bohemian-nights

[bohemian-nights]

THE INVITATION (2022) dir. Jessica M. Thompson

[bohemian-nights]

bury the lede

pairing: clark kent x journalist!reader summary: clark kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. he is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man you know. so when your hard-won article gets pulled without explanation, the softest man in metropolis is suddenly ready to raise quiet, righteous hell. because when something’s wrong, he never lets it slide—especially when it comes to you. word count: 5.7k warnings: 18+ mdni, coworkers/friends to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), semi-public sex (office), hair pulling! (m!receiving), wall sex, mutual pining, so much yearning, light angst, happy ending, clark losing it over an injustice, them christening every corner of the daily planet, this man lives to go down on u idc idc

In the twelve months you’ve known Clark Kent, you’ve counted exactly zero swear words.

Not one.

Not when the printer jammed five minutes before deadline. Not when a senator’s aide ‘accidentally’ dumped her $14 latte over his notes. Not even when a rat the size of a chihuahua moved into the break room and stared him down like it paid rent.  

Three hundred and ninety-something days. Zero expletives. You’ve been tracking it like a long-term assignment.

The working headline? The Unshakable Composure of Clark Kent.

It started as a joke. A mental note. A private running tally for your own amusement.

But over time, it became something else.

A quiet, obsessive little profile you couldn’t stop writing in your head:

Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Height: 6’4” (estimated; difficult to confirm without stepping too close and risking spontaneous heart failure). Known aliases: None. Known vices: Also none. (He drinks decaf. Returns library books early. Buys cookies from every intern’s fundraiser and forgets to take them home.) Notable habits: Misuses emojis in texts. Says ‘good gosh’ and ‘heck’ with a straight face. Holds elevator doors for people that are two hallways down. Apologizes when you step on his foot. Carries backup pens for forgetful coworkers (see also: you) and never complains when they disappear. Stops traffic in the middle of rush hour to rescue pigeons stranded in the rain. (Ok, that was one time, but still. Ridiculous.) Relationship status: Unknown. (Not that you’ve checked. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.)

And through a year’s worth of careful observations—of eleventh-hour rewrites, hostile interview subjects, and downloads crashing at 98%—the man has yet to let so much as a ‘damn’ slip past his lips.

And sure, that used to make sense. It fits the rest of the draft you’ve outlined in your head:

“Clark Kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. His deadlines are always met. His quotes always triple-checked. His emails always signed off with ‘Thanks so much!’ even when they absolutely should not be. He is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man in this building. Possibly on Earth.”

And that, you’ve always thought, makes him predictable. Safe. Easy to write, easy to understand.

But tonight—

Tonight blows the whole story wide open.

Because Clark Kent is ten feet away in the quiet, after-hours bullpen, lit only by desk lamps and the glow of your phone screen—and he is absolutely vibrating with fury.

He’s leaning back against a desk like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the ground. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose, fogged at the edges. His jaw’s locked tight. Arms folded so hard across his chest it’s like he’s physically holding himself back.

And he hasn’t looked at you once since you showed him the memo with shaking fingers:

We regret to inform you that your article has been removed from the upcoming issue.

No edits. No explanation. Just a clean corporate kill order, stamped with that neat, infuriating euphemism: Failure to meet editorial guidelines.

Which, translated from Boardroom Bullshit into plain English, means:

Too real. Too loud. Too close to someone with more money and lawyers than you’ll ever have.

You’re still standing there, ghost-lit by your screen, white-knuckling the phone like maybe, if you squeeze hard enough, you can unsend reality.

But Clark?

Clark is something else entirely.

He’s past fury. Past protest.

Standing still in that way he only gets when something breaks—not out in the world, but inside him.

You’ve seen it before, in fragments.

When a shelter he covered lost its funding days before winter.

When a foster care bill he championed got struck down at the last second.

When your tires were slashed in the Planet garage and he didn’t ask if it was tied to your reporting—just asked which story.

When Clark gets truly upset, he doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t storm around or slam doors.

He goes still.

Brows drawn, jaw tight. And behind all that warm, glasses-wrapped mildness, his eyes turn diamond-sharp.

You’ve seen that look maybe four times in the last year.

Tonight makes five.

And this time, it’s for you.

You glance at him, then back at your phone, like the memo might’ve changed since the last time you read it.

It hasn’t.

The bullpen is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own pulse feel like an alarm. Outside, Metropolis breathes, moving ever forward. But in here, time feels like it’s buffering.

Life still chugging along for the rest of the city while yours has come to a sudden, brutal halt.

Because your article—your article—

The triple-sourced, fact-checked into oblivion, airtight exposé Perry promised would front the Sunday edition—

Pulled.

Not bumped. Not buried on page ten.

Gone.  

And it shouldn’t hurt this much. But it does.

Because it wasn’t just a story. It was a truth someone didn’t want printed. It was weeks of whispered meetings and late-night calls. It was sources you swore to protect and facts you held like lifelines.

It was the kind of piece that reminded you why you started this job in the first place. Why you stayed when it got hard. Why you cared so deeply when everyone else called it a lost cause.

Now, it’s nothing.

Scraped like gum from the bottom of someone’s shoe.

But what wrecks you—what truly undoes you—isn’t the memo.

It’s him.

Clark Kent. Ten feet away, still as stone, burning quiet and hot like a forge under pressure.

And it’s unbearable. Not because he’s angry, no. Because his anger makes yours feel real. Valid. It’s a spotlight on everything you’ve been trying not to feel.

And the fact that it means this much to Clark—it's excruciating.

When he finally speaks, his voice scrapes low. Gravel and steel.

“This is such complete—”

He stops. Swallows it. You see his throat work through the rest.

You blink. “Were you about to swear?”

His laugh is barely a breath. “No. I was about to flip this place upside down.”

You snort softly. “Well, that’s healthy.”

He looks up at that.  

And something shifts. Subtle. Measurable only if you’ve spent a whole year cataloguing his tells, which—you have.

The set of his shoulders loosens by a fraction. His fists uncurl slightly at the edges. And then his eyes meet yours.

They’re still burning, molten with rage. But beneath it now is something raw and unmistakable. Something worse.

Grief. Fragility.

Recognition.

Not of your name or your work or even this story, but of you.

The kind of knowing that can’t be taught, only earned—through late nights and impossible deadlines, through buried stories and quiet sacrifices. Through witnessing each other bleed for something no one else can see the value in.

He knows you.

Knows the way you double-source everything down to the commas. The way you get when you're deep in a lead—obsessive, hungry, fired up on all ends.

Knows how hard you tried not to care about this one.

And how badly it broke you when you failed.

And whatever he sees in your eyes, red-rimmed and rimlit by your phone, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

He absorbs it like gravity. Holds it, honors it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And it shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

But it lands clean, deep, like the final line of a piece you didn’t know how to end until just now.

Because he means it. Really means it.

Not just for the story—for you. For everything you try to keep buried. For everything you still are, despite your best efforts.

You clear your throat and shove your phone into your bag, as if that’ll erase the memo from existence. 

“Should’ve pitched a fluff piece,” you mutter. “Stuff that matters. ‘Puppies of Metropolis.’ Or, I don’t know. ‘Ten Best Councilmembers Ranked by Forehead Shine.’”

 Clark frowns. “Your story mattered.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. Try for a smirk. Miss. “It’s just a job.”

“No.” His voice sharpens, solidifying. “It’s not just a job.”

And the way he says it—

God, it slices clean through all your practiced apathy. Hits something soft and guarded and quietly breaking.

So you do what you always do when it gets too real:

You deflect.

“What’re you gonna do, Kent? Fly it to another paper?”

It’s a joke. A dumb one. You’re not even sure why you say it, except that sarcasm is easier than crying.

But something flickers in his expression.

His mouth twitches. His spine straightens. His eyes narrow—not in anger now, but in purpose. 

And you’ve seen this look before, too.

In press conferences. In interviews. In war rooms and city council hearings and anywhere something needed to be done.

Decision.

Steel-willed and absolute. Like he’s already ten moves ahead and just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

He pushes off the desk and closes the space between you in two deliberate steps.

“Give me the files.” 

You blink. “What?”

“Your article. Your notes. Sources. Everything. Just—trust me.”

 “Clark, I—”

“I’ll make sure it gets out.”

You stare at him.  

This is the part where you argue. Where you ask how. Where you remind him that corporate kill orders don’t get reversed by sheer force of Midwestern conviction.

But there’s something in his eyes that stops you cold.

Because what’s there isn’t hope—it’s certainty.

Like the truth has already been printed, and he just has to go pick up the copies.

And for the first time in hours, your ribs loosen. Your lungs expand. Air returns like forgiveness.

