#i would just start crying with joy i think

[luxxid]

THINKING ABOUT : Satoru would be the dad who cries when his child gets their vaccination. divider by @cursed-carmine.

Satoru's mind was reeling.

Your husband, full frowns and grumps, took a seat in the pink plastic chair decorated with stickers of Elsa and Olaf, and very possibly tears of other children. A dramatic sigh heaving from him as he mentally judged the teddy bear sticker on the wall, which according to him, looked way too happy to be in an paediatric ward.

His jaw was tight. His soul was wailing.

Today was vaccination day. For your baby, of course.

He sat, stiff as a corpse and eyebrows furrowed comically, his knee bouncing the little bundle on his lap, a squishy, round faced angel in a frilly blue dress with the letters "STRONG LIKE DADA."

The nurse entered the room with a tray full of tiny syringes and alcohol pads, and colorful stickers on the side. Gojo visibly winces when his blue eyes catches the sight, he tears his gaze away from the tray of doom, and he also turns your daughters head to the side.

Gojo wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. You roll your eyes.

"Remind me who's getting the shot again?" You whisper as you lean down from where you stood to where he sat on that comedic pink chair. He shoots you a dirty glare and mouths a "shut up" while clutching his daughter harder, softly poking her thigh. The exact place where, in his words, she would be getting stabbed.

The nurse approaches your husband and daughter with a smile.

He does not return it. Instead, he visibly scowled and looked down at his daughter. He cooes.

"My baby— my sweetsweet baby, they're going to stab you and take your blood and inject MMR into you!— and—oh—God knows what's next!" He tragically wails, you blink and sigh, shooting an apologetic smile to the nurse who was looking at you in bizarre tones. You nudge his shoulder and he shoots you a dirtier glare.

"It's just a small pinch sir, she won't feel anything, neither will you." The nurse mutes her last words with a soft smile while turning to get the syringe. He huffs in response and rocks your daughter, who was full of smiles and rainbows, unlike her father.

She turns back with the needle, flicking it and extracting the vaccine from the vial, flicking it once more— she reaches for the alcohol pad, when—

"“That’s… that’s a BIG needle.” He emphasizes the big, still making your daughter face the teddy bear he had criticized earlier whilst staring at the nurse with a look dirtier than when she had entered.

“It’s the smallest size we have, sir,” the nurse said, not looking up. She tears open the alcohol pad which had garnered Gojo's attention.

“That’s what they all say before the betrayal begins,” Gojo muttered, rocking his knee, clutching your daughter tighter like she was about to be vaccinated. “You all smile and sanitize your hands and then stab babies like it’s your hobby.”

"Satoru!" You whisper through your teeth, why did he have to be so damn dramatic?

"What?! Did I lie?!" He retorts.

The nurse breathes out, ignoring the banter as she approaches the gleeful baby. She smiles softly at your bundle of joy as she softly disinfects your daughters chunky thigh.

Satoru's breath hitches clearly.

"Sir, are you.. crying?" The nurse raises an amused eyebrow while you visibly sigh once more at the melodramatics of your husband.

“I’m not crying,” Gojo sniffed, blinking away very obviously tears and wiping his cheek with your daughter's frilly skirt. “I’m just— just get on with it!" He sniffs loudly and blows his nose on his sleeve.

The nurse continues her disinfection while stealing a few glances at your husband who was trying hard not to start bawling, and a few at your absolutely annoyed expression, and one at your daughter who was still smiling, not for long though.

Your daughter, now intrigued by her fathers obvious distress, twisted around in his lap, her big watery eyes studying her father like he was some sort of new Ken doll to her collection. She patted his cheek while cooing.

Gojo looked down at her, dramatically sniffling. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry—I wanted you to have a normal life. I never wanted you to know pain— and now here we are! Here in this damned room!" He really had a future in soap operas.

He glared at the nurse again, this time like she had broken one of his daughters summer edition Barbie dolls.

“You. This is all your fault.” His finger pointed at her, you nudged him once more, reminding him this was not the place for his theatrics.

The nurse was clearly starting to get annoyed— or amused. “Sir, I haven’t even started yet— ”

“She’ll be fine,” you muttered through gritted teeth, clearly ready to smack some sense into him.

“You planned it, didn’t you?, "He interrupted you before starting again, "Plotting in your break room with your coffee and cream buns and your needles and your laughter. Probably comparing notes. I know your game.”

The nurse looked at the other nurse in the room in helplessness.

Your baby started to squirm.

“Wait—no—no, baby, don’t wiggle—don’t move! We have to face this together!” Gojo panicked, gently restraining her like she was a wild rabbit. “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s going to protect you!" Yeah totally.

The big bad nurse flicked the needle once more.

He flinched like he’d been struck by lightning. Holding onto your daughter for dear life. Your jaw was slightly agape at his stand up comedy.

The needle went in.

Poke.

Then came the shrill, girly screaming. Not from your daughter—from your grown husband.

"BITETHENURSEBITETHENURSEBITETHENURSE—"

Disgustingly wet, snotty wailing. Even the nurse hurried with the vaccination, taking precautionary steps away from your unorthodox husband— you assumed that was due to his recent threats.

"Satoru!" You whispered through gritted teeth and furrowed eyebrows, nudging his damn shoulder again, the nurses were visibly laughing now. You haven't felt this embarrassed since he screamed in the labour room along with you an year ago.

He cracked an azure eye open, slowly— cautiously. He quickly realized he was the only one who cried.

