back inside you, curling in perfect rhythm with his tongue.

By the time he pulled back, your legs were shaking so hard you couldn’t close them.

Clark loomed over you, water droplets still clinging to his hair and chest. His cock was flushed and hard, leaking against his stomach.

“You ready to stop being mad?” he murmured, dragging the tip through your folds.

“Not even close,” you hissed, tilting your hips up in defiance.

“Then I’ll have to try harder.” He pushed into you in one slow, agonizing stroke.

Your body jerked as he angled his hips, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. You bit down on his shoulder hard, half to stifle the sound that ripped out of you, half because you wanted to hurt him.

“Ah—fuck—harder,” you spat, dragging your nails down his back. “If you’re going to fuck me, then fuck me like you mean it, Kent.”

He slammed into you so hard the headboard rattled against the wall. The force knocked the air from your lungs, and you grabbed onto him like a lifeline, legs wrapping tight around his hips.

“This what you want, baby?” he gritted out, pistoning his hips into you with punishing force. “Yes,” you choked, voice cracking as your nails dug crescent moons into his skin. “Yes—fuck—don’t stop—”

“You’re not allowed to hate me,” he growled against your ear, one big hand curling around your throat as his thrusts grew faster, rougher. “Not when you feel like this inside. Not when you keep clenching around me like you need me.”

Your back arched sharply as he squeezed just enough to make your head swim, your orgasm tearing through you without warning.

“Clark—oh my God—”

“That’s it,” he growled, pounding into you harder as you shattered around him, thighs trembling violently. “So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I’m yours—fuck—I hate you so much—”

“You don’t hate me,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering. “You’re gonna let me fill this sweet pussy up, aren’t you? Gonna let me come inside you until you can’t think of anything but how good I feel?”

“Yes—yes, please—”

Clark buried himself to the hilt and came, hips jerking as his warmth spilled deep inside you. He stayed there, locked tight to your body, kissing your neck and murmuring soft apologies between ragged breaths. “You drive me insane,” he whispered.

“Good,” you shot back weakly, though the bite was gone from your voice now.

He grinned against your skin, pressing soft kisses to the angry red marks he’d left. “Still mad?”

“...A little.”

“Then I’ll run the bath again,” he murmured, rolling you onto your side and tucking you against his chest. “We can splash around some more while I keep making it up to you.”

Later, wrapped in a fluffy towel and tucked into his arms, you scowled up at him halfheartedly.

“This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”

“I know,” he said softly, kissing your hair. “But it’s a start.”

You sighed.

“God, I hate how much I love you.”

His lips curved into that Smallville smile that always melted you.

“Lucky for me,” he murmured, “I love you more.”

a/n: someone with the username wellfuckme liked a fic of mine and inspired this title so thank u babe ily

#read later

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rottenerror · 20 hours ago

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˚✧₊⁺˳ His Kryptonite ˳ ₊⁺˳✧

Clark Kent x Wayne!Reader

Where private jets and five star resorts no longer excite the young Heiress, but a certain curly-haired reporter does…

Even at work— no, not the alien kind (although the way his heart was sent racing it may as well have been), Clark Kent wasn’t safe from the littlest Wayne’s…disposition.

You’d somehow talked Perry White into “temporarily consulting” on a Gotham–Metropolis crime syndicate crossover piece…Well, that’s what you had said.

Not that you meant any of it.

You just wanted to be around Clark.  

Bruce had signed off on it— partly because he couldn’t be bothered to argue with you, partly because truly he couldn’t care less about some city newspaper and partly because he ultimately assumed you’d do maybe two interviews (if he was lucky) and then get bored.

Like with everything.

Little did he know you had made fast friends (if you could even call it that) with the bumbling reporter nobody else seemed to notice. The poor stammering man you’d purposely run into many at galas, media events, cafés…Oh. And had figured out he was Superman.

He really was a terrible liar.

And how could you forget?

Because you knew Clark was painfully, hopelessly and irrevocably in love with a woman who had a matching Chanel bag for every overpriced dress in her wardrobe and sulked when she didn’t get her way (which was hardly ever).

Oh, you knew it.

It started the second you walked in on your first day.

All heads turned. Including Clark’s.

He hadn’t even realized he’d dropped his coffee until you were already halfway across the room, a smug grin on your glossy lips as you watched his glasses slip down his nose.

“Hey, Smallville,” you mused, sliding your leather bag onto the desk next to his like you owned the whole floor— you could have. “Miss me?”

Clark swallowed nervously.

He could deal with loving you from afar— barely. But now with you at his job? Seeing you everyday? In such a mundane setting where he could picture himself walking you home every evening, watching you traipse the dreary office like the pure sunlight you were— he was toast.