You nod. “Okay.”

He nods back, steady as anything. “Good.”

You turn—toward your desk, your files, this impossible thing you’re now apparently doing together—but he reaches out. Fingers brushing your wrist with deliberate softness.

“Hey.”

You look back.

And that’s when it hits you again.

That thing.

That not-quite-hidden headline that’s been quietly building in the margins between you for months.

The Look.

The I’d burn down the sky for you look.

The I’d rewrite every rule if it meant you got your byline look.

The this isn’t just friendship and we both know it look.

His eyes are warm. Devastating.

“I know it hurts now,” he says, voice like silk-wrapped iron, “but this is how change starts. With one person refusing to stay quiet.”

It cracks something wide open in you.

You’ve held it together for hours—through the email, through the silence, through the aching injustice of it all—but this? This is the last thread.

And before you can stop yourself—

You kiss him.

Quick. Soft. Barely more than a breath. A quiet, shaking whisper of a thing—full of too many sleepless nights and too many unsent drafts and too many almosts you never let yourself say out loud.

Every moment since that first coffee-stained blouse and fumbled apology.

And then you pull back like you've been burned.

“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

But Clark—

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stammer or reassure.

He just looks at you.

Steady. Intense. Certain.

Eyes gone dark and molten, burning with that same impossible heat.

And then his hand is cupping your cheek, and his mouth is on yours, and the axis of the Earth tilts.

You thought he’d be gentle.

Because he always is.

But this?

This is not gentle.

This is a damn bursting. A planet cracking. A lifetime of restraint boiling over in the space of a heartbeat.

His kiss is all heat and purpose—no backstepping, no second-guessing, none of that fumbling reserve you used to tease him for.

Just immediate, all-consuming want.

And you’re gone. Instantly.

Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, trying to memorize the feel of him before the world finds a way to take it back.

Under your palms, his skin is hot. Not warm, but radiant. Like he’s built from something older and brighter than flesh. Sparks catch where your fingers land, skittering like static.

His glasses tilt, poking into your cheek. You press closer anyway.

And then you hear it—

A low, guttural groan, raw and unrestrained, ripped from deep in his chest.

It destroys you.

Because Clark Kent does not make noises like that.

Not the Clark who holds doors and apologizes to vending machines. Who runs back to the third floor because the printer ate your story again. Who leaves you sticky notes with silly doodles after a rough meeting and texts you safe after every late-night interview.

Not even the Clark who believed in your story when the whole building turned cold.

No, this Clark—the one kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting months to be allowed this close, like you’re the only thing tethering him to Earth—

He’s new. Terrifying. Addictive.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, enough to make him lift his head.

“Clark,” you whisper, breath ragged. “We shouldn’t—”

“I know.” His voice is raw, lips brushing yours. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—I can’t not anymore.”

And then he’s kissing you again.

Harder. Deeper. Less asking, more need.

You chase him. Tilt your chin. Take. Take. Give.

His hands roam everywhere—your waist, your back, your jaw—like something broke loose in him and there’s no putting it back.

When your back hits the desk with a soft thud, you barely feel it. Because he’s there. A wall of heat and strength, all breath and heartbeat and too-broad shoulders. One hand braces your waist, the other cupping the back of your head—like even now he doesn’t know how to be rough with you. Like no matter how desperate this gets, reverence is the instinct he can’t shake.

Your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, popping a button free. He shudders under your touch.

“We’re still at work,” you manage to gasp.

It’s not a protest. Just a fact. A threadbare attempt at logic thrown into the fire.

“I’ll stop,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let go.

Then his mouth finds your neck, searching. When his teeth graze that one spot, your body jolts. He latches on there, slow and sure, kissing and mouthing like he’s studying you. Committing you to memory. When he finally sucks, it’s just enough pressure to leave your bones soft, make your knees buckle.

You bite your lip to hold the sound in, but his name escapes anyway—rough and wanting and far too loud for a quiet newsroom.

And something inside him snaps.

His hands slide to your hips, lifting you—gentle, effortless, like you weigh nothing but mean everything—and suddenly you’re perched on the edge of your desk.

His palm slides along your inner thigh, eyes never leaving yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “If this isn’t what you want, please. Tell me.”   

Your pulse stutters.

He’s wrecked. Trembling. Holding himself together by threads. And still—still—beneath all that, he’s endlessly soft.

This is Clark Kent at his core—steadfast and true.

The same man who brings you tea when your voice is shot. Lets you fix his crooked tie in the elevator. Held your hand the last time your story was gutted and said, ‘I’m proud of you.’

You take his hand.

Guide it beneath your skirt, up your thigh, to where you’re already soaked.

“Does this feel like I want you to stop?”

His breath catches. His fingers twitch—then freeze.

Like he still doesn’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s been holding this want in both hands for months and doesn’t know how to set it free.

But then you lean in, forehead to his.

"Clark."

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and sure.

Your skirt rucks up around your hips. His hands frame your thighs like he’s holding something sacred. When his fingers slide beneath your underwear, it’s slow. Tender. Almost unbearably gentle.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice blown wide open. “You’re…”

His thumb moves through your slick heat, circling over your clit in patterns that are nothing short of devastating.

“...you’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re telling me.” You gasp, already trembling.

He huffs a laugh—shaky, ruined—but it vanishes the second he drops to his knees.

Just like that.

No pretense. No buildup. Just down.

And something in you stutters.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. But he’s already got your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.

And then his mouth—

His mouth—

Fuck the plan. No time to think.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow, greedy, filthy—it knocks the breath clean from your lungs.

Your hips jolt, fingers finding his hair. Your thighs lock instinctively around his head, but he doesn’t flinch. Just keeps holding you open and hums deep in his throat, the vibration lighting you up from the inside out.

His tongue draws slow, maddening circles over your clit. Just light enough to tease. One of your leg twitches, your body bucking under the gentle pressure of his mouth.

And he just smiles. You feel the curve of it against you.

Bastard.  

“Clark—please—”

He glances up, just enough to meet your eyes.

And the sight between your thighs just about flips your stomach inside out.

His hair’s a mess from your hands. Mouth slick. Eyes dark and shining and so damn warm it’s almost too much to bear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, eyes locked onto yours. “Don’t hold back.”

Then he’s gone again.

No hesitation. No showmanship. Just devotion.

His mouth seals over you with devastating precision, tongue steady and unrelenting. Every motion pulls you higher, pressure climbing in sharp, stuttering waves.

You’re shaking. Buckling. One hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled tight in his hair. Every part of you taut, humming.

And Clark—sweet, perfect, fucking Clark—just keeps going.

When he drags the flat of his tongue up your clit, simultaneously slipping two fingers inside, slow and curling just right—your back lifts clean off the table.

“Clark— Jesus, I’m gonna—”

You barely get the words out before you break.

Your whole body locks up. Pleasure slams into you like a wave cresting too high to outrun. You cry out—sharp, wild, unrestrained—coming hard and helpless in his mouth.

And he doesn’t stop. Just keeps kissing you through it, patient and tender, coaxing every aftershock from your trembling frame.

Only when your hips start to flinch, too tender to bear more, does he pull back.

Careful, reluctant. Like he’d stay there forever, if you let him.

And when he rises, he looks—

Destroyed.

Beautifully, sinfully destroyed.

Gloriously flushed, chest heaving, lips shining with everything you had to give him.

And god help you, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

He kisses you then. Slow and deep. Like he needs to taste every part of what had just passed.

Your hands fumble for his belt—still burning, still aching—but he catches your wrist. Gentle, steady.

Still the same Clark underneath it all.

“Not here,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Not like this.”

You blink, dazed. Floating somewhere just outside yourself.

“Why not?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, warm and boyish. Tender in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because when I finally have you,” he says softly, “I want to take my time. I want to see you.”

And the way he says it—like it’s something sacred, like you’re something sacred—knocks the breath from your lungs.

“…okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Uhm, your place or mine?”

He grins. That crooked, ruined, stupidly perfect grin that makes your knees wobble again.

“Yours. You’ve got better snacks.”

You laugh—really laugh—and something cracks open between you. Something warm and deep and safe.  

He kisses you once more, gentle and lingering, before helping you off the desk. His hands stay firm at your waist until he’s sure you won’t topple.

The newsroom around you is hushed. Lamps dimmed. The soft buzz of the city humming through the windows, distant and irrelevant. For once, the world outside isn’t clawing for your attention.

You smooth your skirt, catching your reflection in the dark window—swollen lips, wild hair, flushed cheeks—and something curls sweet and slow in your stomach.

When you turn back, Clark’s looking at you like you’ve just rewritten his world.

“You okay?” he asks, soft.

