more a little oddly specific things but maybe you could write some leon x plussized/chubby!reader? <3
so, here’s the thing about leon:
a pretty woman is a pretty woman, so he doesn’t have a preference for any body type. thin, thick, athletic— he just likes what he likes. and frankly, he thinks these so called “men” who have these pansy ass “preferences” could absolutely be lonelier. he simply cannot wrap his head around a man, having the audacity to be picky. it pisses him off actually.
but anyway, leon has always been attracted to rounder, softer bodies. with age he’s definitely appreciates the fullness and weight of a real body in the resurrection of the rampant diet culture online. especially since he’s a woman enjoyer. probably one of the biggest feminists you know.
i’m just thinking about how the leon s. kennedy is objectively a very attractive man but there’s a very real chance he was a loser in high school.
like not ugly or anything. just awkward and quiet. sat in the back of class, kept to himself, maybe had a couple friends? but definitely wasn’t popular. this motherfucker was definitely the type who probably didn’t even realize he was good looking yet.
and his first girlfriend was a fat girl. not in a “he settled” way, just a girl who was soft and pretty and warm and confident enough to like him first because there was no way he was making first moves.
and she was kind to him. like genuinely kind. laughed at his jokes when nobody else did, who held his hand first, who made him feel like he was actually worth loving when he’d spent most of his teenage years feeling invisible.
and that just permanently altered his brain chemistry. his roman empire as they say.
so now leon grows up, becomes this ridiculously attractive man, and he still just.. loves bigger women. and the best part is it's not some weird fetish thing! like how (a lot) of men claim to love plus size bodies but it's only for sexual gratification. no. leon will and always will register plus sized women as human.
and the funny part is he never really grows out of being a little nervous about it either.
like 51 year old leon — a man who has fought bioweapons, survived multiple disasters, done things most people couldn’t even imagine — still getting a little anxious before a date.
checking his watch too much. fixing his jacket. rehearsing what he’s gonna say in his head.
because no matter how old he gets, some part of him is still that awkward high school boy who’s a little stunned that someone this pretty actually wants to spend time with him.
I have a request! Please! Re4 era leon getting over protective of the reader when someone makes a comment about the (chubby reader) being fat or ugly maybe. Reader is like an admin staff or something at the dso office amd leon has a thing for her. 😊 thanks
Leon Kennedy re4 x reader (curvy)
Summary: see request
Warnings: comfort, Leon being a bit aggressive, coworkers being ridiculous
AN: My first request for Leon yay!!
Words: 1,036
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・
Usually Leon just had to drop by between missions, sign a few documents, reports, and attend a few meetings, and then he could go his way again.
But you realized he showed up more often than necessary. Not just because you saw him from your desk walking through the entry, but he somehow found excuses to talk to you.
“Did you see the new coffee shop down the street?” he asked once.
“Yes, I did.” You pointed to the coffee right beside you. “If you ask me, it kind of sucks,” you chuckled. And just like that, you started a thirty-minute discussion about whether chocolate syrup should be legal in coffee or not.
He would find you everywhere. Your desk, the break room, or meeting rooms. He always managed to talk to you and disrupt you from your work. Any other person would annoy you by interrupting you while working, but not him.
Maybe it was his character and his unfunny jokes that he somehow made funny, or because no one else talked to you in the office except when they had to. You didn’t want to impose yourself on anyone, and being shy didn’t help with making friends at work, or in general. So you were glad to see him and talk to him a few times a week.
Then his new mission came. Saving the president’s daughter, who was being held hostage somewhere. You couldn’t ask anyone when he was returning or how he was doing. No one gave you an answer, and you slowly felt like they didn’t want to give you one.
Since he was away, you started to work even harder and even got a promotion. More hours in the office, less time at home, and less time taking care of yourself. But you didn’t care about that. You wanted to feel worthy. Worthy of talking to Leon while he risked his life on every mission he went on.
A few weeks passed by, and that day something felt different. You couldn’t figure out what it was, but you didn’t feel as empty that morning as you usually did. Standing in front of your mirror, getting ready, you noticed you had lost a few pounds over the last few weeks. Maybe it wasn’t noticeable to others, but in the end it mattered how you felt.
But coming into the office felt like a slap in the face. The chuckles and laughs disappeared when you entered. You looked down at yourself, trying to figure out what it was. Maybe the new skirt you wore? But you felt comfortable in it before you entered. It couldn’t be that. You weren’t in their friend group, but they would never make fun of you. You walked the corridor to your private office, and when you closed the door, the laughing started again.
That day you decided to take your lunch break at the same time as the others. Maybe something would change, just like you did. In the break room they spared you a few glances, but shortly after they continued their conversations.
Not so bad, you thought.
And with that, the door opened, and no other than Leon returned home.
Well, not home, but back at work, you thought. He told everyone hello and gave a small nod with a smile, which you returned.
The others remarked that lunch time would be over soon, so you packed your stuff and returned to your office.
What you didn’t know was that everyone started laughing again as you left. One particular person started making little remarks like, “Just because she got a promotion doesn’t mean she can sit with us,” or “She really thinks she’s skinny enough for that skirt.”
Leon noticed. Of course he did.
Even before he left for the mission, he noticed when someone laughed too loudly after you walked away, or when someone muttered a comment about your weight. Why he didn’t say something before he left, he didn’t know. Maybe doing something about it would mean admitting to himself that he had a thing for you.
But when everyone packed their things and the same office worker walked past him and muttered, “Didn’t know the DSO started hiring based on cafeteria leftovers,” he completely lost it.
The room got quiet as he slowly looked up. He put his coffee mug down and stepped forward, grabbing the guy by the front of his collar. Leon’s voice was low and cold as he said, “You got something you want to say again?”
The guy just stammered and tried to laugh it off, but Leon didn’t smile. It felt like the whole room was holding its breath as Leon said, “I thought so. Next time you talk about her like that, you’ll wish the mission field was the worst place you’ve ever been.”
With that, he let him go forcefully. The workers left the break room talking about the incident, and luckily you heard everything thanks to your open office door.
Somehow you felt embarrassed that someone else had to step in for you. The whole workday you worried that he might get in trouble for that. When everyone slowly left, you stepped into the hallway hoping to find him there.
And there he was, looking at you.
“You know you didn’t have to do that.”
He just shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I think I kind of did.”
And with that, your monologue began. You talked about how you thought they did that all the time and that it didn’t bother you,but he interrupted you.
“It bothers me. It really does,” he said as he walked toward you and opened his mouth again, but closed it a second later like he wanted to say something.
“I’m grateful for that, but…” you began again.
“And for the record..you’re the best thing about coming back to this hell of an office,” he blurted out.
You were speechless and began to fluster as he pretended to be casual about it,which he definitely was not.
And in that moment you knew why you thought that morning that this would be a good day. Because you left work on time, no late hours, and not alone this time.
And Leon Kennedy would want a fat woman to come home to.
At the end of the day that man needs some softness in his life, tender and gentle affection from his beautiful fat wife.
Oh the things he would do to you, how he’d hold onto your thighs, squeezing them with his strong hands.
Your leg thrown over his shoulder so he can fuck deeper into your fat pussy.
Speaking of pussy, he yearns to feel the soft flesh of your thighs squish his face as he indulges in the sweetness of your warm cunt.
And god, grabbing hold of your hips and growling against your clit when you whine about sitting on his face… girl he’s not afraid. If he dies he dies, and quite frankly being suffocated by your pussy is a far better way to go than being eaten by a zombie.
Anyways…
Sorry watching a playthrough and he’s doing things to me…
✦ ⋆ ࣪. about : there was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain : clark kent didn’t like you. not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. but you could feel it. his body language and attitude gave everything away. your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?
It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.
Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.
He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.
That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.
It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.
Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.
At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.
You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.
Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.
“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.
Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.
“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.
You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.
Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.
It had been a long day.
You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.
Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before.
And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.
From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.
“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.
Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.
Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.
“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.”
After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.
You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.
Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.
Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.
The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.
Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.
“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.
How had he known?
He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you.
But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?
You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all.
What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.
When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.
Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.
“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.
For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring.
But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.
That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.
A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.
You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.
You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.
When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?
It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.
“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”
You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee.
Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.
Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.
“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.
You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.
You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.
God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.
“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”
Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.
“He’s just polite,” you used to argue.
“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”
And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.
“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence.
He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”
Oh.
You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.
But of course Clark did.
You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.
“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”
Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”
He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.
“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.
Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.
You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.
Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free.
Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.
You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.
“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.
Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.
You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.
Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing…
You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.
The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.
Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?
So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.
Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.
Clark.
Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.
He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.
He looked good. Too good.
“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.
He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”
You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped.
“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”
Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”
He’d been different with you lately.
Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.
A start.
And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.
“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”
Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home. Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”
His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.
“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”
You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.
Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.
You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.
Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.
The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.
Solid. Warm. Safe.
Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.
“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?
What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.
You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.
It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.
And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.
Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.
You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.
Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.
What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.
Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.
Maybe Jimmy was right?
“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.
“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.
The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.
Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.
You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.
Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.
You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.
Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.
The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.
You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?
You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.
“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.
You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.
“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”
“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.
But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.
“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”
You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.
Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.
“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”
You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”
“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”
He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”
You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”
“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”
“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”
Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”
“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”
“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”
You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe.
There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”
You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”
Another pause. A longer one this time.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”
That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.
“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.
“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”
You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.
“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”
That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.
It felt like you knew him.
Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.
But the thought lingered.
“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”
You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.
Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”
You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.
“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”
There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.
That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.
But where?
After that night, Clark started acting... different.
Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.
He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.
It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly.
You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.
Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.
Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.
He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.
It was a weird dynamic.
Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.
Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.
Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered.
But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.
Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.
Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.
And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.
You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.
And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer.
Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch.
Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.
He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.
You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.
It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.
Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”
You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.
“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”
You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.
You didn’t get far.
An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.
“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”
You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.
“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”
Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”
You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."
It was his turn to scoff.
You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.
For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.
This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.
“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”
His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.
“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”
You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.
And so you shifted. Softened.
“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”
That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.
You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.
“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”
His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.
You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.
“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”
Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.
“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”
He stiffened. You stepped back.
“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”
Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.
Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.
Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?
An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.
“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”
“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”
Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.
You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”
He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.
“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”
You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”
You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.
Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”
You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”
“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food.
That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.
You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.
It was nice. Sweet, even.
You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.
Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra.
He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.
Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”
He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”
You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.
The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.
Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.
You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.
It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.
So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.
You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.
You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.
Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.
Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.
Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts
Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.
Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.
But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.
Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.
You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.
And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.
The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.
“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”
You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.
“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant.
He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk.
You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth.
“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.
You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”
And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate.
And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates.
They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.
That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?
Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.
Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.
As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.
Clark.
He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.
“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer.
He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.
“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”
Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.
You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.
“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.
You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.
“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.
Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.
You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.
Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused.
“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”
You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.
They were both watching you. Waiting.
It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.
What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.