Your daughter, still full with same giggles and smiles she had before she was shot. She looked up to her father, who looked at her like she was the sole reason for world peace.

Satoru burst into tears.

“She’s so brave,” he wept, holding her close. “She’s the strongest person I know. Stronger than me— she didn’t even blink. My daughter’s a champ."

“You cried more than the women in the labour room, sir” another nurse said flatly, very poorly containing her laugh while sticking a Tinkerbell Band-Aid on your daughters leg.

“I cried on her behalf.” He corrected, blowing his nose once again with the tissue he had held onto in case your daughter cried and tossing it to you, cue you catching it with a look he knew and feared all the well.

"Right."

He could feel you shooting glares at the side of his head, he cleverly chose to ignore it, babying his baby, kissing raspberry kisses on her stomach while saying shit like 'Who's getting a free day? You—and me!" He gets up, bouncing your daughter, still very skilfully avoiding your gaze, he knows he's going to lose pillow privileges when he gets home.

The nurse returns with a few papers and a single grape flavoured lollipop, she cooes softly and hands it to your daughter who was already reaching for it. Your poor daughter drops it, she starts whimpering, reaching for it from where she was held by her father.

Gojo whistles and reaches down for the lollipop, flicking the wrapper off and popping it in his mouth.

The nurse looks at you, almost pitying you. Gojo starts walking with a baby in his arms and twirling a damn lollipop in his mouth like he had gotten the damn polio vaccine.

The nurse hands you the papers, bidding you a brief bye as you thank her and reach up to your husband and daughter. You reach up to your husband who was examining the lollipop wrapper while your daughter was starting to whimper, signalling her trademark whining.

"Eh, it's grape, it's not that good." He remarks whilst he resumes giving the lollipop a blowjob. He gives you a quick glance before averting his eyes to the exit, bouncing your daughter merrily.

Your daughter wails something along the lines of, 'LOL Dolls", something she loved. Your husband looked at her with a bemused expression, shushing her with his sticky grape lollipop finger.

"LOL dolls? I said that? No sweetie!—you're just tired from the vaccine, let's go home!!"

[favoritesupernova]

smarty pants!

⋆⭒˚.⋆ math nerd!sator x secretly smart fem!reader

chapter 8: the big bang

series masterlist

genre/tags/cw: non-sorcerer au, university au, nerdjo and his math problems, secretly smart fem!reader that has her struggles, nerdjo stuttering, angst, cussing, addiction (alcoholism), mental illness, they actually make physical contact, pining, yearning, mentions of violence (fighting), feelings

⭑.ᐟ - satoru wakes up in the hospital after a rough night out, but you're by his side. relief settles, with no serious injuries, but his heart still hurts for something.

satoru wakes up after six hours, the flourescent lights blinding him as he flutters his white eyelashes. his head is pounding and it is hard to keep his eyes open because of the throbbing pain.

it all goes away when he hears your sweet voice. "satoru. oh my god, you're finally awake," you say hovering over him, covering up the light. tears start to form in your eyes out of relief, and you couldn't do anything but hug him.

his arm instinctually finds you, wrapping around your waist. you're still wearing the same outfit as last night, making the memories rush back to him. 'oh yea, i did get into a fight,' his mind flashing back from socking sukuna.

your body starts to heave, tears falling on his shoulder, a feeling that you both know so well. "hey, hey, hey," he starts to speak with his hand circling your back, "it's okay, i'm okay. no need to cry."

his words doesn't help, because you feel so guilty. "no, satoru! it's my fault you're even here. i should have never even pressured you into going and i should have told sukuna to fuck off and-," your words are cut off by him wrapping his hands around your neck. he makes you look at him, no room to have your eyes wander.

with noses about to touch, you feel his breath against your skin. your face heats up by the closeness of his face. "it is not your fault. he got what he deserved and if it meant me possibly having a concussion from defending you, so be it." a tear runs down your face and your lip quivers.

before the tear falls near your lips, his thumb runs over it, brushing it away. satoru then puts his hand the side of your face. you lean into his palm, making him carry the weight of your head. satoru doesn't mind though. he would carry all of you, your trials and tribulations, if it meant having by his side.

you both stare at each other, not breaking eye contact. it's just you and him, and you just want to swallow this moment whole. it's quiet, the only sound is the monitor beeping, pretty fast at that. his thumb runs over your cheek, helping you calm down from your state of mind.

of course, the silence breaks from shoko and suguru busting in. your head snaps at them, slowly breaking away from satoru. already, satoru misses you, the warmth you provided him, the cold air hitting him. while you look away, he doesn't, his blue eyes stay focused on you.

"i need to go to the bathroom. i'll give you guys some space to talk," you say making an exit out of the room. shoko runs to him first, making him grunt by the sheer force she pummeled him at. "look at you, fighter boy," she says giggling. suguru doesn't find it funny.

instead of suguru hugging him out of relief, he jabs his shoulder, making satoru wince. "ow, man, what was that for?" suguru still doesn't show a smile. "for being stupid," suguru says, his voice low and void of any joy.

"seriously man. what were you thinking fighting sukuna. you've never even gotten into a fight in your life, let alone someone that could have killed you!" satoru doesn't say anything, because he is right. sukuna could have done a lot worse, but he does not regret what he did.

the room goes still, nobody daring to say a word. "man, you know how worried we were. especially y/n. she was a mess, and wouldn't leave your side, crying about how it was her fault,' suguru explains to satoru, but he doesn't need him to say it. he already knows.