You nod, exhaling slow. “Yeah, it's just… kind of unexpected.”

He lifts an eyebrow, teasing. But there’s something nervous in it too.

“Unexpected... bad?”   

You snort softly, breath still uneven, heart fluttering in disbelief.

Searching for footing in a story you once thought you understood.

“No, just—”

But you pause. Because now there’s room to really look at him.

The glow behind his eyes. The soft flush on his cheeks. The open, vulnerable way he’s watching you—like he’s terrified to move in case the moment vanishes.

Like he knows every jagged, weary part you’ve tried to hide, and wants you more because of them.

His hands twitch at his sides. Waiting.

Your chest goes soft.

“No,” you say quietly, eyes locked on his. “Unexpected perfect.”

Clark’s lashes flutter. And then—

He smiles.

Not the polite, mayor’s-office smile. Not the Sunday-church one either.

No. This one is his.

Crooked. Bright. Disarming in its sincerity. The kind of smile that plants morning light deep in your ribs. Making soft gold bloom from the inside out.

And when he leans in again—slower this time, as if memorizing the way you breathe when it’s just the two of you—

You meet him halfway.

Three days later, your article is everywhere.

Not buried. Not trimmed. Not sanded down to fit corporate comfort zones.

Published. In full. On the front page of a different paper entirely, circulated across Metropolis before most of your newsroom have had their first cup of burnt breakroom coffee.

The byline? Yours.

The exposé—your exposé—is splashed across every feed, pinging inboxes faster than the spin doctors can catch it. Reporters are quoting it, politicians are dodging it, and suddenly, you’re the name in the room. The one who broke it wide open.

When you walk into the bullpen, the room goes still for a moment. Then comes a ripple of applause, a couple cheers. A low whistle that has to be Jimmy.

Even Perry White, who doesn’t do applause—who curses, barks, and points at clocks like they owe him money—walks past, claps a hand on your shoulder, and grunts:

“Hell of a story, kid.”

You nod. Swallow. Try to look like your knees aren’t full of helium.

You don’t ask how it happened. You don’t have to.

Because across the room, at his desk, typing away like it’s just another Friday, is Clark Kent.

He doesn’t look up at first. Doesn’t need to.

But when he does—when his eyes find yours—he gives you that look.

That quiet, unshakable thing he carries in his gaze when he’s sure of something.

It hits you dead center.

You mouth: Thank you.

He pushes his glasses up, mouths back: Anytime.

And when you move past him—headed for the coffee pot, trying very hard to look normal—he reaches out without looking, fingers grazing the back of your hand.

Light. Deliberate. Like a secret traded in plain sight.

You stop. Turn.

Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Something coils tight and electric in your stomach.

You lean down, all slow and casual, like you’re just checking his screen—then murmur, lips barely brushing the edge of his ear:

“Stairwell. Five minutes.”

Clark drops his pen.

You smirk.

His back slams into cold concrete before the door even clicks shut.

You shove him hard—no grace, no patience, just raw, pent-up need— and he barely grunts before you’re on him, kissing like it’s a fight, like you’re trying to crawl under his skin and disappear.

It’s more violence than a kiss—teeth dragging, lips bruising, nails digging. Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer, and his groan rumbles through both of you, hips pressed flush to yours.  

“What is—fuck—what is wrong with you?” You gasp against his jaw, kissing him between words. “Whose balls did you have to bust to—get that—” Another kiss. Frustrated. Shaky. “You said it’d take longer. You can’t just—drop this on me—”

He’s laughing now, happy and breathless, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I cashed in a favor,” he murmurs, not even trying to sound sorry. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“For fuck’s sake, Kent—”

You yank back just far enough to glare at him.

His hair’s a mess. Glasses askew. Your lip balm smudged on his mouth.

He looks completely undone. Glowing with it.    

Lit from within by that maddening, quietly heroic light he wears whenever he does something outrageous and pretends it’s ordinary.

Something behind your ribs gives way.

Your throat tightens. Your nose prickles. Emotion catches you off-guard and rises sharp behind your eyes.

You blink hard, trying to look away.

But he sees it.

He always sees it. 

His hands come up, cupping your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye before the feeling has a chance to fall.

“You did all the work,” he says, voice rough with truth. “I just helped the story get where it needed to go.”

You blink back at him.

This man.

This infuriating, ridiculous, unshakably good man who has never once doubted your voice. Who saw your fury and didn’t turn away. Who held your anger like it was something holy and refused to let the world bury it. Placed all his stubborn kindness, all that relentless quiet conviction, in you.

Like the truth was always going to find the light—he’d just hold the sky steady until morning came.

You want to say something. Anything.

But your voice is gone, twisted up in your chest with everything else you can’t name.

So you do the only thing you can.

You grab his collar and kiss him.

Desperate. Grateful. Furious. In love.

He groans into your mouth, hands sliding low to anchor you, pulling you tight against him. Your back hits the opposite wall, and you barely register it before his hands find the backs of your thighs and lift.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively as he presses against you, body slotting perfectly to yours. You fumble for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency—and when your hand slips past the waistband of his briefs—

Jesus.

He’s already hard. Hot. Thick. Practically pulsing in your palm.

He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him—slow and firm, with a teasing twist at the top.

He’s stunning like this—glasses slipping, flushed from neck to fingertips, biting his lip so hard to keep quiet. Which, frankly, only makes you want to ruin him more.

“Fuck, please—"

“Language, Smallville.” You grin.

He laughs—just barely—but it turns into a moan when you squeeze.

“Unfair,” he whispers, forehead thudding against your shoulder. “You’re being so unfair.”

“You broke embargo,” you murmur, kissing his jaw. “I’m just collecting interest.”

Then, you fist his hair and give a sharp tug. He moans loud enough for it to echo to the ground level.

“Clark! You can’t—”

“Sorry, sorry!”

Three days ago, you didn’t know what Clark Kent sounded like when he’s desperate.

Now, it lives under your skin.

You used to think he’d be quiet in bed. Gentle. Restrained.

He’s not.

He moans. He begs. He loses himself in you.

And he swears too, colorfully so. Under his breath, against your skin, sometimes loud enough to rattle the walls.

And as you dig your fingers into that thick, impossibly soft hair and give another deliberate pull—he shudders. His hips jerks forward, cock leaking in your hand as his mouth falls open around your name.

"Still works," you whisper. "Thought maybe the effect would wear off."

He huffs out a ragged laugh, eyes hungry as they flick up to yours.

“Not a chance. And it’s really not fair how well you know me already.”

“Three days,” you murmur, lips brushing his. “Eleven orgasms. I’ve had time to study.”

“Twelve,” he rasps. “You forgot the shower this morning.”

You groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. “Oh god, the shower.”

“I like you wet,” he murmurs, free hand gliding up your thigh. “You make the best sounds when I’ve got you up against tile.”

“Clark,” you gasp, laughing. “We’re not in a shower right now.”

“No,” he grins, shifting you up higher. “We’re not.”

His fingers pull your underwear aside, and he groans.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Still soaking.”

You gasp as he slides in two fingers—slow, familiar, devastating. He knows your rhythm already. Circles first, just enough pressure. Then deep strokes, curling upward.

You tremble in his grip, clinging to his shoulders.

He watches your face the whole time—eyes dark, mouth parted, like your pleasure feeds him.

You pull at his hair again, impatient, and he grunts.

"Condom?" you gasp, breath hitching as your orgasm flirts with the edge.

"Pocket," he pants, "But you’ll have to let go.”

You whimper and release him just long enough for him to fumble it on one-handed.

And then—

He’s inside you.

The stretch immediately steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not new. Not anymore.

But it knocks the wind out of you, every time.

He moves slow, sinking deep, jaw clenched tight with restraint. And when he bottoms out, hips flush, he exhales into your shoulder like it’s the only breath he’s needed all day.

“Every time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You feel unreal.”

You clutch at his back, hips rolling.

“Move,” you plead. “Please, Clark—move—”

He does. A slow pull. A hard thrust.

Again. And again.

The rhythm builds fast—skin slapping, gasps mixing with half-broken moans, your name like a prayer on his lips. His hand braces behind your back. The other grips your thigh, grounding you as your body stutters and trembles.

And then—you feel it.

The edge. That rising, pulsing ache about to break you open.

“There,” you choke, eyes flying open. “Right there, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he pants, unraveling. “I’ve got you—just like that—please, keep pulling—fuck—”

So you do.

You yank his hair again, and it’s enough.

You shatter around him. Your whole body tightens, clenches, falls apart. Unrelenting pleasure floods through you as you cry out, gasping, body convulsing as you cling to him.