The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.
You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.
Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.
Yeah. Tonight had been good.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.
“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.
You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”
“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.
So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.
But he waved off every concern without missing a beat.
“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”
You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.
The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.
Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.
You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.
You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.
Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.
Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.
“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.
But Clark heard you. Of course he did.
Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.
He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.
It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.
This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.
You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.
Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest.
His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.
His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.
The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory.
Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.
You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.
“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.
Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.
When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”
Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me."
Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.
“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.
“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”
“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.
“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.
“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”
Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.
The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.
His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.
His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.
Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.
He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.
“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.
His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.
His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.
You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.
You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.
Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.
Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.
After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.
Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.
You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.
Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.
You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.
"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.
He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.
You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.
“Clark,” you moaned softly.
“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.
“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”
How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?
Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.
Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.
His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.
Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.
He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.
It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.
Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.
His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.
Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.
After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.
But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.
He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.
His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.
Greedy little thing you were.
And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.
Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.
And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.
Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.
Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.
Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you. A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.
Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.
You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.
Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.
He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.
“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.
“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.
The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.
When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.
He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.
He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.
The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.
You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.
You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.
His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.
Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.
Weird.
Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.
You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.
The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”
His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.
You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”
Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”
Silence. Your brain stalled.
“You could… what?”
His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.
mdni! just a really short imagine lolzies. chubby reader as always! hope u enjoy! also, my asks are open! ik im not very active on here, but id like to be!
heavy makeout sesh with you and clark. it started out with just vanilla, soft kisses but now he's pulled you into his lap before he could think about it and oh. he's so hard and wanting now that he finally has you, the girl of dreams, right where he wants you. he wanted to take things slow, drink you in the way you deserve, but he's so desperate. he can feel the heat of your cunt through the layers of clothes and he just wants to rut. :((( he runs his hands all across your body, grabbing at whatever he can touch. the nape of your next first, just so he can pull you forward for another kiss. then your hair, your shoulders, your back. "so pretty," he whispers between kisses. he rests them on your waist for a few moments, obsessed with how his fingers sink into the softness there. he greedily guides your hips into a faster grind. "oh, gosh, thank you." he knows he won't last long. not with your weight in his lap and your pretty, soft moans in his ear. he wants to see you cum first, though, so he tightens his grip on your waist and moves his hips in time with yours, grinding upwards to ensure your clit catches on the seam of his jeans with every thrust. just a few seconds of this, and you're cumming with a high mewl. clark can feel your clit pulsing against him, and any second now he's going to cum in his pants as if he's still a teenager. you keep grinding down onto his lap and he can tell you're overstimulated because you jolt every time your clit brushes against him. he tries to hold you still, but you insist you're okay. he feels greedy for letting you do this instead of forcing you to take a breather, but he's so needy. "i'm close sweetheart," he says, voice cracking. two more particularly forceful thrusts from you and he's cumming, his hands shooting to your ass so he can hold you still and rut up into you just like he needs. "please, please, please," he chants, unsure of what he's begging for. he pulls you forward again for another slow, easy kiss. he contemplates asking for a round two.
a / n : I'm in class and I'm not really paying attention... oops.
Thinking about Clark with a thing for you specifically—and the soft, full look of you just being a bonus.
Shaming himself for daydreaming about sinking his teeth into the back of pillowy thighs. Because that was creepy and he was better than that, right?
Gets a little too touchy in a way that's chock full of unearned familiarity—but never in a manner that's disrespectful.
A palm on your lower back to guide you toward the elevator, because he was raised right and ladies always were to walk through doors first.
Standing a bit too close while the two of you waited on the train to show up.
A train he didn't even need to take because A.) he could fly and B.) you lived in opposite directions.
Allowing his own thighs to spread just slightly to press against yours as you sat beside one another, chatting about work and home and everything in between.
Oh god, and he knows he's a goner when you wrap your arms around his bicep one day. There were no seats so you'd stood beside him chittering away as you usually did, mistakenly "believing" that didn't need to hold the pole.
But the train shook and you stumbled into him—gripping onto him to hold yourself steady. You were so warm, so soft, and you were so close.
He took some deep breaths and tried to laugh it off with you. It was all he could do to keep his breath from stuttering. Let alone to keep himself from chubbing in his slacks on a crowded train.
not quite sure what you mean. do you mean clark being like, a chubby chaser? if so, then yes. unquestionably.
he’s not the kind of man to voice it often, but it shows in the unconscious way his hands wander—palming the heft of your hips, or how he seems to enjoy the resistance your thighs give him when he pries ‘em apart. he’s strong enough to lift a tractor one-handed; a little extra softness doesn’t complicate things. if anything, it enhances the experience.
he’ll manhandle you without ever losing his gentleness. haul you onto your stomach, pull you back by the waist, spread your thighs and pin them open with the breadth of his forearm. keep you face-first into the sheets, all while murmuring soft praises. and if you try to cover yourself; with some flimsy deflection about how your stomach must look from this angle—clark frowns, this genuine, kicked-puppy look of hurt. on his face
“i love everything about you,” he declares in earnest. “don’t hide from me.” and when his mouth dips between your thighs, he groans deeply. tongue working in worshipful motions, arms hooking around your legs like he plans to stay there indefinitely.
It was impossible to not like clark, he was so sweet and caring, not to mention how hot he was. He was so tall you had to actively look up at him, his broad shoulders made him look massive. What normal woman would not have a massive crush on him? The problem is of course you had no chance with him.
A man like clark always had supermodel girlfriends. Sure he was nerdy and a little shy but that just made him even hotter. You're sure he's wrapped around some insanely hot girls finger. Still, it's nice to think about, and he's a good friend even if that's all he is.
It was crazy hot today, so you wore a dress which was your first mistake. The fabric was already a little form fitting but it clung to your skin even more in the heat. By the time you made it to work your hair was frizzy, put in a rushed ponytail, your dress was a second skin, and your face was so flushed you had to have looked like a tomato.
"hey!" clark swiveled in his chair, looking perfect as always.
"hey" it came out breathless and quieter than you wanted. You took your seat right next to clark, his desk was pressed up against the side of yours. You don't remember it being this close in the beginning but somehow they're smooshed together.
"I-I got you that drink you like" he looks you up and down, shifting in his seat. You thank him before taking the cup in your hand, it was just juice from this place a block over. Nothing too crazy about it you just like it better from there and of course clark remembered that.
"I know, I look a mess" you sigh, his staring was so embarrassing.
"no, no you look great!" he cleared his throat.
"I'm practaically melting" you giggle
"it's a good melting" now he was breathless. You would blush if your face wasn't already so red.
"thanks?" you sigh, "I wanted to look nice today" you sip on your drink pouting a little.
"why got a date?" jimmy perked up from seemingly nowhere, his brows wiggling. You huff a laugh ignoring how stiff clark gets.
"no, but I wanted someone to notice me" you avoid looking at clark, refusing to give him any reason to think you wanted him to notice you.
"oh? got a little crush??" jimmy was fully leaning on your desk now.
"yeah but, I don't know he's just so perfect" you bite the straw in your mouth before setting the cup down.
"you gonna ask him out? Can I be there when you do?" you roll your eyes and jimmy smiles.
"I don't know..." you shift in your seat. "I mean I don't think he'd be mean about it but there's no way he would say yes" you glance at clark but you can't read the look on his face.
"ask him anyway, the worst he could say in no" you scoff, that is not the worst thing he could say. Jimmy pushes himself off your desk once Lois shows up.
"do you think I should ask him out?" you spin your chair a little to face clark more. His fist were clenched but he didn't look angry.
"yeah, any guy would be lucky to have you" he sounded so sad, like it physically hurt him to get the words out.
You didn't notice how you've cooled down until you flush again. He was so sweet, maybe this was for the best? Telling him and getting it out there might help you get over him faster.
"uh clark? Do you wanna see a movie with me this weekend?" you didn't look at him as you asked.
"a movie?"
"yeah, like a movie....movie date" you squeaked out the last part. Part of you hoped he didn't hear it, this was so much scarier than you thought.
"thank god," he relaxed into his chair "I was really scared you were gonna ask out some other guy"
"so.." you were practically shaking in your seat.
"oh, yeah of corse! I'll go anywhere you want" you finally relaxed your own body. Clark said yes, he wants to go on a date with you.
Request: “reader is slightly chubby/curvy, and Chris is her boyfriend, reader is self-conscious about her body and Chris *comforts* them (*cough cough* sex *cough cough*)”
Plot: Post-Resident Evil Village — Chris has finally taken a break from work and is spending time with you.
I have never done a smut before so if its whack please forgive,
happy reading my lovelies ❤️
The cabin was warm, the fire crackling in the stone hearth as snow piled up outside the frosted windows. Chris had insisted on taking you somewhere quiet after everything, after the horrors of the Village, after losing Ethan, after nearly losing himself.
And you? You needed the time away just as much, but there was always that lingering insecurity that gnawed at the back of your mind.
Chris was built like a damn action hero, all muscle and strength, and then there was you. Softer, curvier. You knew he loved you, he made that clear every day but it didn’t stop the little voice in your head from whispering that you weren’t enough for someone like him.
Tonight, that voice was particularly loud. You sat on the edge of the bed, wearing one of his old t-shirts that draped over your body, your hands absentmindedly gripping the hem. Chris was watching you from where he stood near the fireplace, arms crossed over his broad chest. You could feel his gaze even before he spoke.
“You’re doing it again,” he murmured, voice deep and laced with concern.
You blinked up at him. “Doing what?”
Chris sighed, pushing off the wall and making his way toward you. His presence was always commanding but never intimidating, not to you. He knelt in front of you, hands resting on your thighs, his warmth seeping through the fabric of your shirt.
“That thing where you doubt yourself,” he said softly, rubbing slow, reassuring circles into your skin. “Where you look at yourself like you’re anything less than perfect to me.”
Your breath hitched as he leaned in, pressing a kiss just above your knee before looking up at you. “Chris…” you whisper in a needy tone.
“I mean it.” His hands slid higher, squeezing your thighs with an almost possessive reverence. “I love you. Every inch of you. Every curve, every soft part of you that fits so damn perfectly against me.” His lips trailed up, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. “You think I want some fragile thing that I have to tiptoe around?”
His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. “I love this body,” he growled, pressing a kiss against your inner thigh, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “You think I don’t see the way you shy away when you change in front of me? The way you hesitate when I touch you?”
Your heart pounded, heat rising to your cheeks. “I just…” you mumble quietly, unable to find your voice.
Chris silenced you with a kiss, deep, slow, reverent. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “Let me show you,” he murmured, his hands sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, thumbs stroking the soft skin of your waist.
The fire crackled in the background, but the real warmth was between you and him, his touch, his lips, the way he handled you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
And maybe, just maybe, that little voice in your head didn’t seem so loud anymore.