"i know, suguru. i don't need a lecture," rolling his eyes, making suguru even more furious than he already is. "don't be all sarcastic on me now. i got a black eye, because i was defending you." satoru didn't even notice until suguru said it. now, he starts to feel even worse.

he mutters an apology, so quiet that the beeping of the monitor overtook some of the sentence. shoko breaks the silence, "you got one hell of a right hook though," making even suguru giggle a bit. the energy shifted, and now it just feels light-hearted, reminiscing how satoru almost had him.

after the nightly recap, shoko leaves the room to check in on you in the restroom, leaving suguru by himself with satoru. he takes a seat next to the bed with his hands crossed in his lap.

"all of this aside, i'm being serious about y/n. she was a wreck," suguru says, making satoru's head tilt at the mention of your name. "the doctors almost hospitalized her at one point, that's how messed up she was. why, satoru? why did you punch him?" the question hangs heavy in the air.

satoru takes a deep breath, taking all the information in. he knew you were worried, but he didn't think you were that worried. you never left his side, making his heart race at the thought of you by his hospital bed, waiting for him to open his eyes.

the stillness settles, "because, i care for her, suguru," satoru says. "you should have heard the shit sukuna was saying bro. it was nasty and i couldn't take it anymore. it had to be done." suguru hums in response before he speaks.

"do you only care for her, or do you feel something stronger?" now this weighs hefty on satoru's chest. does he? he reminisces the moments he has with you. whenever he is with you, it feels like there is nothing else in the world. you make his heart flutter every time you laugh or smile. when you tease him, his face gets flushed. he sees your reaction every time he does something nice for you, making him get butterflies in his stomach.

yeah, he does have feelings for you. but do you feel the same way with him?

before satoru could tell suguru his revelation, you and shoko walk in, accompanied by a physician. luckily, he only has a minor concussion and some bruising on his ribs, nothing too serious. everyone's shoulders don't feel as heavy anymore and they are ready to sleep once satoru is done with his paperwork.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"alright, y/n. you're stop before i have to drop these idiots off," suguru says, making shoko and satoru huff in despair. you collect your things and say your goodbyes to everybody.

you get out of the car and make your way inside your complex until you hear a car door slam. you turn your head at the sound, only to see satoru standing outside with his stuff. "can i come in? i know you have a change of clothes for me. i stink," he says, mildly yelling, because of the distance between the two of you.

a smile graces your face, the smile that he likes very much. "of course," you say softly, "be careful with the sunlight. can't have you pass out on me."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

your apartment is dark, which is good because satoru can't be around light that much anyways. that also means no television or phone screens to distract you guys from weird small talk. both of you are freshly showered, washing away the hospital smell, and now carrying a floral aroma.

satoru decides his first meal is going to be instant noodles, making you some first. the gentleman that he is. now, both of you are slurping down your food, not knowing how hungry you guys were. satoru was even debating if y'all should go for seconds.

hours pass, but your conversations with each other never die. childhood, what the future holds, movies, and embarrassing stories spill from you and satoru. it feels so good for both of you, how easy it is to talk to each other, never feeling that with anybody before.

you feel so light when you're with him. this ache in your chest every time he leaves makes you nervous, but you're not unaware of your feelings. you like satoru, but can he handle you? that question wracks you when you think of him.

the space between you two is not small at all. while he is sitting up, you're laying down with your legs draped over his. you don't even feel his hands over your shins, his fingers absentmindedly raking up and down your skin. you both are just so comfortable with each other, making it hard to even care how you two are set up.

slowly, the conversation dies down, the static in the air getting louder. your subconscious takes over, and you scoot closer to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. your head leans on his shoulder.

satoru tenses up, your actions were sudden, but he doesn't mind. his head lays on top of yours, both of you looking at the blank television ahead.

what satoru does next has him scared, but he can't hide it anymore. he takes one of your arms off of him, making you look directly in his eyes. fuck, you're so beautiful when you look at him like that.

"y/n," he starts speaking, a lump starts to form in his throat, "i know i fucked up by punching sukuna, but i would do it a million times if it meant protecting you." his words send goosebumps down your arms, a chill going down your spine. "i-i've never felt like this with anybody before. fuck, i have never even defended myself like that before, but i need you to know that-," he goes silent.

your breathing starts to get heavy, waiting for him to finish his sentence. the suspense is killing you. "i need you to know that i feel something for you. something stronger than just caring for you," and there it is. satoru likes you, and you like him, but you're so scared.

his confession lingers a bit before you say anything. "satoru, i feel the same way," now it's his turn to take a deep breath, but your next words shatter his heart. "we can't be together though."

satoru looks like he could cry. you hate how his face just fell, but you feel as though that's the truth. "i'm a mess. you deserve someone better than me. i have so much baggage and i can't bring you dow-," your sentence is interrupted.

his hands fly to your face, and his lips find yours. your eyes widen at his actions, but you settle into his kiss. go, your lips are so soft, and he doesn't want to pull off of you. after a few seconds, he unfortunately does.

"don''t even think to finish that sentence," he says with his lips a darker shade of pink. before you can even refute, he starts to speak. "i don't care about your 'baggage' or that you're a 'mess'. i will carry the weight of your world if it meant having you with me. i don't care how much you try to push me away, it's no use. i want you, and you want me. just let me be with you."

you can't even say anything, but actions always speak louder than words. you kiss him, and you kiss him hard. satoru's hands find your waist and your arms wrap around his neck. you pull off of him, "o-okay," you whisper, making satory smile. "okay, let's do this."

satoru stands up, picks you up and spins you around. he pecks your face a dozen times before he sets you down. your arms are still wrapped around him. he places a chaste kiss on your lips, making you blush in return.