Clark follows with a groan, hips stuttering as he spills into you, forehead buried in your shoulder.

The world holds its breath.

Only the sound of panting. Heartbeats slowing. Limbs trembling.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

You cradle his head, fingers stroking his hair, and after a long, slow moment, you whisper:

“…we should head back.”

He nods, reluctant, and eases you down onto unsteady legs. One hand on your hip, the other steady at your elbow.

You don’t need a mirror to know that you’re a wreck.

Hair ruined. Lip balm long gone. Thighs sticky and trembling.  

You adjust your underwear and fix your skirt, trying to gather yourself into something vaguely resembling human. Trying to find the composure you lost the moment Clark looked at you from across the bullpen this morning.

And Clark—well, Clark doesn’t even try.

His shirt’s wrinkled, belt undone, hair a disaster. Glasses missing.

He just looks back at you with that smug, slow grin on his face like he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

You meet his eyes, brows raised. “Think we were subtle?”

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head, beaming.

You smack his chest. “Clark, we’re gonna get fired.”

“I’ll write a defense,” he says, tucking himself away. “‘A Case for Stairwell Trysts: Breaking the Taboo of Workplace Romance.’”

You choke on a laugh. “Catchy. Real Pulitzer-worthy.”

He grins, pretending to type on invisible keys.

“In these uncertain times, can love not be found between the third and fourth floors?”

“Oh my god.”

“Sources confirm the encounter was loud, reckless, and deeply necessary,”

“Clark.”

“Eyewitness has declined to comment but was visibly traumatized.”

“Eyewitness?”

“Ferguson. The rat, remember? Hope he’s still crawling around the vents somewhere.”

You’re still laughing when you reach for the stairwell door, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.  

When you turn, the joke’s still in his eyes—but something else has surfaced.

Vulnerability, soft and quiet, flickers to the surface.

“Okay,” he starts. “What if… instead of writing that article…”

He clears his throat, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “I pitched a different one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

His smile tilts—shy and hopeful.

“Yeah, forget the op-ed. How about: ‘Local Man Caught Stammering Around Brilliant Coworker, Attempts Recovery By Asking Her Out For Dinner Instead.’”

You blink, heart catching in your throat.

And suddenly—this is scarier than anything that came before.

You search his face. The smudge of gloss on his jaw. The curve of his lips.

That quiet, unshakable look in his eyes.  

You swallow.

“What’s the angle?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Human interest.”

You bite your lip, smile threatening. “And your sources?”

“Reliable,” he says, nodding seriously. “She even let me stay over. Twice. Her kitchen may never recover.”

You hum. “Sounds like she’s into you.”

“Yeah,” he steps closer, smiling shyly. “I’m starting to think so too.”

You let the silence bloom between you—warm, delicate, just a little terrifying.

Then, without thinking, you press up on your toes and kiss him.

He leans down to meet you halfway.

This kiss is different. No urgency. No heat. Just a quiet kind of knowing. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they belong there.

You rest your forehead to his, breathing slow.

“Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her seven o’clock.”

His smile blooms slow and bright—a sunrise you get to keep.

“Done.”

epilogue

Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Boyfriend. Love of your life. Height: 6’4” (confirmed; measured via very scientific method involving back kisses and the doorframe in your apartment). Known aliases: Smallville. Pretty boy. Baby. Honey. Lover. Oh, and—Superman. (Yes, that one. You’re still not over it. You probably never will be.) Known vices: Hair pulling. You saying his name, any tone, any time. You, in his glasses and nothing else. Praise—saying it, hearing it, saying it again. And anything that lands him on his knees with his nose buried between your thighs. Notable habits: Still hopeless with emojis. Still says 'good gosh' and 'heck' unironically—only now it’s the morning after he’s had your legs over his shoulders for an hour and made you cry on his tongue. Still buys cookies from every intern, but remembers to bring them home now. Saves the peanut butter ones for you. Leaves notes with hearts and your name doodled all over like he’s twelve and in love. (He is.) Still drops everything he's doing to rescue tiny lives. (You'd asked him about the pigeon once. He'd just shrugged and told you 'he looked scared.') Relationship status: Taken. By you. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly. On every flat surface in your apartment. And his. And yes—occasionally, on questionable ones at work. (Sorry, Jimmy.)

[bohemian-nights]

third time's the charm

pairing: johnny storm x reader

summary: johnny is a great husband, and an even better father to your two beautiful girls. but who said he was stopping there?

wc: 4.1k

warnings: 18+ mdni, shameless smut, porn with (minimal) plot, established relationship, domestic bliss, flirting, banter, tooth-rotting parental fluff, johnny is the best dad in the world, bratty!dom!johnny, sub!reader, dirty talk, cunnilingus, squirting contest let's see who can squirt the farthest, unprotected sex, p in v, heavy temperature play because OBVIOUSLY, body worship, creampie, lactation kink, heavy breeding kink if that wasn't exceedingly obvious, sorry guys i'm a FREAK!johnny truther, actually reader and johnny are both freaked tf out

The girls were supposed to be asleep an hour ago.

Supposed to be.

But the minute H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled into the living room with that low, cheery two-note beep, both of them had already abandoned their blanket fort on the couch and scrambled to the window.

Little palms pressed to the glass, warm breath fogging it up, they were shoulder to shoulder in their matching footie pajamas, squealing every time a streak of orange flickered between the skyline.

He was late tonight.

Too late for them, really—the youngest had been rubbing her eyes for the past half hour, head lolling on her sister’s shoulder in those in-between moments before the next flare lit up the clouds. But they refused to budge.

You’d tried. Told them Daddy would be home soon, and that they’d see him in the morning, and that bedtime wasn’t something you could just negotiate with the way he did. But they’re his girls. His stubborn little co-conspirators.

So you let them win.

Just this once.

You were still in the kitchen when the first low whump of displaced air rattled the hanging light fixtures. A quick, warm gust rolled in through the half-open balcony door, carrying the faintest edge of smoke and something sharper—the usual ozone. The beeps from H.E.R.B.I.E. quickened in pitch, his squat frame swiveling toward the glass doors just before the shape of him appeared.

Johnny Storm. Human torch, father of the year, and currently floating half a foot above the balcony railing like it was all for show—which, let’s be real, it definitely was.

Your girls screamed. A full-bodied, delighted sound that cracked into giggles before it even finished. You couldn’t even cross the room in time before they’d already barreled out barefoot into his arms.

He caught them both in one effortless sweep, one on each arm, spinning slow and dramatic until they squealed again. “What’s this? My fan club’s still awake? Don’t tell me you stayed up just for me.”

The oldest nodded so hard you could hear her hair beads click together. “We waited! We saw you in the sky!”

“Yeah?” He kissed her cheek, then the youngest’s, alternating back and forth until they were both squirming and shrieking. “Guess that means I’ve got the best little spotters in the city. My own personal tower control. You ladies approve my landing?”

H.E.R.B.I.E. beeped low from the doorway, almost like he was trying to confirm it. Johnny just shot him a smirk over their heads.

“See? Even the little tin can agrees. Best. Ground crew. Ever.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed but smiling so wide it almost hurt. This—the ridiculous warmth of it, the way he fit so perfectly into this role you’d both stumbled into—it never got old.

He stepped inside with them, shoes still faintly dusty with… whatever. The shag rug muted the sound of his steps as he padded toward you, his warmth brushing over your skin before he even got close. The girls clung to him like little koalas, and he didn’t seem to mind one bit.

“Long day?”

“Too long. Missed my girls.”

He softened as he looked at you, and it was the kind of look that always made you feel like the rest of the world was background noise.

The oldest piped up. “We made cookies! But Mommy said the rest are for breakfast.”

He gasped like she’d just told him the best secret in the world. “Breakfast cookies? What kind of high-class, A-list treatment is this?”

“She put sprinkles,” the youngest mumbled against his shoulder, already sounding half-asleep.

“Oh, sprinkles. Dangerous. Might have to get up early for that.” He caught your gaze again, a smirk curling at the edge. “Or maybe we’ll just stay in bed and see if we can talk Mommy into a little room service.”

You rolled your eyes, but heat prickled at your neck.

Johnny shifted the youngest higher against his chest, brushing her curls back from her face. “Someone’s fading.”

“She fought it as long as she could,” you said.

“Chip off the ol’ block.” He kissed the crown of her head, voice low but still threaded with that soft pride you’d never get tired of hearing. “C’mon, let’s get you both tucked in.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. trailed behind as he carried them down the hallway, his beeps gentle now, almost like a lullaby. The warm amber light from the fixtures caught on the rounded wood edges of the walls, casting long shadows that swayed with their movement.