Chris’s hands roamed over your body with slow, deliberate intent, fingers tracing the curve of your hips like he was memorizing every inch of you. His touch was warm, rough yet careful, the contrast sending shivers up your spine.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your skin, lips pressing soft, lingering kisses along the slope of your neck. His breath was hot, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that made your toes curl.
You swallowed hard, hands instinctively gripping the fabric of his shirt. “Chris…” you whimper.
He hummed in response, slipping his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, ‘his shirt’, pushing it up and over your head, tossing it behind him, exposing more of your skin to the fire’s glow. His thumbs stroked over the dip of your waist, reverent and slow, like he was savouring the feel of you. His hands moving up your back to unclasp your bra, removing any barriers between him and what he wants.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he muttered, lips moving lower, pressing a soft kiss just above your collarbone as he slowly slides your bra down your arms and off your body. “Do you know how often I think about this?” His hands moving towards your exposed breasts, massaging the flesh in his palms, “About you?”, he nips at the skin above your tits as he slowly makes his way down the valley of your breasts, kissing, nipping, sucking as he goes.
Your breath hitched as his lips continued to trail downward, heat pooling in your stomach at the sheer intensity in his gaze when he looked up at you. His eyes were dark, filled with something deeper than just desire, something fierce, protective, devoted.
He moves down to your soft stomach, moving towards your hips, kissing the stretch marks that litter your skin, “goddamn, so fucking perfect” he moans into your skin.
Chris leaned in, lips hovering just above your skin, and whispered, “Let me show you how much I love every inch of you.”
Chris’s words sent a shudder through you, every syllable dripping with devotion. His lips ghosted over your stomach, his breath warm against your skin as he traced the softest, most vulnerable parts of you with unhurried adoration. “You think these marks mean anything but beauty to me?” His voice was hushed, reverent, as his fingers traced the stretch marks on your hips, each touch sending electricity through your veins. “They tell a story, your story. And I want every part of it.” His lips brushing against your skin as he continues to head down south.
You let out a shaky breath, fingers threading through his dark hair as he pressed another kiss to the curve of your waist, then lower, his hands never stopping their slow exploration of your body. His movements weren’t rushed, weren’t frantic with need, but steady, deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to worship you properly.
Chris looked up at you, his eyes dark with something deeper than desire, something raw, unshakable. Love. Devotion. His hands slid up your thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down with slow, deliberate intent. His lips brushed over your inner thigh as he went, a teasing contrast between softness and the scrape of his stubble. Each kiss sent heat spiralling through your veins, a silent promise in every touch.
His grip tightened just slightly, grounding you, making sure you felt him. “You still doubting me, sweetheart?” His voice was husky, teasing, but there was something deeper beneath it, an edge of sincerity, like it mattered to him just as much as it did to you.
He buries his face into your slick heat, inhaling the scent of you and humming at the satisfaction, his tongue lapping at your folds, slow and deep, stealing the air from your lungs. He grunts at the taste of your sweet nectar on his tongue. He latches onto your clit, slowly circling it with the tip of his tongue in a teasing manner, you tug at his hair in response, he lets out a breathy chuckle and latches onto your clit with a harsh suck, his tongue flicking it repeatedly
Your body trembled beneath him, every sensation heightened, every lingering doubt drowned out by the sheer intensity of his devotion. The heat between you was intoxicating, but what truly stole your breath was the way he looked at you, like you were everything. Like you were his. He swiftly throws your legs over his shoulders and grips your thighs, holding you in place while he devours you like a starving man. The heat within you burning hotter and hotter until you completely burst. Your legs trembling as they try to snap shut around his head, the heels of your feet digging into his back, your vision blurring as you’re completely lost in the pleasure he is giving you. “god!....Chriiis!!” you cry out breathlessly. He releases your clit with a pop and slowly pulls away.
your essence smeared all around his mouth, he catches his breath, smiling as he looks down at you with glazed eyes.
Your hands grasped at his shoulders, silently urging him upward, and he followed without hesitation, his solid frame settling over yours. The moment his lips met yours, it was different, hot and heavy, yes, but also filled with something unspoken. A need that went beyond desire. A need to show you, to make you understand just how much you meant to him.
Chris trailed his lips down your neck, each kiss leaving a path of heat in its wake. His hands roamed your body like he was mapping out every curve, every dip, as if committing you to memory. The slow, deliberate way he touched you sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation curling in your belly.
“You feel that?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, gravelly, tinged with something raw. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping them firmly, reverently. “This is what you do to me.” He grinds his hard cock against you, his body a furnace against yours, and you could feel the way he trembled slightly, like holding back was costing him everything.
Your breath hitched as he shifted, pressing more of his weight onto you, grounding you beneath him. He kissed along your jaw, teasing, slow, savouring, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. “I could stay like this forever,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Just feeling you, touching you. Tasting you” His voice was rough, needy, but still filled with that same unwavering devotion.
Chris pressed his forehead against yours, breathing deeply, his hands framing your face as he whispered, “Tell me you believe me.” His voice was rough, but underneath it was something fragile, something that told you this moment wasn’t just for you, but for him too.
Your fingers tightened against his skin, pulling him impossibly closer. “I believe you,” you whispered, meaning every word. Your hands working on ridding him of his clothing, you pull at his t-shirt, indicating that its gotta go, Chris sits up and pulls it off and throws it, not giving a damn where it lands, you then reach for the button of his trousers, you pop the button and pull the zip down, you look up at him with a playful smirk, you pull his pants and boxers down in one swift motion, his cock springing free. Chris hisses as the cold hits his stiff member.
A slow smile tugged at his lips before leaned in and kissed you again, deep and unrelenting, as if sealing your words between you forever.
And as he held you, surrounded by the warmth of the fire, the weight of his love, you realized that voice in your head, the one that told you ‘you weren’t enough’, had finally gone silent.
Your hands traced over his back, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips. Chris was strength incarnate, a soldier through and through, but here, right now, he was just a man. A man who wanted you, all of you. Chris nips at your ear and whispers “you’re so fucking hot, god, you make me crazy” his voice husky and laced with pure lust.
His lips found yours again, softer this time, lingering. The intensity simmered just beneath the surface, but he wasn’t rushing, he was worshipping. The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that left you breathless. He tasted like heat, like something that burned and soothed all at once, and you melted beneath him, surrendering to the way he made you feel.
Chris shifts his body slightly, spreading your legs further apart to accommodate his body better, he grips his cock at the base, giving it a few strokes before lining himself up at your entrance, he looks into your eyes, “you ready sweetheart?”, you nod frantically, your excitement visible through your eyes, he chuckles and rubs his cock up and down your soaked folds, gathering up your slick for self lubrication, slowly pushes in, inch by delicious inch until he completely bottoms out with a grunt. His eyes close and he looks blissed out, your mouth falls open at the stretch. Chris knows he’s a big guy so he stills completely, allowing you to adjust to him. The pain begins to subside and you look into chris’s eyes, you can feel his body trembling from restraint, “you can move” you smile up at him and with that he slowly pulls all the way out before slamming back into you at a force, knocking the air from your lungs.
Chris rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. His fingers brushed over your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Tell me you believe me,” he murmured breathlessly as he ruts into you, his voice trembling now, almost pleading. “Tell me you know how much I love you.”
You moan softly, lifting a hand to cup his cheek, your fingers grazing the rough stubble along his jaw. “I believe you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I believe you, Chris.”, you say between panting.
Chris picks up the pace, changing his angles, searching for that spot that’ll drive you crazy, his hand gripping your hip so tightly you’re sure that it’ll leave a bruise later. Chris hits the spot, your eyes clench shut and you moan loudly, he smirks, “found it” he says cockily, he abuses that specific spot, hitting it over and over again until your brain no longer functions, your words making no sense, “mm….ggoood…..s……good!” you whimper incoherently. Chris feels a sense of pride as he reduces you to this state, “good girl, taking me so well” he says as he pistons into you.
Chris exhales shakily, like he’d been holding onto something for too long, and in that moment, you realized, maybe he needed this just as much as you did. Maybe loving you, reassuring you, was just as important to him as it was for you to hear it.
Chris kissed you again, slow and deep, pouring every unspoken word into the way his lips moved against yours. His hands skimmed down your sides, gripping your hips with a reverence that sent warmth blooming through your chest. “m’gonna make you feel so good baby,” he murmured, his voice husky, filled with promise.
Chris begins to lose control, but he needs you to finish before he can, he keeps hitting that spot repeatedly and reaches down with his hand to rub rough circles on your clit, your eyes roll back as you feel your orgasm creeping up at a fast pace, your breathing ragged, your walls begin to tighten around him as you hit your climax, you cry out and your nails dig into the flesh of Chris’s back, the pain mixed with the pleasure proves to be too much for Chris as he hurtles towards his climax too, your tight cunt milking him for all he’s worth, he buries himself to the hilt and stilled as spurt after spurt of his hot potent seed paints your inner walls with a rough grunt, shuddering against your body. His body flops on top of you, unable to move just yet, As he pressed you deeper into the mattress, his body warm and solid against yours, the last of your doubts faded into the crackling firelight.
Truth be told, you weren’t really feeling him in the first place. He constantly made a point to comment about your weight. While it was all in a “joking” manner, you weren’t a fan.
It didn’t bother you too much at the beginning of the relationship, but last night was the icing on the cake.
“Hey!” Clark Kent, your sweet colleague at the Daily Planet walked over. He was dodging the clamoring of your coworkers celebrating another successful story being released before coming up to your table where you sat alone with your margarita. Still your first one of the night. “Why are you sitting here all your lonesome?”
“Ah, it’s nothing.” You stir your drink with a straw.
“Come on. You’ve been in a bad mood all day today. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Your lips curl upwards. He was always going to see through you. “What gave it away?”
“When you kicked the printer in frustration for only printing your pages one-sided.”
He chuckles as you groan, sitting across from you. “I just had a shitty night last night.”
“How bad was it?” You hesitate, unsure if you should spill about your ex. Every time you bought him up, Clark made this face. As if he didn’t approve of him. Like you could do better. “Come on, tell me. It couldn’t be as bad as when I told you I locked myself out of my apartment that time.”
“Well…” You hide your face behind your glass, “I broke up with my boyfriend.”
The air feels different. Clark sits up, wide eyes going past his frames. “Really?”
You nod, “He told me the stupidest shit ever, and I just decided I had enough.”
“What did he say?” The drink you’ve been nursing was now gone in a few gulps, making Clark worried. “He didn’t hurt you, right? If he did, I will give him a firm talking to.”
You snort, smiling at how cute he was. “No, babe. After our date, he made a comment about how he wouldn’t be able to pick me up. Mind you, the guy constantly works out at the gym and is like 200 pounds.”
“Ah.”
“Right? I dumped his ass so fast. That was just the last straw for me. I could take the multiple comments about my weight, but that was just…ugh.” You needed another drink, something stronger so you won’t get upset.