"you know, i've never had a girlfriend before," and his confession makes you laugh. "i'm just glad you're my first girlfriend. out of all the girls that i could have gotten with, none of them compared to you." you squint and slap his chest, "oh. so i should be watching out for any girls that try to come your way then?" your voice teasing.

he leans down, closing the space in between you two. "of course not. i won't even look at another girl again. and if one tries to hit on me, i will pull out a particle accelerator." his tone comes out serious, but the delivery was comedic, earning an ugly cackle out of you.

satoru plants one more peck to your lips. "let's go to bed. it's been a long day, and i want to snuggle with my girl-friend," he says tilting his head at every syllable.

your bed is soft and smells like his favorite scent, you. shortly, sleep takes over you, but not satoru. his arm is wrapped around your shoulder, while a hand lays on his chest. he can feel your breathing against his neck, but it does not bother him.

he feels invincible, like he could take over the world. as long as he has you, nothing could stop him. he is yours, and you are his. there is nothing satoru wouldn't do for you, even if it meant going back to that smelly study room.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

< previous chapter | series masterlist | epilogue >

well! i think that's it for this series. this is the first time i ever wrote something like this, so please do not mind the mistakes.

this fic was completely out of my comfort zone, as well as my other oneshots/drabbles i have posted. the things i normally write are nothing like this, but the amount of support i have gotten is amazing.

thank you to everyone who enjoyed this series! again, this is my first time writing something of this sort, so it's probably not the best, but i am super proud of it! thank you, thank you, thank you!

an epilogue will be uploaded soon, and it will be fluff so don't worry. just bare with me, i am super busy, because uni is starting again!

please like, comment, follow, and reblog for more!

art by @ leimiruu on x

divider by @uzmacchiato

taglist: @nanamineedstherapy @meanderingwistera @bunn1o @wiggly-yrath

[copingcopia]

Hi! I’m not sure if you have any rules for request but I see your post about short fluff for Copia.

Since it’s fair/carnival season … what about going with Copia? Him trying to win you one of those giant stuffed animals! It takes him many tries but he gets there !Trying cotton candy for the first time, going on the ferries wheel at night and stealing a kiss!

Pretty please 🥺

Posting/replying to asks has been broken for me for the past few hours pls pls pls work this time this was so fun to write but this site makes me wanna cry sometimes

Thank you so much anon, this was a joy to think about and write. First date with Copia at the fairground. I hope you like it! Also great reminder to clarify request rules in my pinned post.

Just under 1k. Pure fluff. First date at the fair. Awkward first kiss. Gender neutral reader.

"We are staying until I get you what you asked for. I can do this."

Through gritted teeth Copia refused to leave , handing over some more coins more aggressively than he meant to. He knew that these games were always rigged, but he had quite the throwing arm and when you had pointed out the most adorable rat plushy hiding in the back of the booth, there was nothing that could stop him winning it for you.

Well, except for the clearly extremely weighted down cans, crudely painted with skulls which mockingly stared back at him. His aim was exceptional - he didn't miss a throw, but even with a direct hit the cans on the bottom row of the pyramid barely wobbled.

With one throw to go and two cans left, Copia took a deep breath and stepped back from the booth counter. He was completely oblivious to the small crowd which had now gathered, surprisingly invested in his triumph. Copia, after kissing the ball for luck, reeled back and launched it at his target as hard as he could, stumbling forward.

Both of you jumped as the small group of onlookers clapped and cheered, watching both cans clatter to the ground. Never one to waste an audience, Copia raised a fist in celebration then bowed dramatically before presenting you the oversized toy. His pride still fully in tact, he breathes a sigh of relief. But when he starts to explain that rats can't be alone and you need to keep multiple to keep them happy and healthy, you have to drag him away from the booth.

Needing a breather after such physical exertion, you find a bench to rest it after buying some candy floss from a nearby stall. You had been slightly disappointed it was in a tub rather than the classic spun on a stick kind, but since Copia said he had never tried it, it was better than nothing.

Chewing slowly, then grimacing he complained: "There's no substance to it, it's just a cloud that melts!" But that didn't stop him stealing a few more clumps. "A tasty, sugary cloud I guess."

The atmosphere of your evening was relaxed - once you had gotten over the shock of seeing him without any paint on. He could tell you still had to make an effort to say his name rather than his title, but he couldn't deny the warmth in his chest when you did, smiling rather coyly as if you were doing something bad. You hadn't been sure if Copia had meant tonight as a date - in fact, he had quite purposefully avoided the term when asking you - but nervous glances and subtle touches and flirtatious laughter made you certain now that it was.

You were so engrossed in conversation after your brief rest that you hadn't noticed Copia walking you into the line for the Ferris wheel. You had mentioned to him earlier that you had never ridden one. You wouldn't admit to a full blown fear of heights, but the thought of being suspended in the air with nowhere to escape to didn't exactly excite you.

At the peak, Copia expertly distracted you. Pointing out all the things you could see from up there, he held your hand, rubbing in gentle circles as he rambled. As the cooler air started to affect you, you had naturally leaned into each other. As he talked, he would sometimes turn to face you before looking back out at the view. It became harder to concentrate on what he was saying every time he turned back to you, bringing his face within an in inch of yours.