He settled them into their beds, pulling the covers up and smoothing them over with a care that made your chest ache. There was no rush in him now, no spark-show or crowd-pleasing grin. Just Johnny tucking in his girls like it was the most important mission of his life.

“Daddy?” the oldest murmured as he adjusted her blanket.

“Yeah, sunshine?”

“You’re gonna be here in the morning, right?”

That did it. That little crack in her voice, the worry she didn’t quite understand yet.

He leaned down, pressing a long kiss to her forehead. “Right here. Whole day. Promise.”

She smiled, eyes slipping shut. The youngest was already gone, her tiny hand curled into his shirt until he eased it free.

Back in the living room, the faint hum of H.E.R.B.I.E.’s motors was the only sound for a moment. Johnny stood in the doorway, looking back toward their room like he didn’t quite want to leave yet.

You stepped up behind him, looping your arms around his waist. He was still warm from the flight, that low, steady heat seeping into you like sunlight.

“They love you so much,” you whispered.

He glanced down, his grin smaller now, softer. “Yeah. Think I’m kinda hooked on ‘em, too.” Then he turned in your arms, his hands sliding slow to your hips, that playful gleam reappearing. “Still think we’ve got room for a couple more, y’know.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’ve been home all of fifteen minutes.”

“Exactly.” He bent closer, voice low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “Plenty of time to get started.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. beeped twice, in an almost annoyed tone that you both knew meant get a room.

Johnny tilted his head toward him with that lopsided grin, still holding you close. “Message received, pal.” Then his eyes came back to you—and didn’t leave. “Though, for the record… I was already on my way.”

You barely had time to register the shift before his arms were under you, one scooping behind your back, the other hooking under your thighs. He lifted you like it cost him nothing—like you weighed less than the heat still rolling off him—and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist.

His mouth was on yours before you even left the living room.

Greedy wasn’t the word.

It was hunger.

Molten and unashamed, poured into every kiss. His hands shifted against you, tightening his hold like he couldn’t risk the smallest gap between you. He walked without breaking contact, his lips chasing yours every time you moved to breathe.

You smiled against his mouth. “Coming up on only twenty minutes now.”

“Mmh,” he murmured, not even pretending to pull back, “and you’re already talking too much.”

You laughed, which only made him press harder, his thumb stroking slow along the inside of your thigh as he pushed open the bedroom door with his foot. The hinges gave a little groan, but he didn’t care — just nudged it shut again with his heel in one practiced motion, never breaking the seal of your kiss.

“You missed me that much?” you teased when you finally tilted your head away, lips brushing his jaw instead.

“Missed everything,” he said, voice rougher now, the kind of rasp that made it impossible to tell where the charm ended and the truth began. “Missed your voice, your face, this—” He pressed you tighter against him until the words caught in his throat. “—and yeah, maybe I’m a little greedy about it.”

“A little,” you echoed, grinning.

He set you down on the bed with a care that didn’t match the want in him—easing you back onto the comforter, his hands braced on either side of your hips. For a second, you thought he might slow down. Then his mouth was back on yours with a desperation that wasn’t present before, his knee nudging between your legs like the bed wasn’t even there to stop him from closing the space.

“You have no idea,” he murmured between kisses, “how many times I thought about this today.”

“Oh, I think I do,” you breathed, brushing your fingers through his hair.

He pulled back just far enough to give you that smirk, the one that always came right before trouble. “Careful. I’ve got enough energy left to prove it.”

You arched a brow. “Energy? Or ego?”

“Both,” he shot back instantly, leaning in to catch your bottom lip between his teeth before you could fire back. “And you love it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You’d barely gotten that thought out before Johnny was shifting—sliding lower on the bed with that kind of casual precision that told you this was all pure intent.

“Lie back, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm and smug in a way that melted right into your spine. His hands skimmed your hips like he was memorizing them all over again, thumbs catching under the hem of your shirt. “Gonna make you remember exactly why you put up with me.”

“Pretty sure I already know—”

“Mm. Don’t ruin the reveal,” he interrupted, and then the shirt was gone, tossed somewhere he didn’t even bother to look. His palms were hot, just enough to make goosebumps bloom when he slid them up your ribs, tracing the curves until he hooked his fingers in your waistband. “These too.”

You lifted your hips, and he peeled the rest of you bare like it was his right—because it was.

Then he just… looked. One knee braced on the bed, his head tilted in that slow, appreciative way that made you want to squirm.

“You’re already warm,” he murmured, settling between your thighs. “Could crank it up a little, though. You want that?”

The question was pure tease, but the faint flicker of heat against your skin wasn’t. His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, carrying that faint, impossible glow that only he could manage.

“Johnny—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, grinning like you’d just given him the best answer without saying anything at all. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another, working higher with unhurried deliberation until his breath brushed your center. “Missed the taste of you almost as much as I missed your smart mouth.”

You laughed, but it stuttered when his tongue slid through you—broad, slow, deliberate.

“Mm, there she is,” he hummed against you, his warmth pressing in little pulses that made you gasp. “God, you’re sweet. Think I could live down here.”

“Not complaining,” you managed, breath catching when he did it again—deeper this time, the tip of his tongue curling just right before he pulled back to speak.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not stopping until you’re making the same sounds you make when I’m fuckin’ you.”

Your hands flew to his hair, threading through the soft strands as his mouth returned to you, hungrier now. His thumbs pressed into your hips, holding you steady when you tried to grind up against him. The faint heat from his palms seemed to sink right into your bones, drawing every nerve to the surface.

“Say it,” he murmured without looking up.

“What?”

“That you missed me, too.”

You laughed, breathless. “I missed you.”

“Say it again. Didn’t hear you the first time.”

Liar.

“I missed you.”

His mouth curved into a grin you could feel against you, and then he was gone—just for a second—before his tongue pressed flat against your clit, heat blooming sharp and fast right there. Your hips jerked before you could stop them.

“That too hot?” he teased, but he didn’t ease up.

“No,” you gasped, and it came out so fast he chuckled.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

He kept at it, alternating between that delicious warmth and a cooler sweep of his tongue, keeping you teetering. Every drag was intentional—broad and slow one moment, quick and flicking the next—until your thighs were trembling so hard you could barely keep them open for him.

“Johnny—”

“Mm,” he hummed against you, the sound vibrating straight through your core. “That’s my name, sweetheart. You better keep saying it.”

He tilted his head, sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking—slow at first, like he wanted you to feel every ounce of pressure before he let go. Your hips bucked without permission, but his hands were already locked around your thighs, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back just long enough to smirk up at you, his chin glistening. “Can’t even keep still. You that needy for me?”

“Yes—”

“Say it.” His voice was low, thick with a smug knowingness, before he dove back in, tongue working tight circles around you.

“I’m—fuck—needy for you,” you gasped, your fingers twisting hard in his hair.

“That’s better.” He gave you one long, deep lick from the very bottom of you to the top, savoring it like he was tasting the first bite of something sinful. “You been keeping this all to yourself while I was gone?”

Your laugh came out broken, but he didn’t give you the chance to answer—his mouth covered you again, sucking harder now, his tongue flicking quick over your clit until you couldn’t think.

“Johnny—please—”

“Please what?” he teased, not letting up for a second. “You wanna come on my face? Make a mess for me?”

The way he said it—like it was an order you’d be stupid not to obey—made heat coil tight and fast in your stomach.

“Mm, I can feel you,” he groaned against you, each word spilling hot across your skin. “All twitchy and close. You’re not gonna hold out on me, are you? ‘Cause I’ll keep you here all night, sweetheart. I’ll eat this pretty pussy until you forget your own damn name.”

Your breath hitched hard, your thighs trying to close around his head, but he just pushed them wider.

“Oh, that’s it. Give it to me,” he coaxed, his tongue relentless. Every time you tried to pull back from the intensity, he chased you, holding you right where he wanted you, his mouth sealed to you like he’d die if you pulled him away.

The feeling built too fast, too sharp, your moans spilling over into little gasps as he sucked hard, pulling your clit between his lips and rolling it with his tongue until your entire body locked tight.

“Johnny—oh my god—”

“Yeah, come on, baby. Let me drink you up,” he groaned, and the rasp in his voice tipped you over.

You broke—your cry sharp and wrecked as the orgasm hit, flooding you in waves that made your vision blur. He didn’t just take it. He devoured it, moaning low as he lapped up every drop of your come, his tongue sweeping over you like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck, yes,” he murmured against you, licking slow now, almost reverent, even as he chased the last of it from your skin. “Mine. Every bit of you, mine.”

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was slick and shining, his grin lazy and filthy. He licked his bottom lip slow, like he wanted you to watch him savor it.

“You taste like you missed me.”