“I…I uh—I thought you were supposed to start n-next week…”

You leaned in, the sweet smell of your expensive perfume making him swallow thickly.

“Didn’t want to wait.”

He choked on nothing.

Jimmy gave him a look of total despair, silently indicating that yes, hello, the Wayne Heiress was currently in their office, talking to them and here he was making a total fool of himself in front of the very woman Jimmy had caught him looking at— in a overly organised folder of private photos he’d taken of her on more than one occasion.

Oh yeah, he was in deep.

And thus began your reign of chaos.

You flirted relentlessly.

Shamelessly.

Despite the sweet man always buying you your favourite tea— yes, coffee was beneath you, in the words of Alfred, and almost always running late buying you pastries in the morning (he knew you liked to sleep in), you frequently stole half of Clark’s snacks.

And all of his pens.

You scrawled “Property of Wayne” on his notepad during editorial meetings, did silly doodles across the embossed pink post-its you had specially made with your initials on (not that he’d of guessed anyone other than you would have left them all over his desk).

You had even answered his desk phone with, “Farmboy’s not available, he’s too busy being whipped.” That had gone over real well with Lois, who nearly passed out laughing, but not so much Perry who demanded to know exactly why the man in question was not at his desk and instead beneath yours fixing the: “awfully horrible squeaky chair” that meant you couldn’t possibly do any work until it was fixed.

Despite the front you had mastered so well— just like your brother in fact, Clark knew all too well the tenderness that lied beneath.

You weren’t just pretty chaos— well, you were pretty and chaotic, but you were intelligent. Witty. A naturally gifted talker who could get Gotham’s most hardened mob boss to open up in five minutes and offer to donate to your charity in ten.

You made the work better.

You made him better.

Even when you sat on the edge of his desk, like a queen overseeing her kingdom, sipping the overpriced drink he had bought you that afternoon and calling him “Smallville” loud enough for three departments to hear.

—

Wayne Manor was not a place Clark Kent felt at ease.

The chandeliers seemed to mock the sweat beading at his temple as they glittered with crystal, the impossibly high ceilings seemed to cave in on him and the girl who swept into the room in shoes more than his rent and a silken blue dress made him feel like he’d walked into a room made of kryptonite.

You had a champagne flute in one hand, a mischievous glint in your eye and the kind of confidence you couldn't fake— definitely Bruce’s little sister.

“Clarkie,” you chimed, lingering on the syllables like his name was just as delicious as the dimples you’d dreamed of traced your manicured nails over. “You’re early! Or is that a Kansas thing?”

Clark, who was already far too warm in his button-down, blinked as though it would cool his flushing cheeks. “H-Hi, apologies I…I didn’t mean to intrude— I like to be on time.”

You tilted your head, grin widening. “Of course you do.”

Despite sharing your most obnoxious traits with your older brother, Clark couldn’t help but muse that deep down you were nothing like Bruce…Not really.

Well, based on what he knew from the numerous articles he’d headed on the mysterious man (not so much anymore though, after he noticed how sad you failed to hide you were when Lois had published a particularly scathing exposé on your brother— not that you held it against her).

You were loud where he was quiet. A burst of light where he brooded. A spoiled rich girl on the surface— undeniably. But Clark had already noticed the security cameras you subtly monitored when you thought no one was looking, the way you subtly paid Lois’ rent when she slipped behind— propositioning the Landlord to act as though they had miscalculated previous payments as not to make her feel like a burden. The protective way you spoke about Alfred, and how you’d once, very casually, hacked into LexCorp’s servers while doing your nails.

And how you kept his secret.

“Didn’t know they made ties in Farmboy beige,” you said sweetly, eyes running over him as he averted his own and tried not to tug at his collar. “I-It’s khaki.”

Ah. A colour you had flippantly said he’d look cute in…Cute.

You giggled.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He was flustered.

In fact, he was always flustered around you. He was whipped. Lois had said so. Jimmy had said so— Perry had definitely said so.

Even you— albeit, mainly just to tease him further, knowing he was too shy to ever do anything about it.

He couldn’t help it.

You teased him relentlessly, but you also brought him care packages of homemade cookies (“I made Alfred bake them, but it’s the thought that counts”), texted him memes at ungodly hours and once stood between him and some kryptonite with zero powers and a stubborn glare.

Then again, how could he expect someone like you to ever love someone like him? Sure, you were friends…Maybe. But he wanted— needed more. He was just too dense to realise your jests were rooted in truth and that you weren’t really just a flirt— quite the opposite actually.

You just flirted with him.

The thing about being invincible, Clark had learned, was that your heart didn’t quite get the memo.