You let him know you were grateful, admitting you were a bit scared of being up here. You snuggled into him and took in the view - he had been right, it was beautiful at night, with all of the sparkling lights below.

"It is a good lesson, I think." Copia began. "A lot of times, when we are scared of something, it is not as bad as we imagine. It is good to, um, face your fears. When doing something scares you, the best course of action is to, uh… well maybe sometimes, um… just do it."

You weren't looking at him, but you could feel his body tense. He sounded strange, slightly unsure of what he was saying and in the following silence you felt him move, maybe fidgeting in his seat. You turned to look at him as the silence began to be a bit uncomfortable but, at the same time, Copia had apparently worked up the courage to take his own advice.

He was aiming for your cheek, but as you turned, he ended up more on the corner of your mouth, pressing against more lip than skin. It lingered a little too long to be considered a friendly peck but not long enough for you to be sure of his intention. Neither of you flinched away from it however, awkwardly waiting for the other to do something. But then, as you looked away from his lips and up into his eyes, there was little room for doubt. Still nervous, but almost pleading, it was your turn to take his advice.

Tentatively reaching up to his neck, you guided him back to you to kiss him properly - firm but slow, mouths hesitant but sincere. While you pulled away and snuggled up to him again, staring out at the horizon, Copia took a few extra seconds to open his eyes. And when he did, he stared at you, barely noticing the slow descent back to Earth.

[fluffle-writes]

Imagine getting isekaied to twst with some kinda twst merch on your person - be it an ita bag, some kinda plushie, a badge etc.

Like, I have this Riddle Nesoberi and I can just picture him going bright red and either blowing a gasket or just being shocked into silence because some random guy showed up late, and lightly charred, while holding a plushie that looks an awful lot like him lmao

[airenyah]

Hey so do you know where I could find this acting manifesto of yours?

I usually try and avoid publicly expressing my opinion on things like this but I recently saw some people commenting negatively on his acting again and I’m starting to doubt my own judgement.

I’ve truly never had a huge problem with his acting but I keep seeing people using really harsh words to describe his prior and current work. I genuinely think he’s doing a good job in THK but these comments sometimes make me think I’m missing something.

That conflicts with the fact I know at least three people he worked with on THK specifically had positive things to say about his acting too and I trust people who do this for a living to know what they’re talking about for the most part.

I guess I’m just looking for your post to have a more detailed perspective of the opposite viewpoint to “he’s a terrible actor” to help affirm some of my thinking so I’m more confident in my positive opinion of his acting.

Overall though I’m enjoying everyone in this show but for me I’m specifically enjoying the four mains the most. Kudos to them honestly.

(Disclaimer: Obviously everyone is entitled to their opinion but the harshness of some of the opinions took me off guard a little.)

fuck these people. they don't know shit.

(mind you. this manifesto was written based on his performance in just star in my mind and hidden agenda. his 2024 shows weren't even out at that point. in fact, thk hadn't even been publicly announced yet. you can see from the start there is talent in this boy if you actually know what to look out for)

bonus: i rant some more in the last reblog

[rozicheeks]

You have the body of an angel, the aura of a fairy princess and the smile like the first sunrays of spring on my face. I check your fansly and tumblr every day several times a day just to enjoy your pictures with both my body and soul. Been admiring you for years at this point. I am addicted to your glory.

Hold on… while I just —

[crossbackpoke-check]

Why I Am Not Coming In To Work Today [abridged], Jess Zimmerman

part one | part two

[wanderingandfound]

Well it happened. I finally put my phone down long enough for the depression to catch up.

[spikedfearn]

Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

[yupuffin]

I pulled Aventurine, but didn't get a text message from him, so I'm assuming that means that I have to finish the current main story to unlock the text message.

Based on what I know about the story, this means I ABSOLUTELY NEED that first message to be either "I lived, bitch" or "🎵HELLO FROM THE OTHER SIIIIIDE🎶"

[littlegrapejuice]

Grid Mum 7 | MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Kimi gets his first podium, and you're crying like you just witnessed your kid walk for the first time. Bonus: Franco being bullied on a plane.

Author's Note: I'm still so so happy ab kimi's podium, i was fr super proud and i can't wait for him to get others + for the rest of the rookies to get one in the future🤍

F1 MASTERLIST🏎 | Previous Part | Next Part

Kimi didn’t care about what people would think. He didn’t care about how it would look when his first instinct after hugging his team was to make his way towards the sea of Red Bull employees. Because amongst those employees who were here in parc fermé to celebrate Max’s P2, there was you.

Your smile was wide, cheeks almost hurting. And as soon as your eyes met Kimi’s, you grinned harder – if that was even possible.

“You did it!” You told Kimi once his arms were around you.

“I did it!” He echoed your words. His voice was muffled by his helmet, but the happiness and joy were obvious.

Pulling back from his embrace, your hands went to hold Kimi’s helmet. The rookie noticed that your eyes were tearing up a bit, and his couldn’t help but do the same too.

“That was a wonderful race, Kimi. I’m so proud of you.” Your tone was soft, conveying how genuine you were.

“Thank you!” Kimi’s eyes were enough to express his gratitude for your support, and they showed that he was smiling under his helmet. When someone from his team called him for his post-race duties before the podium, he quickly turned towards the voice then met your eyes once again. “Bye, I love you!” Next thing you know, he was gone from your side.