Why couldn’t you find a nice guy? Someone like Clark who was sweet and caring. Who always look at you with such warmth that fills you up inside. Was that hard to get?
“I can pick you up.” You blink, not knowing what to say. So he keeps going. “Last time I checked, I weigh 240 pounds. Doctors said it was a perk from working on the farm.”
Butterflies fill your chest. The loud music and rambunctious activities from your coworkers didn’t distract you from how Clark was looking at you. All innocent like. His cheeks flushed, ears getting a little red. He wasn’t serious, was he?
“C-Clark.” You clear your throat, “Clark. That’s sweet of you to say that to make me feel better.”
“But it’s the truth.” He stands, the wooden chair screeching across the floor. “I have no problem picking you up.”
You feel blood rushing to your cheeks. Clark was a huge guy, but never once you thought about him carrying you in his arms. Is it bad that you low-key want him to do it? That would feel wrong. You just broke up with your boyfriend not even 24 hours ago. You couldn’t ask another man to carry you.
“No, no it’s okay. Thanks though.”
You don’t miss the disappointment in his eyes when he sits back down. “No problem. Could I at least get you something to drink?”
“Please.”
You don’t request a particular drink when Clark stands up. It gives you time to control your rapid heartbeat. You’ve never had a man make an advance like that before. Matter of fact, Clark always told you how pretty you looked every day. The professional outfits you wore, how your perfume smelled nice and not overpowering. You thought he was being nice, but now…
A glass of water sits in front of you. Clark with a matching glass when he sits back down. Such a boy scout.
Once you decide you’ve had enough “drinking” at the bar, it was time to go home. You didn’t get the buzz that you wanted, so maybe that pint of cheesecake ice cream the other day would help. Clark offered to walk you. You didn’t say no, knowing he lived a block ahead of you.
The walk was silent. Besides the constant cars driving past you two, you didn’t really say anything. You had to fight your inner demons to ask if he was serious about picking you up.
Although, you wouldn’t know what to do if he was.
When you’re at your door, key out and ready to place in the slot, you stop. You turn and look up at Clark who gazes at you.
“Were you serious?”
“About…? Oh. Yes, I was.”
You cover your cheeks, “Stop playing with me.”
“I’m not, seriously.” Clark steps closer, his chest along yours. “I would love to pick you up.”
Your face gets hot due to the proximity. His crystal blue eyes never leave yours while he waits. “Don’t…say love like that.”
“Sorry. Was that too forward?”
“No…No, you’re fine.” You bite your lip before taking a deep breath. He was just going to pick you up. No big deal. “Okay. How do we-oh!”
In one swoop, Clark grabs your sides, picking you up. Your legs wrap around his waist, hands secure on his shoulders. He doesn’t cheat by using the wall. All he does is give you a huge smile.
“See! I told you I can do it.”
He did, and now you’re turned on. Not for the fact that he was able to pick you up, but because he looked so happy when he did it. Like holding you wasn’t an issue. The way his glasses lowered made you push them up for him. His eyes, briefly, dart to your lips. It wasn’t easy to miss.
“How long am I gonna be up here?”
“As long as you want. I won’t get tired.”
Oh god, this man.
You couldn’t take it anymore when you gave him a peck on the lips. One you instantly regretted when you part. You can’t even blame your actions on the fact that you were tipsy, because your mind was clear as ever.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what the hell came over me-”
Clark settles you against the wall, before kissing you back. This one was much longer and needy. He groans against your lips, his hands now holding the underside of your thighs. You don’t fear him dropping you during the kiss so you revel in it. How soft his lips are. The way he gives a gentle pull to your bottom lip. When his tongue easily slides in to meet yours, you couldn’t help but moan. He smells like fresh laundry linen, even after a long day at work. It was so comforting.
You grip the curls along his nape, inviting him in closer. Your core steadily getting soaked just from his desperate kisses, as if he wanted to kiss you like this for a while now. With each touch, you feel just how strong Clark is. The muscle under his suit was something you wanted to memorize for hours. His firm biceps, tough forearms under the rolled up sleeves.
You didn’t want to stop.
It’s a shame you needed to breathe. When pulling away, your breath was stolen, a bit dizzy. And Clark was still holding you just as tight as he was before.
“If you don’t mind, I’d love to take you out sometime.”
Hi everyone I’m alive 💔 I haven’t been writing I’m sorry :( tho I doubt anyone is still waiting from more parts to series I started 😭 how has everyone been?
Warnings: Fingering, leg humping, fucked with a foregein object <3, ass slapping.
Please consider reblogging to spread it!
A/N first time writing Tommy with no Joel!
Shout out to @sweetlummie and @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog for encouraging me!
Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more
He didn’t know it, but the new rookie for Texas Stars skating around below you was going to be your boyfriend.
Tommy Miller was an often underlook member of the team, but those who knew what they were talking about saw his potential, saw the way he moved with grace despite his large build, how he kept calm under pressure, his speed and his aim. He just needed… encouragement. While all the other girls went for the men with more play time, whose sports trading cards posted more goals, or who were already names among any hockey fan, you had your eyes set on him.
It wasn’t like he didn’t get attention from girl; of course he did, he was beautiful. Kind eyes and the most profoundly sparkling smile you’d ever seen, all framed in dark curls.
He practiced alone, sentenced to hours of grueling routines to make up for his little fumble today while his teammates were out partying with girls or at home fucking their wives. It wasn’t fair that he got punished. Harold was the one who tried to pass it to Tommy when Jake was wide fucking open! Tommy did his best with what he was given, which was a not-clear shot and when he took it, he missed. Trailing only one point behind, the buzzer went off and Tommy was blamed for losing the game.
Skidding to a stop, Tommy looked up at the near empty bleachers where you sat. He touched his finger to his helmet and tipped his head. Such a cowboy, you thought, and we went on practicing.
*
The locker door slamming signaled where he was at, and you give a little courtesy knock at the entrance.
“C’in.” Tommy calls, probably assuming you’re a teammate or coach, or even staff.
“Yuh decent?”
Whatever he was expecting, when he turned around his face indicated it wasn’t you.
“Oh. Howdy, ma’am?” Tommy’s voice inflected up at the end, sounding more like a question than a greeting. Still, you lean against the doorway and admire the view.
Even cuter up close, you admire. Little freckles sprinkled his face, and his smile was so boyish and cute your heart fluttered.
“I uh… I seen you ‘round.” He repeated your name, and it made you happy to know he knew it. That meant he’d asked about you. You and Tommy talked a few times, mostly in groups, but you’d never been introduced. “What’cha do’n here so late? Pretty little thing like you gotta have a nice young man wait’n at home for yuh?”
You shake your head. “Nope. Not yet, anyway. Wasn’t think’n ‘bout tryna change that.”
Pink flushed his skin, but his smile grew. “Is that so, sweet thing? Do I got myself a little puck bunny on my hands?”
You push yourself off the wall, a spring in your step as you bound towards him.Hands clasped behind your back, you gaze up at him with big eyes. Fuck, his shadow just swollowed you up. “Nothing you aren’t used to, I’m sure.”
“Been around a time or two, I won’t lie…” A large, LARGE hand reached out to cup your face and you can’t help but squeal. As your little plans were happening. “None quite as cute as the little bunny I got in front of me, though.”
Taking a little initiative, you pressed yourself up against his red jersey. He smells like sweat and the metallic air of an ice rink. His body was firm against you. “Want you to fuck me.” You blurt out, and the sultry look on his face breaks into a wide grin.
“That’s why you break’n into my locker room?”
You nod. He leans closer.
“Well, how can I say no to such a pretty little bunny?”
His mouth crashes into you, shoving you right up against the locker doors with a rattling crash as his hands paw all over you. Tommy dwarfs you, his wide shoulders and barrel chest completely caging you in. The force of his kisses and powerful presence is so much so you’d feel trapped if you weren’t so fucking turned on. Hands down your pants, Tommy bites hard at your lip and sucks on it to ease the pain as he fiddles with your cunt.
“Wet already?” He teases, smirk pressed against your skin.
“I- I was thinking about you… while I watched…” You moan against him bucking your hand against Tommy’s fingers as they teased your entrance.
“So eager… Tell me, Bunny, how come I got so lucky to find you in my locker, not one of my teammates? Chance?”
You want his long fingers inside you so bad, sweating from the teasing enough you don’t even feel the chill of the air. “Tommyyyy, please!”
“Talk to me, bebita. I won’t be mad if I just happened to be who was here tonight, promise.”
“No! No, Tommy, you’re special… you’re gonna be a star, I just know it…”
When you glance up at him, you expect to see a smirk. Instead, his face is soft. “You really think that?”
Quickly, you nod. “I’d put money on it. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever seen…”
“Fuck-” Suddenly he’s finger fucking you, the wet squelch of your cunt echoing around you, about filth filling the locker room. “Gonna treat you so good, pretty baby. So fuck’n good.” It’s then you realize he’s humping against you, hard cock grinding against your thigh
Your hands grip his huge forearms, searching for purchase and stability as he drew you closer to orgasm. Tommy sucked deep into your neck, sure to leave a mark you’d proudly display. You were taken. Tommy was gonna be yours. Yeah, you were hooking up right now and it wasn’t a commitment, it wasn’t a proclamation of love but it was a start.
“Cum for me, bunny.” Tommy’s voice was tight, tense...
And you did. You’d do anything he wanted. Waves of pleasure crash around you, clenching down hard on his three fingers and crying out his name as he muttered curses against your ear. Little moans escaped his mouth as he too came, cuming only from humping your leg and finger fucking you cunt. Your knees went weak, melting into jelly but Tommy caught you.
He bent you down and over the bench, stomach pressed to the cool wood and your ass and pussy on clear display in the harsh LED lights.
Panting, Tommy kneels down next to you; not before you can see a wet spot in his uniform.
“Think…” He pants. “Think you can take more?”
Smiling, you turn to look at him. “Does the phrase fuck like rabbits mean nothing to you?”
He laughs at that, calling you a good girl and kisses your forehead.
Still, you nod to where his erection is gone, already wasting his seed in his pants. “You gonna get hard for me again already, pretty boy?”
A chuckles as he reaches around you, walking on his knees to get a good look from behind. “Not quite, bunny…” A tsk, tsk, tsk from his mouth as he stares at your vulnerable position. “Such a pretty little cunt… it’d be shame to leave it all put together, huh?”
You didn’t know what he had planned and you didn’t care. “Yeah, it would.”
Cool plastic hits your wet cunt and you gasp.
The hockey stick.
“Gonna take real good care of you…” Tommy mutters, planting a kiss to your ass. “And then I’m gonna take you on a real fuck’n date, that sound good?”
Oh, things are coming together nicely. “Yes Tommy. Sounds real nice.”
“Good girl.”
And then all you could feel was your cunt being spread open. It was slow, careful but still an agonizing split.