You let your head fall back into the pillows, still catching your breath, but you managed a grin that was far too smug for someone whose thighs were still trembling. “Maybe I just taste like that all the time.”

His brows lifted, mouth quirking in that dangerous little half-smile. “Mm. That so?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, pretending nonchalance even as your voice came out shaky. “Guess you’ll just have to keep checking… you know, for consistency.”

“Oh, I’ll check,” he said, voice dropping to a low promise as he pushed himself up over you. “Daily. Hourly. Hell, I might just make it a full-time job.”

You laughed, but it turned into a soft gasp when his hands—burning now, no pretending otherwise—slid up your sides.

“Sweetheart, I’m just getting started.” He kissed you quick and filthy, like he wanted to make sure you could still taste yourself on his lips, before sitting back on his knees. The grin stayed, but his hands were already at his belt, and the speed with which he stripped out of his clothes told you patience wasn’t in the cards.

Jacket, shirt, shoes, pants—every layer hit the floor in seconds. He gave himself a slow pump, eyes locked on you like he was lining up a shot he’d been aiming for all day.

He hooked his hands under your knees, dragging you down the bed until your hips were flush with his. The tip of him pressed fevered against your entrance, and he rolled his hips just enough to coat himself in your slick before pulling back an inch.

“You ready for me?” he asked, faux polite.

“Always.”

That earned you another one of those smirks, the ones that warned you he was about to be trouble. He eased in slow—so slow it felt almost taunting, that thick stretch pushing into you inch by inch, giving you nowhere to go.

“God, you feel—” His words cut off in a groan right against your ear as he bottomed out, pressing deep until his hips were flush to yours. “—fuck, you feel like home.”

You didn’t have time to respond before he set the pace.

Slow only for the first two thrusts, then faster, deeper, each snap of his hips forcing little sounds out of you you couldn’t swallow back.

“Mm, that’s it,” he breathed, bracing one hand beside your head as the other roamed—palm sliding over your ribs, cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until you gasped. “So sensitive for me tonight.”

His mouth followed, dragging down your neck, biting at your collarbone before sealing around your nipple and sucking—hard enough to make your back arch. The heat of him there, wet and greedy, sent a shiver through you even as your skin burned.

“Johnny—”

“Yeah,” he groaned, switching to the other breast, his tongue circling, lips tugging like he was trying to draw something from you. “Been thinking about this for weeks. You gonna give it to me?”

Your breath caught. “You’re insane.”

“I’m starving,” he corrected, his grin hot against your skin before he licked a path back up to your jaw. “And you’re perfect.”

The heat between your thighs was overtaken now by the heat of his whole body, his chest damp against yours, every thrust dragging against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. He covered you—mouth on your lips, your shoulder, your throat, the swell of your breast again, licking and sucking like he couldn’t choose which part of you to worship first.

And through it all, the words kept spilling.

“Feel how deep I am, sweetheart? I could keep you so full all night… give you exactly what you’ve been missing.”

“Mm, confident,” you managed, though your voice broke halfway through.

“Not confident,” he murmured, thrusting harder, sharper. “Certain.”

Your nails dug into his back, heat sizzling under your fingertips, his skin nearly too hot to touch now.

“You’re burning up,” you gasped.

“You love it,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

He leaned in, breath hot in your ear. “You love feeling me melt into you. Makes you wonder what I’ll do when I really let go.”

You swallowed hard, pulse thrumming in your ears, and he chuckled low like he could hear it.

“Mm, thought so.”

But all the confidence in the world couldn’t hide it—Johnny was falling apart.

You could feel it in the way his rhythm faltered, those perfectly measured thrusts stuttering just enough to give him away. The low, easy control in his breathing was gone now, replaced by rougher, sharper grunts that hit your ear every time his hips slammed into yours. The air started to bend around him as his temperature rose, creating something you swore looked like a mirage.

“F—fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a beat before he forced himself upright again. “You feel so damn good—gonna make me—”

He cut himself off with a harsh thrust, the sound that followed somewhere between a growl and a moan.

“Gonna knock you up again, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice breaking on the last word as his hips snapped forward. “Gonna keep you so full you can’t even think about anyone else. You’d look so fucking pretty like that—round for me, heavy with it.”

Your breath hitched, but he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

“Bet the girls would love a few more sisters,” he went on, the heat in his tone almost as scorching as the skin pressed to yours. “Whole damn building full of ‘em. And Franklin—” a breathless laugh slipped out of him, ragged, “—Franklin would lose his mind over more cousins.”

You moaned, the sound spilling against his jaw, and his thrusts got rougher—messier.

“God, you’d be perfect like that,” he kept going, relentless now, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them. “Belly all tight, tits so full I’d have to get a taste every morning. Walking around glowing for me, letting everyone see who did it to you.”

You couldn’t tell if it was the filth of it or the way his body was burning against yours that made your head spin, but he was barely holding on now, every snap of his hips deeper, hotter, his breath coming in short bursts.

“Gonna put it so deep you can’t lose it,” he panted, his hand coming down to press hard against your lower belly again like he wanted to feel the proof. “Right there. My baby. Our baby.”

“Johnny—”

That did it. His thrusts turned desperate, almost frantic, his hips grinding into yours like he could push himself even deeper. The burn of him was almost unbearable now, sweat slicking your skin where you touched.

“Mine,” he gasped, the word breaking as he slammed forward one last time. “Take it—take all of it—”

The first hot, boiling pulse hit you like a brand, making your back arch hard off the bed. The molten heat of it was unlike anything else—thick, spilling deep and unrelenting, flooding you in slow, hard bursts that didn’t stop.

It was so hot you had to muffle your scream into his shoulder, your teeth catching his skin as the burn spread low and heavy inside you.

He groaned through it, the sound long and wrecked, his hips rolling lazily now just to make sure every drop stayed where he’d put it.

“Yeah,” he panted, voice low and frayed, a satisfied grin pulling at his lips. “That’s gonna stick.”

He stayed buried in you, his cock twitching with aftershocks, and you could feel the slow, obscene trickle of come trying to escape—only for him to press his hips tight again to keep it in.

“Mm, no,” he murmured, almost to himself as he leaned down to lazily kiss along your jaw. “Not wasting a damn drop. Gonna keep it right here, let it soak in nice and deep.” His hand slid to your lower belly again, rubbing in slow circles like he was coaxing it to take.

You shivered again.

“You don’t even know,” he went on, voice softer now but no less filthy, “how good you look like this. Can already picture you—hips swaying, all round for me, walking around the kitchen barefoot with the girls hanging off you. My mark on you for everyone to see.”

Your laugh came out broken, and his smirk deepened.

“Mm, yeah. And you’d still try to sass me, even when I’ve got you pregnant and aching.” His tongue slid over your nipple again, sucking slow and greedy, a low groan vibrating through you. “Bet you’d leak for me early. Bet I’d get you warm and full before breakfast, then have dessert straight from the source.”

Your legs tightened instinctively around him, which he noticed immediately.

“Yeah. You like that thought, don’t you?” His teeth grazed your skin before he soothed the mark with his tongue. “More than like it—you need it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression equal parts wrecked and proud.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep trying ‘til I’m sure.”

[bohemian-nights]

There's nothing left for him. His daughter. He wasn't her father, either. She loves him. She'll survive. She's young. I don't want you to die. Don't kill him. Let him live. Let him live. Don't kill him.

Roy Walker/Black Bandit & Alexandria/Bandit's daughter THE FALL│2006

[bohemian-nights]

[bohemian-nights]

❝ papa!clark kent ❞ [2/3]

WARNINGS: mentions of childbirth and pregnancy, maybe slight insecurity, slight mention of post partum depression, very minor angst, mainly fluff

A/N: i was not expecting you all to love part 1 sm, and im falling in love with papa!clark so i changed it to 3 parts!! seriously, thank you for all the love and support! it means the world <3 these are honestly just some tooth-rotting fluff for our fav superhero, i hope you enjoy!

masterlist | taglist | pt 1

likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated!

papa!clark kent who makes you lay in bed as soon as you return home from the hospital. his ma came one night and got everything ready for you since he didn’t want to leave your side. the bed is made, you’ve got water, snacks, meds. “clark, can i-” “what is it? are you hungry? do you need a heating pad?” he comes back with it all in the speed of light.

papa!clark kent who lets people visit—cautiously. lois, all of your own friends, even jimmy stop by to check in on you and see the baby. when lois reaches forward to simply caress her little cheek, clark blocks her with his arm. “you literally made me use hand sanitizer twice.” “sorry, lois, no touching yet.” “clark, she’s fine,” you butt in. “dr. vanvleet said at least three months to build immunities!”