It wasn’t supposed to be such a big deal that Kimi was saying that he loved you – you had been mothering him since the season had started and had supported him through his unfortunately numerous DNFs. But still, it made you feel warm inside.

You observed as Kimi hugged George once again before Max went to congratulate him as well. You obviously would’ve loved to see your boyfriend winning this race, but this would definitely be one of your favourite podiums of the year – it wasn’t everyday that one of your grid kids featured on it. And such a wholesome scene it was to watch, as Max had a wide smile on his face while spraying Kimi with champagne. The tension between him and George had dissipated despite the accusations they had made against each other during the safety car earlier. They were just both enjoying their podiums and appreciating their own success – they also had to play pretend at being a happy little family to not ruin Kimi’s first podium.

You were truly over the moon for both Max and Kimi, so you obviously wanted to celebrate with them. And despite Kimi desperately wishing he could say yes, he had been forced to refuse:

“I can’t go partying… I got homework”, he reminded you as he thought about his final exams awaiting him.

“Then we’ll celebrate later if you graduate”, Max said with a shrug.

“When you graduate”. You sent a look to Max, one that meant to be invested in Kimi’s education even if Max’s hadn’t been his focus years ago.

“Yeah… if, when… same thing.”

“It’s not!” You and Kimi both argued.

“Have some faith in me, mate. I studied hard for this”, Kimi claimed.

“We studied hard”, George added as he joined the conversation.

“You’re not the one doing the exam, though. Not sure you could even manage”, you teased him.

“Please, I could ace it.” George raised an eyebrow at you, a challenging look in his eyes. “Could you?”

“I’m pretty sure I helped Kimi more than you did. Weren’t you the one who delegated the work to the engineers?”

You and George held eye contact for several seconds, neither of you looking away. That was until Kimi intervened.

“Okay guys, please no weird tension.” Kimi waved his hand in front of your and George’s faces, thus breaking the eye contact between the two of you. “Max and George finally figured their shit out – kinda, I don’t need another Verstappen-Russell fall out.”

“Good thing I ain’t a Verstappen, then.”

Yet, Max wanted to add. Even Kimi and George thought the same thing, both of them knowing that it was only a matter of time before it would eventually happen. You were practically one already, and it wasn’t an actual change in last names or a ring on your finger that would ever affect how your relationship with Max already was.

…..

Despite you skipping the F1: The Movie premiere in NYC, it almost felt like you were there with how much the rookies were talking about you. Due to the drivers all going to the same place, it made sense that some of them would be sharing a plane. So that was how Ollie, Franco, and Gabriel ended up travelling together with Lando.

“You should’ve forced her to come with us if you were gonna miss her that much”, Lando complained. He was so close to texting you to leave Max wherever he was and to come get your kids.

“Max didn’t want to come so… whose plus one she would’ve even been?” Ollie asked. “I have my girlfriend already.”

“Same,” Gabriel said with a nod.

“I would have gladly taken her if I didn’t care about the risks of Max running me off track once the pictures would be released. Imagine this: Max’s girlfriend was Lando’s plus one at the premiere, I’m done for!”

“I could have taken her”, Franco chimed in.

“Oh trust me, we know.” Gabriel rolled his eyes at Franco's words, and leaned back in his seat.

Lando and Ollie looked at each other, not sure whether they understood what was going on.

“Are we missing something?” Lando wondered.

Gabriel opened his mouth to explain the situation, before Franco interrupted him:

“Nothing’s going on, no. You’re not missing any vital piece of information.” Franco put on his best innocent smile and tried to think of a way to change the topic.

“That’s a lie”, Gabriel argued. “See, little Franco there did the only thing we had told him not to.”

“Which was?” Lando asked.

But Gabriel didn’t even have time to reply, that Ollie immediately understood what had happened.

“You did not?!” His accusatory tone was directed towards Franco, as Ollie couldn’t believe it.

“Maybe…?” Franco looked away, not liking his business being aired out.

“When was it?” Ollie questioned both Gabriel and Franco, his eyes darting between the two rookies.

“When was what?” Lando was completely lost, and he was definitely not enjoying being excluded from the drama.

“We gave one rule to Franco before Imola,” Ollie finally explained. “Just one tiny little rule.”

“Don’t flirt with Max’s girlfriend”, Gabriel added.

“Okay.” Lando was carefully listening and nodding, showing his investment in the story. “And how long did it take him to break it? Two, three weeks?”

“A day”, Gabriel said.

“A day?” Ollie repeated. “That’s insane, Franco. Imola was…” Ollie started counting in his head, to figure out when it had happened. “More than a month ago! We should revoke any grid mum privilege you’ve ever had.”

“I didn’t have many to start with”, Franco muttered.

“Does Max know?” Lando had no idea whether he expected a positive or negative answer, just wanting to know more about the situation.

“He apparently threatened Franco”, Gabriel explained with a snicker.

“That was traumatising. I had Mad Max in front of me,” Franco dramatised.

“Now that’s something I would’ve liked to see!” Lando started laughing, imagining how Max had intimidated the young driver. “He hasn't driven you into the wall since then, though. So consider him being generous with you.”

“Wanna know what I think?” When the three drivers nodded, Ollie shared his thoughts. “I feel like Max didn’t actually see you as a real threat. Sure you tried to flirt with his girlfriend–”

“Extremely fucked up of you to do that”, Gabriel interrupted Ollie to add his comment.

“Agreed. But yeah, Max is definitely not the guy to get insecure. He knew you had no real chance anyways”, Ollie finished explaining.