“Ooooh shit!” You moan, and despite the ache you push yourself back against him to take it further. It was delicious, it was wrong, and you were 100% willing to humiliate yourself for Tommy… but it didn’t feel humiliating. It felt good. It felt good because you felt full, it felt good because you could hear Tommy’s grin as he praised you. He began to fuck you with it, the handle going as far up as it could and you grip the bench you’re knelt against to try and hold onto reality and you come barrelling towards your orgasm again.
*Smack!*
Tommy slapped your ass just to watch it jiggle.
“Fuck! Fuck you’re perfect… my bunny. My perfect bunny…”
Wrapping an arm around you, Tommy plays with your clit and that's the beginning of the end for you.
“Tommy!” You scream his name, hearing it bounce down the hallways but you don’t fucking care. You would let Tommy stick whatever he wanted wherever he wanted if it meant he called you his bunny again.
You cum on the hockey stick, drenching it in your fluids and feeling it splatter out around your thighs as he keeps fucking you.
Satiated, smiling, and full, you fully slump against the bench and Tommy finally pulls the stick out. All clear, you let yourself slide onto the cool tile floor, red lockers creating a wall around you. And you laugh.
If Tommy cares that you’re laughing after sex he does show it, instead crawling over to where your head rest after he pulls up your pants, giggling himself. He pulls your head onto his lap, gently caressing you.
“How you feel’n?”
You grin up at him, Tommy’s near-black locks falling around him. “A little empty right now, honestly.”
This makes him laugh again. “Well, I got all night, bebita. I can fill you right up again” When you’re read he helps you up. “You’re really someth’n, y’know that?”
“I do, actually. That’s why I think we’d be good together.”
“Can’t help but agree with yuh there.” You watch him dress down, to his padding, then tell him you’ll wait for him outside the locker room. As much as you wanna see him naked, you decide to make that event a little more special.
When he’s showered and back in his regular clothes, still as thick as ever, you loop you arm around his and he guides you out of the maze of the rinks halls, his back heavy on your shoulder, but you insist.
As he walks you out, you cross paths with one of his team mates coming back in for some practice, Carter. Tall as hell, blonde, and with a young man on his arm, he takes one look at your mussed hair and hickies, then pats Tommy on the back as they pass.
You were Tommy’s puck bunny now.
hope you liked it!!!!
Other content of mine with tommy: The Wrong Way, Yes Uncle tommy? Blessed be the fruit
Also shout out to my beloved @aurorawritestoescape for her sexy sexy Bad Blood with tommy and joel!
Im working on a tommy exclusive series rn that I hope will be the right kind of mind fuck <3 will start releasing it with the new season! TOMMY MILLER FANS RISE!!!
SUMMARY: A few loosely connected vignettes taking place throughout fall and winter, ending with a raider family Christmas. 🖤⛓️ 🌸🫛🐶👱♂️. My gift to those of you who love these characters. I love y'all so much. This is an 18+ blog.
-------
“What do you guys give each other for Christmas,” you asked Joel in early fall, secretly digging for a lead on what to get him for his birthday. It was bedtime and your head was on his bare chest.
“What makes ya think we celebrate Christmas?"
“Yeah I know, it’s a godless world," you conceded, "but it's an excuse to celebrate each other.”
Joel took a breath as though getting ready to speak, but you cut him off, “Don't say it”
“What?” He asked.
“something like,” (you lowered your voice slightly) "no one should celebrate me."
“Wasn't gonna,” Joel claimed.
“Then what were you gonna say?” You challenged him.
“I was gonna say…” he rolled you over and glanced down at your bare breasts before bringing his mouth to your neck. He murmured into your skin, “celebrate each other all the time.” He hiked up your leg, and dragged his lips from your neck to your ear to whisper, “celebrate each other all night if ya want.”
You giggled, then a rush of desire drowned out your amusement as his arousal swelled against you.
—--
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—--
Joel would never let the dog onto the bed. That's where he drew the line. The bed was Joel's domain. It was for you and him, period. He didn't even want the dog in the bedroom, because that was one step closer to the bed.
But one time, it was storming, and Bullet was scratching at the bedroom door. You slithered out of Joel's tight embrace and got out of bed. Joel kept snoring. You were going to take Bullet back to the living room and calm him down, but as soon as the bedroom door cracked open, the dog bolted over to a pile of laundry in the corner of the bedroom and started making a nest in it. You watched him circling and nosing the fabric for a few seconds until he settled in. He lowered his head to rest on his paws, and looked up hopefully.
You petted him, “Shhhh.” His tail was down, but he wagged it a little in what felt like a promise.
You left the door cracked open as if the dog had opened it himself. He was a very good boy all night. Even with loud claps of thunder, his whine stayed very quiet, and neither you nor Joel woke up. Bullet even went back to the living room unprompted once the storm quieted. You quietly washed the laundry the next day.
-
This happened a few more times, and Joel never found out, as far as you knew. Except for one time when he woke up before you and saw the tell-tale dent in the laundry, and, upon further inspection, some light orange hairs. Joel's nostrils flared only slightly, and he shook his head to himself. But he just shook out the clothes and never said anything.
Then, one day, Joel was in the trailer park down the hill, looking for supplies and assessing how dangerous the area was getting. In a trailer that wasn't burned too badly, he saw a sofa cushion with a little dent in it that reminded him of that dent in the laundry. He put the cushion under his elbow and later stashed it in a closet with some colder weather clothes he’d picked up for you throughout the year.
—---
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—---
“I hope he likes this,” You whispered to Joel, hoping Carter wouldn't hear you over the noise of whatever DIY project he was working on outside. You were sitting on the floor, holding a thick, weathered paperback in your hand.
“Lemme see,” Joel said, and you handed it to him.
He chuckled at the cover–a pirate embracing a lady from behind, both their hair windswept. Then he thumbed through the wrinkled pages, stopped at one, and his eyebrows shot up. “engorged member,” he mouthed and his face wrinkled.
“Hard cock,” you translated.
“heaving bosom…” he read.
“That's boobs,” you explained.
Joel closed the book as much as it would close, given the warped pages, and he handed it back to you. “M’sure he’ll like it,” Joel tried not to laugh.
“What?” You asked. “Don't you ever feel bad that he's alone?”
“It's a sweet thought, baby.”
“You didn't want me to write one myself, remember….”
“sure as hell didn't,” he agreed. “don't need to be writin’ about anyone else's engorged anything,” Joel said.
“wasnt gonna do anything graphic. I just thought it might be nice if the main character was a man, and the pirates are girls and guys.”
He couldn't help but wonder, was this the kind of filth you were thinking about when you went to bed early? He had trouble believing it. You knew you were his. But he still asked. “What else ya got? Any more books?”
Joel cocked his eyebrow and warned you, “Leave it.”
Your face heated up and your eyes shifted around. “Nothing like that,” you promised.
Joel studied your face and said, “yeah?”
Your eyes flitted to the floor and his jaw clenched. You cursed yourself for the dead giveaway.
He looked under the bed and pulled out a single, tattered paperback book. “What's this?” He asked before inspecting it.
“Nothing,” you said, with your whole upper body on fire. “Just something I was–”
Joel studied the front cover. It was a battle scene with a man posing valiantly with his shirt wrapped open. A piece of paper was haphazardly fastened to the cover with some kind of glue. The paper covered the man's face but his flowing hair still emerged from the left and bottom edges. The paper was beginning to curling off on that side, and the pencil was fading. Joel swallowed as he took in the drawing. A man from the neck up, complete with a bulging neck vein. Dark hair, dark eyes, a mustache, some scruff, and an unmistakable scowl.
Joel raised his eyebrows and rubbed his lips together.
“It's stupid,” you said and reached for it.
“This what ya read?” he asked as he opened the cover.
“No, I just–when you were gone for a night, I thought it could be-”
The title page, The General and the Girl, had “the general” crossed out and something scribbled above it. He squinted and braced for what he assumed would read "raider," but it didn't. “Killer,” it read. And he wasn't sure if that was better or worse.
“Hm,” Joel observed, then noticed “the” was crossed out too. The Killer and *his* Girl. He thumbed through a few more pages and you had crossed out inaccurate descriptions of both of you and then after the first chapter or so the annotations stopped.
Joel ran his thumb over the scrawled text, and you offered, “He only kills bad guys …”
He closed the book and handed it back to you without further discussion.
A sawing noise vibrated through the wall, followed by something crinkling.
Joel changed the subject back to Christmas. “You know what I think Carter could use?”
“What?”
“Somewhere nice to sleep.”
“He doesn't have one?” you never really thought about it, because Carter always made a point of bragging that he could sleep anywhere.
“How'd ya feel about him movin’ into the trailer?”’
“Really?” You asked.
“Safer for us, nicer for him…”
You smiled and he muttered, “c'mere. You're a good girl, sweet pea.”
You were relieved he didn't find your sketchbook.
—--
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—--
Christmas Eve
It was only afternoon, and you already felt like you wouldn't be able to sleep that night. You and Joel had made up a bed for Carter in the living room, which you barely used anyway. You made sure it was away from the leak. There was a quilt and a pillow. You even nailed a sheet between the kitchen from the living room to serve as a privacy curtain since there was no door. You slid the pirate book onto the shelf among the other books.
“We should do it all tonight,” you suggested.
Joel silently laughed at you, then shook his head no.“C’mon. Let's go for a walk,” he said. He didn't really care about the timing, except that he got a kick out of your enthusiasm. It was better than any gift he could've asked for.
-
After the sun set, Carter came up the hill. “Alright, I know Christmas is tomorrow, but I gotta give ya my present tonight.”
“Me too!” You agreed.
“Sweet pea,” Joel shook his head with a chuckle.
“Aw shoot,” Carter said unconvincingly. “I left the bird behind.” Joel had also shot two birds for the other men, and Carter brought them all down to the house to pluck. He sent both you and Joel down there to get the one you would share. Bullet trailed behind.
Joel poked around the storage area trying to buy Carter some time, then he grabbed the goose and when he came back outside bullet did a happy circle.
When you got back to the trailer, a flickering orange glow was visible in the window. Carter had set up a freestanding fireplace hearth in the corner of the kitchen. Joel didn't seem surprised. After all, Carter wouldn't do something like that without permission. But apparently he had hauled the heavy unit on his own, cleaned it out, and fitted the exhaust pipe to a hole he sawed in the wall. The job looked professional.
You had a cozy dinner in the kitchen and lingered around the table enjoying the warmth together while the men drank a spiced wine you made. When the fire died down, Carter announced he better head off to bed.
You and Joel looked at each other and Joel gave you the go-ahead nod toward Carter's new quarters. Joel's eyes sparkled as your face lit up.
With Carter almost out the front door, you said, “where are you going?” He turned around, and you pointed toward the end of the trailer. “Your bed’s in there.”