papa!clark kent who’s actually a little scared to hold your daughter, especially when she’s crying. this tiny, delicate, newborn baby—he’s convinced that one wrong move or touch and he’ll hurt her. “you won’t hurt her, clark.” you comfort him. “yeah, but-” “she’s strong, honey. she’s yours.”

papa!clark kent who can’t put your baby down once he’s brave enough to pick her up. he’ll have her in his arms as much as possible. “they say skin-to-skin contact is good for her,” he reasons with his shirt off and her head on his chest. the best part is he looks so natural holding his own child. like he was made for this.

papa!clark kent who is the diaper-changing king. almost to the point where you don’t have to see a single dirty diaper. “it’s the least i can do, hon,” he says literally in the middle of changing one. “everything you went through…let me do this for you.”

papa!clark kent who loves to use the sling. doing the household chores while you heal with your daughter against his chest. she’s sound asleep, listening to his heartbeat and gentle humming. he goes for walks in the neighborhood with the sling, goes grocery shopping, everything. “c’m’here,” he says to you and pulls you against him so she’s in between you two. your baby instantly smiles and coos. “this is her favorite.”

papa!clark kent who makes sure she has good music taste from the start. “we gotta educate her as early as possible.” and he’s a man with wide taste. that means the clash and iggy pop; marvin gaye and billie holiday; dolly parton and johnny cash; but don’t be surprised when you hear mozart and yo-yo ma playing throughout your place. he specifically plays “clair de lune” for when she naps.

papa!clark kent who yells for you one day like something’s wrong. it immediately sends you into a panic, but when you come running in, all you see is him in the rocking chair cradling her. “look, look,” he excitedly says. “she’s smiling at me! you think she knows who i am?” you chuckle and kiss the top of his head. “of course, she does, baby.”

papa!clark kent who still speaks in kryptonian to your daughter. of course, she’s too little to know what he’s saying, but she warms at it like it’s familiar like something ancestral that exists inside her. he later translates, “you’re going to be so loved for the rest of your life, little light. mama loves you, papa loves you. grandma and grandpa love you. that’s what you’ll be—loved.”

papa!clark kent who comes home almost every other day with a new toy. maybe an overpriced stuffed animal or a puzzle or another picture book. but he loves to see how her eyes light up when he pulls a present from behind his back. “you’re gonna spoil her,” you say. but he just smiles as he watches her play with her gift, babbling and giggling. “i hope so.”

papa!clark kent who likes to lay flat on the ground under the sun pouring in through the windows—his little girl curled on his chest. it still amazes him how any living thing could be so small yet such a force. she falls asleep to the rise of his chest and the pattern of his heart, soaking up the sunlight.

papa!clark kent who is still just as much your devoted husband as he is a loving father. you were his wife long before she was his daughter. he’s known you much longer than he knew your baby. everything he does is, yes, for his family—but solely, for you.

papa!clark kent who knows you’d suffered the worst out of this. that kind of trauma doesn’t just fade away. when everyone comes to see the baby, he cares for you. when it seems like all that matters is the child, he holds you and kisses you just like he did all those years ago. “you’re my whole world. the light of my life. nothing can ever change or replace that, not ever.”

papa!clark kent who wraps your stomach every morning and every night. he still rubs oil over it to avoid stretch marks, even though he could truly care less about them. he kisses over your belly before bed to show you how beautiful he still sees you. “you’re perfect, honey, every inch of you. i’ll do whatever it takes for you to see it.”

papa!clark kent who could live in this for the rest of his life. “my girls,” he likes to say when three of you are cuddled on the couch or in bed. you, the woman he’d do absolutely anything for, and the baby that you gave him. a fascinating mixture of the best parts of you and the parts of clark. “this is the best thing i’ve ever done.” he says. “us?” he smiles and kisses your forehead, “you. her. all of this.”

tags: @lovexbunny @bleedingsunlight @kentblvd @monty-bluebird @inbred-eater @animegamerfox @aesthetic-lyss

© faestunna 2025.

[bohemian-nights]

i told you in cairo my brother was this regiment's midwife. i am not prepared to be its coroner. also in cairo, i told you you had done nothing to earn my respect. chopped down no trees, cut up no logs, fed no fires. please don't say anything nice to me, it'd be too confusing.

Paddy Mayne and Bill Stirling in SAS: Rogue Heroes | S02

[bohemian-nights]

tradition

pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.8k

summary: clark grew up with home videos. you decided to keep the tradition going.

warnings: established relationship, FLUFF, pregnancy themes (bonus), written in headcanon/multiple scenarios style.

- a/n: just a little something while i finish up my other works for the week! thanks for being patient ♡// (gif/photo creds: @olympain)

Clark often shared his childhood memories with you, little moments he held onto with quiet affection. You could tell how much they meant to him, the way his voice softened whenever he mentioned his parents or the farm.

So when he brought up how they used to film home videos—grainy footage, clunky camcorder, someone narrating everything in the background—you got an idea.  

You walked into the kitchen with the camera already rolling. Clark stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled way too good, completely unaware.

“It should be done in a few—” he said, then looked up.

His brows lifted the second he saw the camera pointed at him. A soft laugh slipped out, low and surprised. “What are you doing?”

“Continuing tradition,” you said, grinning as you zoomed in just a little.

“Tradition?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Picking up where your parents left off. Home videos—grown-up edition. We’re seriously lacking in flannel though, but we’ll work on it.”

That made him laugh, full and wide, his head tilting back slightly as it broke out of him.

And you made sure to catch every second of it.

One morning you pulled out the camera, letting it record as you stepped toward Clark’s side of the bed. The sheets were rumpled, his arm draped over the edge, morning light slipping softly through the curtains. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, sticking up in a few stubborn directions.

He stirred at the sound, squinting one eye open, voice gravelly. “You filming me?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling behind the lens.

A lazy smile tugged at his lips. He let out a low laugh, then shifted toward you, one hand sliding around your waist, hauling you back toward the bed.

“Wait!” you yelped, the camera slipping from your grip as he pulled you on top of him.

You laughed as you landed, tangled in the sheets and in him.

"Morning," he mumbled, pressing you closer to his chest.

“Good morning,” you whispered back. Then you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips—the kind that lingered. Somewhere on the bed, the camera kept rolling, quietly forgotten.

You hit record, camera aimed at the front door just as it opened with a soft creak. You were grinning already, half expecting to catch Clark mid-yawn, tie loosened, maybe muttering something about the coffee machine being slow again.

But the second he stepped inside, your eyes went wide.

“Clark!”

A streak of red and blue flashed across the screen as you gasped and fumbled with the camera, jerking it away just in time. The lens caught nothing but the trailing edge of his cape before it ended on a blur of drywall and your hand, Clark's low chuckle just barely audible in the background.

Of course you filmed the quiet days, the holidays, the special occasions. But Clark caught on quick—noticed how the camera was always pointed at him.

So naturally, he had to fix that.

You were standing in the doorway one night, camera in hand, watching him brush his teeth—shirtless, hair still damp from his shower.

He glanced at you in the mirror, foam at the corners of his mouth, and smiled around the toothbrush.

Without a word, he reached out, tugging you gently toward him. You laughed, stumbling a little as his arm wrapped around you. He took the camera from your hand with ease, flipping it toward the mirror until both of you were in frame.

“You’re supposed to be in these too, you know,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, voice muffled but amused.

You leaned into him, cheeks flushed with laughter, as he gave the camera a crooked little grin.

The camera caught everything—your laugh, the way he rested his chin against your head, the moment he kissed your temple, toothpaste and all.

And when you watch them all back—those quiet, flickering glimpses of a life stitched together with laughter and kisses half caught on film—he never fails to remind you.

Of all his memories, you’re his favorite.

⟢ bonus! 

The camera shakes a little as Clark adjusts it. You’re in the kitchen, one hand resting on your belly, the other reaching for a bowl on the shelf. Still wearing his oversized T-shirt.

He zooms in—softly, slowly.

And then his voice, warm and steady from behind the lens:

“And this one’s for you.”

A pause.

“That’s your mom. She doesn’t know I’m filming right now—she’d probably throw something at me if she did.”

He chuckles under his breath.

“But she sings to you in the mornings. Craves the weirdest food combinations I’ve ever seen. And she already loves you more than anything.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching him—and roll your eyes.

“Clark.”

“Just say hi,” he grins. “It’s for the baby.”

You shake your head, laughing—but your expression softens.

And then your voice drops, quiet and sure.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur to the bump, hand resting gently on your belly.

Then a whisper from behind the camera:

“You and her—my whole world right there.”