—

You knew what you were doing— especially that night. It was the whole reason you had invited him. So he could see the dress— you, in that dress.

Galas were not his scene, but you were.

Every time Clark Kent stumbled over his words, every time he looked away when you wore those pretty puff-sleeved blouses you knew he liked, you tucked it away like one of your brother’s weird gadgets…Or whatever the hell he was up to in the basement.

Teasing Clark was more fun than jetting across Europe just to shop AND spa weekends combined. You liked that he never tried to play the game back— Bruce’s friends were all masks and secrets. Chauvinist narcissists who made you grimace when their lustful eyes raked over yours.

Clark? Clark was genuine. Kind. Devastatingly sweet. Clark was entirely weak for you, and you would never admit it, but you were weaker.

And you were going to tell him.

—

“You look like you just stepped out of a comic book,” You had said one evening, flippantly, catching him just after patrol— Well. Less so catch, more so you had let yourself into his apartment and draped yourself across his cushions as— in your words— the view from his window was perfect for your movie nights.

(Even though you could buy any apartment with any window in the whole of Metropolis).

“Clarkie, do you try to be that heroic? Or does it come naturally?”

He flushed, rubbing the back of his neck and trying not to look at your bare legs hanging over coffee table. “I-I just try to help people.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was soft this time. “God, you're such a Boy Scout.”

“I-Is that… bad?”

You felt emboldened that night, stepping closer, running one perfectly manicured finger down the edge of the ‘S’ on his chest. “Only if you start lecturing me about responsibility.”

He chuckled then, low and warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And looked at you. Really looked. Not with his glasses askew, not flustered.

Not shy.

Just... looking.

It stopped your breath. You knew he could hear it.

“I like who you are,” he said gently. “Teasing and all.”

You faltered for a second, any humour lacing your words (despite them holding more truth than he’d ever know) replaced by something real.

Then it came back with a vengeance. Old habits die hard, or so they say.

“You’re totally in love with me.”

Clark, now definitely flustered again, stammered. “I—I what?” You raised a plucked brow. “I—well, I mean—”

You laughed, then. Victorious, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He was bright red. Glowing, even.

“You’re too easy, Smallville,” You whispered, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your own cheeks had darkened.

And he was.

And honestly? He didn’t mind one bit.

—

Gala night.

Exactly a week after you had decided you were totally in love with Clark Kent after that night in his apartment.

A foolproof plan seven days in the making: look hot, corner Clark, make him yours— he already was.

Tonight he was supposed to meet Bruce for an “exclusive interview” you had bagged him after the party, but of course, he had showed up innocently eager.

Perfect.

You had flounced in donning the dress you had perfectly gotten tailored and designed specifically to match the colour of Superman’s costume, curling yourself around his arm like a glittering storm.

It was now or never.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just to see me?” You said smugly. “You like me too much, it’s a little pathetic, Smallville.” You tugged on his tie, tilting your head up to watch his face—

“I do,” he said simply.

You blinked.

Clark smiled, heart hammering like a freight train. “I do like you too much. More than like, actually.”

Your smile wavered. For a moment— just a moment. He had beaten you to it.

Lovesick fool.

Your smile became wicked, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt as you yanked him into one of the many empty rooms inside the manor.

“You think you’re bold now Superman? Hmmm?” He was trembling. “Kiss me then.”

And that he did.

—

And so Clark Kent became yours— officially. He had been so since the day he had met you, if he was being truthful (which he annoyingly always was).

You still left sticky notes on his laptop, but now with doodled hearts and ‘Don’t forget to eat, dork’ instead of inappropriate drawings.

You’d look over at him, bored, during long meetings and give him a wink, even though you totally could have quit months ago— or hell, gotten your brother to buy the entire company.

But you knew Clark loved his job, and you loved him too much to take it from him— that one normalcy.

You’d pull him by the tie into the print room when no one was looking, kissing him like you’d waited all day.

But you never once asked him to be anyone other than Clark.

You didn’t care about Superman. About the press, about your last name…

You just wanted him.

And that, more than anything, was why he didn’t mind when you “accidentally” stole his pen. All of them, actually. Again.

—

Clark was typing.

Focused.

In the zone.

“Smallville?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You were leaning over his chair, your fresh blowout curls brushing against his shoulders, voice a low whisper right against his ear.

“What if I told you I was wearing your shirt under this blazer?”

All you heard was a strangled splutter.

You straightened with a knowing grin directed at Lois and walked off like nothing happened.

Less than five seconds later, he knocked his coffee over.

Jimmy, from across the room, poked his head over his own monitor. “Jesus Clark, you okay? You’re worse than usual this morning.”

“I-I’m fine!” Clark muttered, red-faced.

He was not.

#read later

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