Carter looked at Joel, and Joel nodded. You grabbed him by the elbow and led him through the kitchen and held the sheet aside for him.
Carter took in the view, then looked back at Joel in case you had gone rogue. Joel nodded. “Might as well crash here, whenever ya want I mean.” Joel shrugged.
Carter tried to refuse, because he was committed to keeping an eye on things down at the house and keeping things under control. “Ain't no troublemakers down at the house these days,” Joel reasoned. “Rather ya keep an eye on this one,” he nodded toward you and pinched your chin.
“You got it, boss.” Carter didn't know what else to say. He and Joel shook hands and the look they shared told you it might as well have been a hug.
Carter went to bed in the newly improved space. Bullet went to sleep on the kitchen floor, right in front of the hearth, enjoying the heat that still radiated from the metal.
-
After enjoying a leisurely Christmas eve romp in which you tried not to be too loud, you and Joel settled in for bed. As you predicted, you weren't tired enough to sleep.
“Do you know the night before Christmas?” You asked Joel, snuggled into the crook of his arm.
He looked at the ceiling and thought. “Somethin’ ‘bout ma and pa wearin’ hats,” and you nodded encouraging him. He tried to continue, “And, uh…. mouse that can't hear nothin’?”
You giggled and buried your face in his arm, again trying not to be too loud. “What?” he asked.
“not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,” you recited.
“You're gonna stir all night, ain't ya?” Joel asked. “‘less I tucker ya out,” he mused. He turned over, letting part of his weight onto you. He pressed soft kisses onto your neck, then chest, then slid his mouth to your breast and the pull of his lips made you whine. Soon, he became a shape under the sheets, a silhouette stirring between your legs.
He knew how to put you to sleep.
—--
Christmas Day
In the morning, you woke up to the smell of coffee. You dragged a paper bag out from under the bed. You'd drawn stars and trees on it in pencil and labeled it “J. Miller” Joel and Carter were already in the kitchen and there were presents wrapped in old newspaper and string.
You asked Joel to open his first but he refused, wanting to drag out your eagerness as long as possible.
Joel gave you an assortment of sweaters, just in time for the cold weather. Different colors and textures. Cozy and perfect. The last package he handed you wasn't as fluffy.
You carefully untied it and saw corduroy. You ran your hand over the ribs and the fabric was still smooth, however many years after it was made. You held up the garment and it was pants. He willingly gave you pants.
After a moment of silence, Joel mumbled “might not be *that* cold just yet, but–” Carter laughed at him.
You went and sat in Joel's lap and handed him his gift bag. He opened it and pulled out a thermal Henley, a cable knit sweater in decent condition aside from a few snagged threads. You suspected it might be a little tight on his arms, but he never seemed to mind.
The last thing in the bag was a spiral-bound notebook. Your sketchbook. He opened it and his face went serious as his eyes poured over every detail–sketches of him. Joel wiping his sweat with a rag, holding a wrench. Joel sleeping. Joel holding a figure that could only be you. His face softened and his jaw twitched as he studied that one. When he finally moved on to the next page, his face turned pink. He quickly closed the book and cleared his throat. “Sweet pea,” he laughed in faux admonishment. You could've given him that one in private, but you didn't want to tear anything out of the book.
“I drew what I like,” you shrugged, and kissed him on his burning cheek.
“You’re talented, baby,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas,” you wished him, and he kissed you on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, baby.”
“I'll make breakfast,” Carter offered.
“Oh. One more thing,” Joel said. “Can't forget the big guy.” Joel eased you off of his lap and stretched before going to the supply closet and retrieving the cushion with the little dip in it.
He plopped it into the floor and bullet came over and sniffed around it, then scratched at the fabric before settling into it.
“And,” Joel interrupted himself with a weak sigh. “As long as he don't get on the bed, when it’s rainin’ ya can bring it..” he nodded toward the bedroom.
You wrapped your arms tight around Joel and he cradled your head. “Alright,” he said. “I'm gettin’ hungry.”
chapter warnings: reader is held captive, rope bindings, gagging, descriptions of anxiety and depressive thoughts, mention of sexual assault and murder.
The baleful ferocity in Joel's eyes is so frightening that for a split second you are afraid that he was going to kill you right then and there. You are scared stiff, frozen in place with the fear that he was about to hurt you more than ever before.
But he doesn't.
Joel manhandles you onto the bed to tie you up, but his actions are not heedlessly cruel. He doesn't slap you to subdue your anguished cries or berate you with vicious insults. He simply carries out the task with his jaw firmly squared and his laboured breaths huffing through his nose.
His lips are pressed shut and his eyes stay glued on what he's doing, his hands moving with deft efficiency. He doesn't speak at all. You sob and plead for him to stop, to take you both back to Jackson, to give it one more chance, but he does not meet your eyes or respond to you. He does not acknowledge you as you promise to be good, to be better for him if he only just turns around now to go back home. It is like he can't hear you at all.
Joel wraps the rope tightly around your arms to secure them against the sides of your torso, then uses the remaining length to tie your wrists securely together behind your back. He then kneels down at your feet and ties a shorter piece of rope around your ankles, making it impossible for you to walk. You attempt to move your arms and rotate your wrists but the restraints keep your limbs in place, rendering your whole body almost completely immobile. It is disconcerting how defenceless it leaves you.
You open your mouth to make another plea when Joel reaches for a strip of cloth beside his boot on the ground. He pulls the material taut between his hands and raises it to your face. A surge of steely terror pulses through your veins when you realise his intentions.
"Oh, Joel," you sob pitifully. "Please don't. I w-won't speak anymore, I promise."
Joel continues to ignore you, his lips pressed in a grim line and his brows furrowed as he places the cloth firmly over your mouth and reaches behind your head to tie the gag. Although your nose is unobstructed and you can still breathe, the gag is the final crushing blow to your sense of autonomy. You bow your head in defeat and let the tears splash down to your lap in big fat drops.
This can't be happening. You must be dreaming - this has to be a bad dream, a nightmare.
Joel finishes and pulls back to rest on his haunches. You spy the way his large hands hover over your knees uncertainly, as if he is restraining himself from touching you. When you lift your chin to look at him, you're unsure how to interpret the sight before you.
It is immediately evident that Joel's anger has simmered down considerably. The tightness in his jaw has eased and the hunch of his shoulders is more relaxed. The coarse aggression in his facial features has been replaced by more benign emotion; his eyebrows knit into an almost sorrowful frown and the corners of his mouth are downturned. You think you may see something akin to conflicted woe glistening in his rich brown eyes.
But perhaps it is just your eyes playing tricks on you in your distressed state. Maybe your vision is too clouded to see properly. The Joel you know wouldn't feel remorse for doing this. Would he?
Joel's gaze trails over your bound body before drifting up to your face, but he avoids meeting your eyes. He stares at the makeshift gag instead, then sniffs and shakes his head gently. What is he thinking?
You watch him rise from the floor and lumber over to the fireplace, his boots scraping across the floor planks. Despite the circumstances you want to reach out and cling to him, to try appeal to whatever shred of rationality that could be hiding within his tormented heart.
But it's impossible. You can hardly move an inch with how proficiently he has bound you with the rope and the gag strains taut against your lips. All you can do is weep in adject silence while you watch him prepare your departure from the cabin.
The fire in the fireplace has died down considerably but the remaining flames crackle and the emanating heat continues to warm the inside of the cabin. Joel upturns the logs and ash with the shovel and extinguishes the little fire, the embers sizzling and glowing in its wake. All your hope dies along with the fire.
From the very moment he found out that you were kidnapped, Oscar feels like he is in a race against time. He imagines a giant hourglass hanging above his head, the seeping grains of time taunting him as they distill through the narrow glass neck, urging him to move faster and faster. He knows that is crucial he act on his impulses right now, that not even a minute can be squandered. Every second that passes could be another potential step toward a catastrophic fate.
He was able to convince the gate guards to let him leave town without them interrogating him too much. He lied smoothly enough, telling them that he was scheduled for patrol with Tommy but Tommy had to stay back and sort things out about Joel. Oscar was confident explaining that Tommy told him to go ahead alone and that he would catch up soon enough. It was a far fetched lie but it worked - word had already spread about Joel among the patrolmen and the guards at the gate were too nonplussed to argue with him.
Oscar sits rigid and staunch upon his horse now, directing it to canter away from Jackson as the gates shut behind him. Oscar knows that Tommy would be pissed with him but right now he doesn't care. His patience and inclination to adher to authority and their protocols have been completely overriden by the primal part of his brain, the part that commands him to hunt and kill and defend all that is his.
His.
That's what you are. He's known it for so long now. Whether you want him as a friend or a lover, you're his. His to cherish and love and honour.
He growls and shakes his head, furious with himself for being such a coward and waiting so long to tell you how he felt. Maybe if he hadn't, you wouldn't be in this situation. Maybe he could've protected you from Joel.
He hopes to God that despite being taken against your will, you're uninjured. He hopes that you are warm and sheltered, that you aren't weathering the freezing cold, that Joel has atleast some consideration for your physical well-being. He knows you have never been outside the town, he knows you probably wouldn't cope well with the unforgiving conditions of the land. You must be so scared, so broken hearted and lost.
Once again he imagines Joel hauling you through snow in the open wilderness, you shivering and weeping like a tortured prisoner behind him. The sorching rage burns brighter in his sternum, flickering frenziedly with reaffirmed indignation. He'll find you, goddamnit. He'll find you if it's the last fucking thing he ever does.
Oscar struggles to constrain the garbled whirlwind of pessimistic thoughts and endless questions cycling through his mind. Why had Joel taken you away? What was he planning to do? Where the hell has he taken you? Are you dressed warmly enough? Are you wearing your good boots, the sturdy brown ones you liked wearing when the ground was hardy with icy snow? Did Joel give you time to pack anything, or did he rob you of the opportunity to take any kind of comfort with you?
Although Oscar does not know the answer to any of these things, he is hell bent on finding you and rescuing you from whatever demented plan Joel has.
His intuition tells him to follow the worn path of the patrol route he is most familiar with. Too much time has elapsed since now and whenever you left town, leaving little to no hope of tracking you using hoof prints; he can only depend on his instinct to guide him. He steers the horse along the path while vigilantly searching for any sign that you had passed along this very course earlier - a piece of clothing, a ribbon, anything that could give him a clue.
He continues riding to the closest check point, the one positioned at the top of a clearing that overlooks a small valley. Despite the morning sun hiding behind the dull grey clouds, the blanket of snow covering the ground sparkles. Oscar's eyes squint and scan over the vast Wyoming landscape before him. The clusters of trees and shrubs dotting the land offer some kind of shield but are sparse enough that he could spot any movement from a distance. He sees no speck of colour or motion in the valley, though. He looks toward the peaks and mountains further beyond the basin and considers how barren it appears.
Did Joel take you eastward? Oscar himself has never been on the south-eastern patrol before, but he has a hunch that there's nothing worthwhile out there.