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: @sophiethelesbian @floufli @yeonalie

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | summer request fest

[bohemian-nights]

Fine draped cotton softens the lines of this window, in a style suggestive of neo-classical window treatments.

Traditional Country Style, 1991

[bohemian-nights]

You crying a little during sex with Clark Kent because his cock is so much and the stretch is so good and you're just overwhelmed, and he's quick to notice and panic about it.

He immediately stops thrusting and grabs your face in one of his large hands. “Sweetheart? Sweetheart, what's wrong? Did I hurt you? Do you want me to stop? I'm gonna stop,” he says hurriedly.

He's pulling his hips back, starting to slide out of you when you grab his forearm and shake your head. “No. No, don't stop. I'm okay.”

“Sweetie, you're crying,” he says quietly, his eyes studying yours.

“Because it's so good,” you reply, voice breathless. “It's so good. Please don't stop.”

And Clark is a little unsure. He anxiously eyes the tears falling down your cheeks, but your gaze is certain and your expression is full of desire.

“If you want me to stop—”

“I'll tell you,” you finish for him. “But please, don't stop now.”

And there's something so endearing about watching you cry, so vulnerable and raw...It melts his heart but also makes his cock harder because you just look so pretty.

Eyelashes wet with tears, cheeks flushed, eyes wide...

He rolls his hips slow, dragging his cock in and out of you slowly, amazed at how gorgeous you look. He kisses your cheek, tasting the tears there.

His thrusts return to their previous rhythm and holding it, pushing you closer to your orgasm. Despite the little flicker of worry in him, he's glad you're enjoying yourself, and he loves that he's making you feel this good.

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

---

taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @lahniii @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @mollymal @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader 

---

Clark Kent masterlist

[bohemian-nights]

favorite first watches of 2025 — ★★★★★ SINNERS (2025)

[bohemian-nights]

CLARK KENT DAVID CORENSWET for a new Superman TV Spot.

[bohemian-nights]

hey queen!!! can we get maybe a size kink fic with clark kent?? i mean height difference, belly bulge, everything, thank you

MDNI 18+

— size kink scenarios with clark kent

cw: vaginal sex, size kink, belly bulge, not proof read

height difference - it was no secret that clark was tall, a towering height of 6’4 and 240 pounds, could point him out in a crowded room. though it was the small things that made you have a small ache in between your thighs. things like him having you bend down as you spoke about your day, or how you had to step on his shoes, then go on your tippy toes to give him a kiss.

fucking you in a headlock - the room is filled with the filthiest noises when clark fucked you, lewd skin slapping, the sound of your gushing cunt and the combination of his grunts and your high pitch moans.

but right now, you were a babbling mess, drool dribbling down your chin and down to his biceps as your eyes rolled back.

“taking it so well baby,” he cooed as he continued to rut into you like a feral animal, trying his best to contain his strength.

his large muscular frame held you tightly, essentially making you his own personal flesh light. your cheeks squished together as you babbled mindlessly, him fucking your brains out.

belly bulge - “fuck,” clark hissed as your gummy walls clenched around him, so warm and inviting, almost milking him dry. “too much clark,” you whined, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, only to have his large hands squeeze the side of your body. “don’t run away baby, just take the whole thing.”

it was a sight truely, watching your small cunt accomodate and stretch out only for him, and how he had a visual of how truely deep he was in you. “see this?” his voice hoarse as he gently traced the small bulge. “this is how far i’m inside you.”

sometimes the sight was simply just too much, his mind going hazy as he thrusted harshly into your cunt, the headboard of the bed smashing against the wall, and the bed creaking with his weight whilst your nails scratched his back.

wearing his shirt whilst letting him fuck you - if you weren’t on his cock bouncing like an eager bunny, then you would’ve been the cutest thing he’s ever seen wearing his shirt. your frame absolutely drowning in it as it fell down your shoulders, the material bunching up as you continued to ride him. “you like wearing my clothes so much don’t you baby?” his hands gently tugging the material, his cock swelling even more at the sight. him inside you, and you wearing his shirt.

maybe he’d have you on your knees too.

[bohemian-nights]

Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith dir. George Lucas | 2005

[bohemian-nights]

Ayo Edebiri | EL PAÍS | May 23, 2025 | 📷 AB + DM STUDIO

[bohemian-nights]

tradition

pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.8k

summary: clark grew up with home videos. you decided to keep the tradition going.

warnings: established relationship, FLUFF, pregnancy themes (bonus), written in headcanon/multiple scenarios style.

- a/n: just a little something while i finish up my other works for the week! thanks for being patient ♡// (gif/photo creds: @olympain)

Clark often shared his childhood memories with you, little moments he held onto with quiet affection. You could tell how much they meant to him, the way his voice softened whenever he mentioned his parents or the farm.

So when he brought up how they used to film home videos—grainy footage, clunky camcorder, someone narrating everything in the background—you got an idea.  

You walked into the kitchen with the camera already rolling. Clark stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled way too good, completely unaware.

“It should be done in a few—” he said, then looked up.

His brows lifted the second he saw the camera pointed at him. A soft laugh slipped out, low and surprised. “What are you doing?”

“Continuing tradition,” you said, grinning as you zoomed in just a little.

“Tradition?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Picking up where your parents left off. Home videos—grown-up edition. We’re seriously lacking in flannel though, but we’ll work on it.”

That made him laugh, full and wide, his head tilting back slightly as it broke out of him.

And you made sure to catch every second of it.

One morning you pulled out the camera, letting it record as you stepped toward Clark’s side of the bed. The sheets were rumpled, his arm draped over the edge, morning light slipping softly through the curtains. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, sticking up in a few stubborn directions.

He stirred at the sound, squinting one eye open, voice gravelly. “You filming me?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling behind the lens.

A lazy smile tugged at his lips. He let out a low laugh, then shifted toward you, one hand sliding around your waist, hauling you back toward the bed.

“Wait!” you yelped, the camera slipping from your grip as he pulled you on top of him.

You laughed as you landed, tangled in the sheets and in him.

"Morning," he mumbled, pressing you closer to his chest.

“Good morning,” you whispered back. Then you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips—the kind that lingered. Somewhere on the bed, the camera kept rolling, quietly forgotten.

You hit record, camera aimed at the front door just as it opened with a soft creak. You were grinning already, half expecting to catch Clark mid-yawn, tie loosened, maybe muttering something about the coffee machine being slow again.

But the second he stepped inside, your eyes went wide.

“Clark!”

A streak of red and blue flashed across the screen as you gasped and fumbled with the camera, jerking it away just in time. The lens caught nothing but the trailing edge of his cape before it ended on a blur of drywall and your hand, Clark's low chuckle just barely audible in the background.

Of course you filmed the quiet days, the holidays, the special occasions. But Clark caught on quick—noticed how the camera was always pointed at him.

So naturally, he had to fix that.

You were standing in the doorway one night, camera in hand, watching him brush his teeth—shirtless, hair still damp from his shower.

He glanced at you in the mirror, foam at the corners of his mouth, and smiled around the toothbrush.

Without a word, he reached out, tugging you gently toward him. You laughed, stumbling a little as his arm wrapped around you. He took the camera from your hand with ease, flipping it toward the mirror until both of you were in frame.

“You’re supposed to be in these too, you know,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, voice muffled but amused.

You leaned into him, cheeks flushed with laughter, as he gave the camera a crooked little grin.

The camera caught everything—your laugh, the way he rested his chin against your head, the moment he kissed your temple, toothpaste and all.

And when you watch them all back—those quiet, flickering glimpses of a life stitched together with laughter and kisses half caught on film—he never fails to remind you.

Of all his memories, you’re his favorite.

⟢ bonus! 

The camera shakes a little as Clark adjusts it. You’re in the kitchen, one hand resting on your belly, the other reaching for a bowl on the shelf. Still wearing his oversized T-shirt.

He zooms in—softly, slowly.

And then his voice, warm and steady from behind the lens:

“And this one’s for you.”

A pause.

“That’s your mom. She doesn’t know I’m filming right now—she’d probably throw something at me if she did.”

He chuckles under his breath.

“But she sings to you in the mornings. Craves the weirdest food combinations I’ve ever seen. And she already loves you more than anything.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching him—and roll your eyes.

“Clark.”

“Just say hi,” he grins. “It’s for the baby.”

You shake your head, laughing—but your expression softens.

And then your voice drops, quiet and sure.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur to the bump, hand resting gently on your belly.

Then a whisper from behind the camera:

“You and her—my whole world right there.”

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: @sophiethelesbian @floufli @yeonalie

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | summer request fest

[bohemian-nights]

SINNERS + fathers

It's 'cause of me. My daddy told me. He said the devil was coming on account of my music.