“Damn… you have no game, mate.”

“Lando, please don’t bully me as well.” Franco sighed. “I have game! But obviously, it works better when I’m not going after a taken woman!”

“We have yet to see this skill of yours this year”, Gabriel teased.

“Oh God…” Franco groaned as he put his head in his hands.

The Argentinian wouldn’t hear the end of it until the plane had landed. And he knew that once Isack as well as Liam would know, those two would definitely gang up on him too – spoiler: they did.

…..

Meanwhile, in Belgium…

Max had offered you to come see him race in Spa, and you had gladly accepted to show him your support while he pursued this new interest of his. You hadn’t given it a second thought, not really caring about missing the F1: The Movie premiere. Max might have taken you if you had truly wanted to go, but he hadn’t hidden at all the satisfied grin on his face when you had told him that you didn’t want to see Brad Pitt overtake your boyfriend and win all the races that Max had actually won last year.

So while most of the drivers were on their way to New York, you and Max were currently on your way to Spa after a quick pit stop back home. You had just finished typing a text to wish Kimi luck for his final exams, when your nose suddenly started itching right before your body forced you to sneeze.

“Bless you”, Max simply said without looking up from his phone. “Hope no one’s talking badly about you.”

“It might just be allergies”, you argued.

“Or the rookies not being able to shut up about you”, Max teased.

It was honestly your allergies acting up, but Max was also not wrong to trust a silly superstition for once.

..........

Taglist: @umm-i-love-u @callsign-mirage @freyathehuntress @elieanana @suns3treading @fastandcurious16 @l3thal-l0lita @urmomsgirlfriend1 @guacala @delululeclerc

Hope y'all enjoyed this!! I'm honestly loving writing short chaps in between double/triple headers bc it's like a nice change of pace so don't hesitate to tell me if y'all like them too :)

I think isack was acc on the same plane as them (idk ab liam bc bro appears nowhere) but when i eventually noticed, it was too late to change and i was too lazy to add him🤗

Also we reached 500 followers!! It still feels insane that there are this many people supporting me and my silly fics so thanks y'all🫶🏻🫶🏻

See you soon, take care of yourselves, love y'all xx

[bluukive]

- ᡣ𐭩 Home is Where the Heart is

summary - What's more endearing than your affectionate husband? Your drunk, affectionate husband.

warnings - none, minus Satoru being a little snotty whilst crying. First proper attempt at a short fluff fic !! Kinda proofread (n idk how being drunk works lolol)

wc - 1044

It’s been exactly 23 minutes since your bumbling oaf of a husband came back home from a night out. After all, even the strongest needed some time to unwind. 

The front door slammed shut and a loud crash followed. It was most likely his gangling body colliding with the coat rack. Again. 

A groan. “W-who put thaaaat there?” he whined, long legs dragging all the way up the stairs. Too many of them, Satoru thought. He should probably hollow purple them all later. But only later, because right now? His lower lip was wobbling and there was a dull pain in his arm from crashing into the bedroom door. It swung open once he had a good grip on the handle, and alas, the tears started to fall. 

Satoru trudged over to the king-sized bed, not bothering to kick his shoes off. 

“I miss my b-bitchass wife,” Satoru sniffled, drunken words muffled by the increasingly sodden pillow that he had buried his face into. His heart ached terribly. How did anyone expect him to live without the love of his life beside him?

Satoru honestly thought he’d die without hearing your voice, so he fumbled about for his phone in one of the pockets of his tweed jacket once he was able to prop himself up on an elbow (trust your boyfriend to make the most questionable fashion choices). The intoxicated look in his eyes and the rosy cheeks would have been adorable if not for the fact that his nose was running from all of the dramatics, but Satoru couldn’t bring himself to care. With a quick wipe of his sleeve, his long, sluggish fingers went to work. 

Ring. Ring.

“Heeeeey gorgeous-”

“This isn’t your wife, Satoru. Wrong number.”

Click. 

Somewhere in the city, a tired sorcerer was exhaling out of his nose and clenching his jaw. How awkward.

Again, Satoru scrolled through his contact list with bleary eyes. Fuck, where were you?

Suguru? Not it. 

Shoko? Nah.

Mei Mei? Fuck no. He’d rather deepthroat a cactus than be associated with her, as he so loved to remind you frequently. 

But finally! ‘Wifey’, the contact name read. Satoru sniffed and tried pulling himself together before pressing ‘ring’, a giddy look in his twinkling blue eyes. The eager pants that left his lungs fell in sync with the rapid thuds of his heart.

Oh, he got to hear his beloved again! Joy to the world!

And what was even better was the fact that you answered on the first ring. “Yoohoo? What is my awfully drunk husband doing calling me at this hour?” you tittered, eyes crinkling further shut the wider your smile grew. 

Satoru swooned. God, what a dreamboat you were. His eyes fluttered shut as he rolled over onto his back, lower lip caught between his teeth. “Hmm? ‘M all fiiiiine and sober, I promise! I just m-miss you, that’s all…”

“No more lying, Mr. Cottonmouth. You are sooo drunk.”

A sniffle left Satoru. Your playful demeanour was getting to him good and proper. How did he get so blessed with a wife like you?

“...Toru? Don’t cry on me now, baby. Talk to me,” your voice called out, softening once the first telltale sign of your husband’s vulnerability came out. But whilst you were growing tender with Satoru, that same smile was still on your lips. 