No, his internal voice decides. His intuition pulls him around to face north-west instead. The surface of the ground is more flat that way, easier to travel along than the more rocky terrain in the valley. Oscar nods pensively to to himself as he surveys the environment. He notes the thick forest covering an extensive area of land. Perfect for clandestine travel. He vaguely recalls that there's even a cabin checkpoint in that direction. Yes, the tugging in his navel seems to beckon him in that way he cannot ignore. Yes. This is the way.
Oscar grips the reins tighter in his hands. He has to follow whatever higher power is guiding him. He digs his heels lightly against the horse and clicks his tongue. The horse whinnies and accepts his command to keep going, starting with a trot before accelerating into a steadfast canter. The glacial wind sails through Oscar's curls and prickles his cheeks and lips but it doesn't bother him; in fact he finds it strangely uplifting and rejuvenating, urging him to soldier on with his rescue mission.
He wishes he could send some kind of telepathic message to you right now to assure you that he's on his way to save you.
I'll find you, honey. I promise.
You feel like a coveted trophy animal that has been hunted down and captured - one that now awaits its inevitable demise, its own slaughter. You might as well be such an animal, considering the way Joel dragged you out of the cabin and heaved you onto the cart with nothing more than an irritated growl.
It hadn't taken long for him to gather whatever belongings he had and to get Tex saddled up again. He moved quickly, a renewed vigour for fulfilling his grand plan coursing through his whole body. It seemed like a matter of seconds before you heard him climb up onto Tex's back and click his tongue to signal the horse to get going. Then you felt the cart lurch and begin to move, and the pieces of your broken heart sank into the sour pit of your stomach.
You lay in the wagon now, your back pressed uncomfortably against the rope and wooden planks. You have been weeping for what feels like hours and your head aches. Your brain still feels foggy. Your body is exhausted and small waves of nausea roil in your stomach every so often, most likely from the lack of food in your belly.
The cart vibrates and rocks gently as it moves over the forrest terrain, the wheels bumping over the rocky snow covered earth in a way that is almost pacifying. You stare despondently up at the dull, grey clouded sky and the passing tree tops above you. The monotonous view has barely changed throughout the last few hours of travelling, each scene blurring into one never ending kaleidoscope. It has a disorientating effect; you have no idea where you are or where you're headed, or how far you've traversed from the cabin, and Joel has not spoken a word this whole time.
Your ears keenly attune to every sound surrounding you; the creak of the wagon wheels turning, the soft clop of Tex's hooves plodding through the snow, the faint wooshing of breezy wind passing through the trees. In any other scenario the harmony of these vibrations could be soothing, but in the current circumstances the noise sounds melancholic and only serves to accentuate how alone you are.
Tears of despair leak incessantly from your eyes and slide down the sides of your face. Despite Joel keeping you swaddled in his coat and a thick blanket the chill still nips at your flesh and bones, and the graze on your chin stings from the cold air. It is a harsh contrast to the comforting warmth of the cabin you woke up in earlier that morning.
You scold yourself for trying to flee, for even believing you could escape from Joel's irrational incarceration; not only is his strength far more superior than yours, his resolve has proven to be unbreakable. It would have been impossible to loose him. Even if you did succeed in running away, it would have only been a matter of minutes before he tracked and ensnared you once again. He's all the things you are not. Cunning, mighty, tenacious. You are total opposites, your personalities in stark contrast to one another in almost all respects.
A multitude of memories circle through your mind while you lay powerless in your bindings. You find yourself reminiscing about the first few months of knowing Joel, how everything had been so innocent and radiant and so exciting and thrilling. You had never been in love before. You had never felt such an electric attraction to anyone they way you did with Joel. You remember the fluttering in your stomach every time his rich brown eyes watched you, the pleasant shivers that would crawl up your spine whenever the baritone of his voice caressed your ear, the impatient throbbing inside your core when his fingers grazed your skin.
In the beginning, when the mystery of Joel's character was so alluring, everything about Joel seemed attractive to you. His demeanour had always been gruff and stern, but you had also witnessed the softer edges of his nature at times, particularly when he interacted with Ellie. You found his protective dedication to his daughter so endearing. He personified the role of a reserved gentleman - a perfect match for your own shy personality. He was able to demand respect from those around him without even uttering a single word. He radiated a fastidious masculinity that appealed to the lost, lonely little girl you kept tightly concealed within the depths of your heart.
Everything had been so exhilirating...until it began to hurt. You cannot pinpoint just when the relationship (or whatever Joel had refused to call your bond at that stage) had begun its slow descent into depraved obsession. There had been no specific event or moment that signified the change from muted courtship to fixated perversion. In hindsight it had been almost imperceivable.
You sift through the snapshot memories projecting in your imagination like a kind of dim montage. All the milestone instances of passion and love flashed like a shooting star exploding in the night sky.
The explosive first time you kissed. The first time you felt the delicious, intoxicating stretch of Joel's cock entering you. The first time he held his massive hand against the column of your neck and squeezed just enough for you to feel that bliss filled floaty sensation. The first time he smiled - genuinely smiled - at you, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement at some silly joke you had told he and Ellie.
The first time he had shown you just how petulant and sullen he could be when you had gone out with your friends to the Tipsy Bison. The first night he had made you kneel before him and let him fuck your mouth. The first time you suspected that he may have loved you, too, when you surprised him with a birthday cake and caught a sheen of adoration gloss over his irises.
The first slap Joel's calloused hand had delivered to your face when he had been plunged balls deep inside you. The subsequent ones he had delivered both in and outside the bedroom. The first time he had called you his perfect girl after you swallowed all his cum without choking, how it had made your cheeks blush and your tummy somersault. And then the following night, when Joel insisted he start training your throat properly, and how he held you down on his cock those few extra seconds despite your panicked smacks to his thigh, his gravelly voice praising you for being a good little slut.
You feel disgusted with yourself. You should have been strong enough to stay away from Joel. You should have devoted more of your time and energy to your friends, to your teaching, to servicing the community. If you had, you would be in Jackson right now, dancing with Kate and Rhi and helping organise Cassie's wedding and helping the kids at the library find their favourite comic books. You remember the smiles and laughter you shared with your students and your friends, and you hate yourself for not appreciating those precious, joyful times until this moment.
But none of that matters now. The chapter of your life in Jackson has been firmly shut. Those moments of happiness will never be replicated. The people you've come to know and love there will become ghosts of your past, just like your mother and father, and one day you'll be unable to recall their faces. Maybe they will forget you, too.
You must surrender to whatever fate Joel has chosen to bestow upon you. Whatever had transpired between Joel and Ellie was clearly catastrophic, given that he was willing to leave her behind in search of a new life. He would never leave his daughter, the most important person in his life, the one he is so fiercely protective of. This fact alone cements your belief that you will not returning. You wonder how Ellie feels now, what she might be thinking when she hears the news that he's left. You try to picture her face. Would she be sad? Angry? Relieved?
And your friends, how would they react when the gossip spreads throughout the community and reaches their ears? And Oscar?
Oh, Oscar. His face enters your minds eye and you can see him as clear as day; his dark brown eyes and the earnest sensitivity they always seem to convey, the distinct square shape of his jaw and his soft lips, his prominent nose, the lush black and grey curls of his hair. To think you will never lay your eyes on him ever again causes your heart to clench with profound sadness.
You ruminate for what seems like forever. Your thoughts progressively snowball into a turbulent storm of repetitive fantasy scenarios, scenes and faces gradually blurring into one another until you begin to feel faint and light headed. The nausea inside your belly and the pounding in your head intensifies until you're forced to squeeze your eyes closed in an effort to quell the sickness.
You are finally granted mercy when you pass out and descend into a black void of dreamless slumber.
As the day goes on the sun remains subdued by the dark grey clouds painting the sky. It creates a sombre backdrop to the rugged landscape that seems to stretch on forever. Oscar can sense that evening is creeping closer, and so he needs to maintain the steadfast pace he's been riding with in order to achieve some headway.
The ever present hourglass hangs precariously over Oscar, its proverbial weight crushing his optimistic spirit with every gallop of his horse's hooves. He rides for several miles over stretches of flat earth and forest before he finally finds something that could possibly offer clues to your whereabouts.
A short distance ahead a small building comes into his peripheral vision. As he approaches closer to it he realises its a cabin - one that he is sure is used as a checkpoint for one of the patrol routes. That intuitive force flares once again within his lower belly and it guides him straight to the door of the cabin.
Oscar tugs the reins to command his horse to halt, then hastily dismounts from the saddle. His actions are clumsy, his brain too distracted by the urgency of the situation, and he lands heavily on his foot. He stumbles and a shooting pain reverberates from his heel to his ankle, reigniting his old injury. His face contorts with agony and he hisses through his teeth.
Fucking hell, of all the times this shit could happen, why does it happen now?
"Fuck," he seethes aloud, gritting through the throbbing hurt to stagger up to the front door. He twists and heaves the wooden door open and rushes inside the cabin as quickly as his smarting ankle will allow.
Oscar's eyes search wildly through the interior of the small cabin, his orbs bouncing from each piece of furniture to every space and every visible nook. He calls out your name once, then twice, but all that responds is the deathly quiet within the house. His heart sinks when he realises you are no where to be found. He exhales a heavy sigh, disheartened and defeated.
Oscar stands in the middle of the cabin and roughly cards his fingers through his hair. Where are you? What if he's too late to get to you? Oh God, please don't let it be too late. The crawling sensation of hysteria begins to bubble inside his chest, but Oscar quickly quashes the feeling.
"Keep it together," Oscar scolds himself aloud.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in through his nose. Be calm. He exhales through his mouth. Stay calm. He repeats the sequence twice more, patient and unhurried, until he feels the panic completely evaporate from his body. Now, focus. We need clues.
His head swivels around to scour the place once more. The bed is unmade, a blanket sitting in a crumpled heap on the mattress. The sole table and chair perch close by, unoccupied by any clutter. Across from the bed is the fireplace.
Oscar is suddenly struck by the realisation that the inside of the cabin is relatively warm. When was the last time a patrol team came here?
He saunters over to the fireplace and crouches down to inspect the logs in the hearth. Oscar reaches out to trace his fingertips along the stonework bordering the hearth, not expecting to feel the faint warmth that greets his skin. Shit, it's still warm. He peers into the nook and surveils the small bundle of partially burnt logs sitting amongst clumps of grey ash. His eyes widen when he spies the orange glow of a burning ember admist the heap of ash.
Someone was here. In just the past few hours, someone had been here. It had to be you and Joel.
Oscar scrambles to stand up and run back outside the cabin. If you were here, there would be foot prints or hoof prints or something close by. There's been no snowfall this afternoon - any prints would be fresh enough to still be distinct enough to be visible. He scours the panorama before him with great concentration.
Please please please.
Then it hits him - a trail of half circle imprints in the snow leading away from the cabin.
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and blinks a few times, hoping his eyes aren't decieving him. He's in luck, though - they are indeed hoof prints, albeit shallow, but they really are there. He studies the trajectory of the tracks and observes that they head diagonally toward a narrow opening amongst trees and shrubbery. There's where he's got to go.
A fierce surge of victorious convinction floods Oscar's guts. This is the path that'll take him to you, he's sure of it. He wastes no time hoisting himself back up on the saddle of his horse, paying no heed to the throb in his ankle.
"Come on," he instructs the horse with a firm tug of the reins and a tap of his heels. "We gotta go get my girl."
It is close to nightfall when you and Joel finally arrive at the raiders cabin. He had wanted to arrive well before sunset but things hadn't gone according to the vague plan in his mind. He hadn't planned spending much time at the cabin, let alone half a day, but he had also not anticipated the possibility of being so thoroughly exhausted.
Those hours of rest proved to be crucial, though, as he had woken up feeling energised enough to complete the last and longest leg of the journey. He couldn't feel too irked about arriving late when his senses were sharper and the strength in his body was reinvigorated. As much as it pains him to admit, he isn't a young man anymore.
Besides, there was still enough light to check out the area and do a sweep of the cabin before the dark of the night sets in. It was imperative that Joel carry this out as soon as possible. Although they had wiped out the raiders during their last mission, it was still vital for Joel to check that no one was lurking inside the cabin, infected or not. Anyone or anything could have taken up residence in the area since then and the last thing he needed right now was a surprise hiding in the shadows.
Joel tugs on the reins and mutters woah boy to signal for Tex to come to a halt. The horse stops just outside the cabin and obediently waits for Joel to dismount. Joel lets out a weary grunt as he descends from the saddle, the dull ache of his joints flaring as he finally stretches his legs and walks. He ties the reins to the railing of the cabin porch and then pauses to stroke the horse's muzzle. As he whispers praise to Tex Joel glances past the horse's head to make sure the cart is still intact and secure.
He hasn't heard a sound from you since he laid you in the cart - not that you could speak or anything. You hadn't let out so much as a whimper the whole time.
Joel faces back to the cabin and begins to make his way up the porch steps. From the outside, the raider's cabin is a one storey log home of impressive structure and aesthetic. He can easily tell that the foundation of the dwelling is solid and its construction durable, the thick logged walls providing more than adequate insulation from the elements. He can imagine how it would look after you've settled in and made it home - smoke puffing out from the chimney atop the roof, piles of chopped firewood stacked on the porch, a couple of hunted rabbits strung up by the door awaiting dressing.
Joel withdraws his pistol from his pocket and enters through the front door with careful, calculated steps. He feels no fear or anxiety as he wanders through the cabin, for the many years of constantly being on guard have trained him to remain calm while cautious. He's primed to confront and fight any source possible danger with confidence. It doesn't take long for him to investigate the place and determine that it is clear of any life.
Joel returns outside, the porch wood creaking under the heavy tread of his boots. He tucks his gun back into his pocket and ambles to the cart behind Tex. He peers into the tray and sees your form covered by the thick blanket, your head lolled to the side and your eyes closed, the skin around them red and puffy. Even like this, you are still the most beautiful thing in this world, he thinks, and his withered heart aches at the sight of you.
He swipes the hair from your face and smooths it back. You must have fallen asleep, exhausted from crying or from the tranquilising effects of the pills, or perhaps from a combination of both. You will wake up eventually and see your new home. You will come to accept that this is where you'll live, with no more arguments or trying to run away. You will come to understand why he's done what he has and you will be grateful for it.
Joel slides his hands underneath you body and hoists you into his arms. You remain limp and asleep, your head tilting backwards like a ragdoll. He carries you up the porch steps and to the cabin like a groom carrying his bride.
"Here we go," he whispers to himself as he passes through the threshold. "Home sweet home."
The man had been lurking alone throughout the Wyoming wilderness for months now. He had managed to survive the harsh conditions of the land with little more than a set of knives, a rifle, and the gritty set of skills he had acquired throughout his many years as a raider. He had always been ruthless and resourceful, wily and fearless, a man determined to survive in this world through any means necessary - including the slaughter and defilement of anyone who got in his way.
And although he was a hardened survivor, Lyle was also a man grieving the loss of the group of men who had been his companions for many years. He was the last one left of his band after those godforsaken Jackson cowboys had discovered them going about their business and decided to fuck with them.
Lyle and his gang of raiders had crossed the state line into Wyoming to see what they could plunder. They had heard talk of a well established settlement somewhere but decided to steer clear of it, atleast for a while. They didn't want to give up their lifestyle in favour of living in a commune and sharing and all that utopian bullshit. They also knew it would be suicide to try stage a coup when they were significantly outnumbered.
Giving the community a wide berth, they had eluded the Jackson patrols for quite some time, but their good luck eventually ran out when they got complacent. A clan of townsmen came for them, chasing Lyle and the gang for weeks, nipping at their heels like a pack of wild dogs with the scent of blood in their snouts. They managed to evade the bastards for a couple weeks, until one night they ambushed and attacked. One of the raiders, Rick, took a shoot at one of the cowboys and struck him in the shoulder before he got gunned down himself. They put up a hell of a battle, all of 'em, but the cowboys had the added advantage of better weapons and stronger bodies.
In the end the Jackson cunts massacred them, but Lyle had managed to survive and escape by the skin of his teeth. Amidst the chaotic flurry of gunfire and screaming he had gone unnoticed when he scrambled for cover behind a massive log. Lyle had intended to stick around but when the gang started dropping like flies he made a run for it. He might have been considered a coward for fleeing like he did, but what else could he do?
It's not like he took the easy way out either. Lyle ran for hours through the fucking forest and into the mountains to dodge those cowboys. He endured countless days and nights hiding in treetops and starving and enduring the freezing cold. He lived like an animal all the while mourning his brethren and their glory days.
Lyle had abandoned the group's old headquarters after the battle. He had been afraid that Jackson would return at some point to ransack the group's belongings, or even to track him down and kill him. It was better to stay away, atleast for a while. But the search for other houses and communities to raid proved to be fruitless ventures - every place had been picked to the bone.
Lyle had been on his own for several months now, but the chances of long term survival were growing more dire each day. His ammunition was dwindling and he hadn't caught anything more than a few rabbits this past week. He had no other choice but to return to headquarters and try his luck.
He grits his teeth against the harsh wind as he trudges through the snow in the direction of the cabin, the soles of battered his boots close to falling apart. He still has roughly three miles of ground to cover, but with nightfall already settled over the land and his feet swelling with each step he decides to stop and set up camp for the night.
Lyle succeeds in finding a suitable shelter to tide him through the night. A rocky alcove partially hidden by shrubs offers a safe and dry place for him to get some sleep. He clambers inside and sits up against the wall, grumbling at the painful throbbing of his feet. He paws at the splitting tip of his right boot and sighs.
Once upon a time he never had to worry about his feet getting frost bitten. He had pillaged an array of clothes, shoes and weapons over the years. Most of his possessions came from the rag tag groups of survivors that would come wandering into the state, all of them weak and pathetic and no match for a raider like him. If he saw something he liked he just took it, whether he needed it or not. But not without having a little fun as well.
He remembers the time he slit a man's throat and stole the boots from his bleeding corpse. They had been a fine pair of shoes. He even took the time to try them on right before he raped the man's distraught wife.
God, what he wouldn't give for a decent pair of boots right now. Who would have thought he'd end up like this? His life had been completely fucking decimated. And it was all because of those communist pricks. Lyle's stomach had long adjusted to the perpetual torment of hunger but his thirst for revenge remained bitterly unsated. It became a malignant obsession that haunted his imagination.
One of these days I'll get 'em, he thinks. Burn their whole town to the fuckin' ground.
When Tommy contemplated death, he hoped that his time on this earth would come to an end when he was a very old man. He pictured being in the company of his grown sons and Maria in his own home in Jackson. But unfortunately for Tommy, the stress of this day was making him feel on the verge of a heart attack.
It was just before noon by the time the council had convened to discuss the appropriate course of action to take regarding yours and Joel's departure. The council members bombarded Tommy with a battery of questions before they deliberated and debated what should happen.
"How do you know she didn't go on her own free will?" One of them asked him.
"Look, I can't give you any solid evidence that she was kidnapped," Tommy answered honestly. "But she never expressed any desire to leave before. It just ain't who she is. Her friends would attest to that, too."
"Why would Joel want to leave Jackson?" Another piped up.
"As I said before, he had an argument with his daughter and it really upset him." Tommy explained solemnly. "And when my brother gets upset he tends to lose his ability to stay calm."
"Maybe he's just blowing off some steam. Maybe he needed some time away and she agreed to go with him." One of the council members suggested. Tommy couldn't stop the derivise scoff that fell from his mouth.
"No," he retorted sharply. "That Henley boy said he saw my brother leave with a wagon full of God knows what. I got a feelin' she was bein' hidden. If Joel's left Jackson, he's left for good, and he's taken her with him."
Maria reached out and grasped Tommy's hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He squeezed her hand in return and shot her a small smile of appreciation.
"My husband knows his brother better than anyone else," Maria stated firmly. "If he believes Joel is a danger to himself or anyone else, then his concerns should be taken seriously or else someone could get hurt."
The council members then conferred with one another while Tommy impatiently paced the room awaiting their verdict. After what seemed like an unnecessarily long time to Tommy, they announced their decision with sage poise.
Tommy's appeal for a rescue patrol was granted permission to find you and Joel.
However, the patrol was not to commence until the following morning, just in case you and Joel were to return within the next 18 hours.
Tommy stormed out of council headquarters filled with impotent rage. When Maria eventually caught up to him she saw tears pooling her husband's eyes.
"What if he kills them both?" Tommy whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Maria, what kind of man would I be to not stop that?"
She wrapped her arms around him and held him as he weeped.
Joel was curled behind you, his arms wrapped securely around your frame, his face nuzzled into the back of your hair. You had been asleep for hours now with no sign of waking. You hadn't even stirred when Joel unwound the rope from your body and removed the material gagging you. Fuck, did he give you too many sleeping pills?
He had left some rope binding your wrists, though, and had tied the end to the bedframe. It was just long enough to allow you some wiggle room but still restricted any wide range of movement. It could be distressing for you to wake up like this, but Joel couldn't chance you trying to run away again.
He cuddled you tighter to his chest and sighed contentedly. He didn't even think to roll over and lay on his right side. He was too tired to remember, his body and mind overcome with fatigue from the events of the past few days. All he wanted to do now was hold you against his body and let himself succumb to the peaceful sleep he so desperately needed. His eyes drifted shut and soon a light snoring began to rumble through his chest.
He didn't even hear Lyle creak open the door to sneak into the cabin.
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