“Well-” he tried to say, but his voice cracked. Satoru cleared his throat and began speaking once more. “I love you so goddamn much.”

And honestly, it warmed your heart to hear how he didn’t stammer through his declaration of adoration for you, even if no other words came as naturally to him.

“L-like, I think I’d die without you.” One pause.

“I just wanna crawl under your skin ‘n live there.” Another pause and a slight shudder.

“I want you to hold my heart in your hand ‘n feel it b-beat for you,” Satoru croaked out, shoving his face into his pillow once more. He felt so miserable that you weren’t there with him. 

But you should have been. You should have been laying there, head on his chest and one leg thrown over his hip as you both dreamt of each other. The fact that you weren’t doing that made Satoru’s heart clench so painfully.

And then he began wailing. Long, dramatic wails accompanied by hiccuping sobs that had you pulling away your phone from your ear with a wince. On and on the sobs went, and a deadpan expression slowly began appearing on your face. The game had gone on for long enough, and you missed your husband snoring like a baby beside you.

“Satoru. I’m quite literally beside you.”

Yes. Your husband, in his drunken haze, hadn’t noticed you in your shared bed. You were sitting up against the headboard, staring down at your pitifully hammered spouse. 

Click!

You both hung up your phones in silence, your shoulders bobbing as you concealed a fit of laughter. Satoru sat up slowly, clearly not amused.

His face was flushed nicely now, and not just because of the alcohol. His eyes remained blurry and unfocused, but indeed! You were sitting there with the biggest grin on your stupidly gorgeous face. 

“So y-you were just watchin’ me whilst I was pouring my heart out like a widow?”

You shrugged, shuffling over with a hand reaching out to tug your sulking husband closer. “It was cute. I like this side of you. Minus the wailing.”

“T-traitor. You’re such a traitor,” he groaned, the prank you had pulled sobering him up slightly. The embarrassment coursed through him as he lay down next to you, glassy eyes burning a hole through the ceiling. But hey! At least you were with him, right?

“...I feel stupid. Can you kiss me?”

“Wipe your nose first, you man-child,” your nose scrunched as you tossed a wad of tissues his way. 

In record time, Satoru had scrubbed his entire face dry and raw, then flopped onto you. He didn’t care that your fists were thumping at his chest. He didn’t care that he was slobbering all over your face and pecking you like an eager puppy. What mattered now was the fact that he was finally where his heart was.

With you.

divider by @cafekitsune

[colossrat]

Batman: Captain, you're hurt. Is there someone you want to get in touch with?

Well… Vic (cyborg) is already there, Barry and Diana too… who else is he friends with?

Constantine? Yes, but John doesn't like the league and will give him a hell of a lecture for getting hurt…

Harley? poison ivy? Batman wouldn't like to know they were friends. two-faces? oh- absolutely not.

Captain cold? No. Snart knows Billy, not Cap. And Batman wouldn't like that either. Maybe Barry would like…?

Freddy and Mary are probably sleeping right now…

Marvel: Can you… can you call the Fawcett zoo, sir? I have a friend who works there… I'd really like to see him right now. and say that I'm fine.

Bat makes the call, Billy asks for the phone and they chat for a while

Marvel on the phone: Oh, no, no… I'm high right now- Noo! its cus im right above the sky-- I'm fine, just space... But I think I'm also high on morphine yea, some opioids yes… no? Oh, I would love to! Yes. Uhm. The one next to… yes-- I know- i know you know, and you know, I know you know! Stop fishing. Yes, waits waits, buh-bye!! I'll see you soon. mwaaah and he gives the phone back to batman Marvel: Hey? Boss? My friend is coming to bring me some tea that I like, kay? to make me feel better. Don't be rude to him, he's called mister tawky tawny. Just stay cool, okay? Be cool…

And he drops his head on the pillow and falls asleep, snoring loudly

Nobody understands a thing and from what Batman researches, Tawky Tawny is a tiger from the zoo, and they think the captain was just delirious on morphine But not five minutes later, a bipedal tiger in a suit arrives at the watchtower via the Zeta Tubs using the captain's credentials. he carries a little madam's bag that is carrying a tea kit and some biscuits

Tawny presents himself as the gentleman he is with an education that would make Alfred blush, but he doesn't allow anyone to slow him down. He goes straight to the room where the captain is, because he can smell him maybe? The league doesn’t know for sure.

There, he takes a small table and a portable OVEN from Madame's tiny ass little bag and begins to make tea. to. make. tea. The second Tawny opens the cookie jar, Marvel wakes up to the sound and smell and starts crying with joy at seeing his best friend and familiar

he introduces him to the whole league while drinking tea and stuffing his mouth with cookies, fat tears streaming down his face and tawny just enjoys his friend's company and takes care of him, but he doesn't avoid giving a dirty look to anyone who decides to judge their friendship

Tawny, pretending to be hurt: I'm surprised by your surprise. Don't you talk about me, cap?

Marvel, afraid that he hurt the tiger's feelings: I do!!! I talk about u all the time, all the time!!! they know you are my best friend!!!

Superman: it's true! he speaks a lot and very highly of you, we just--

Barry: we thought you were crazy, bro! Tim was hacking the watchtower cameras at that time by coincidence, so in a matter of minutes Damian would be running there to see the bipedal tiger and ask to pet him and tell him everything he knows about tigers

[athenalvss]

Sorry but I saw you opened requests for Clark Kent! I was wondering if you’d mind doing a small fic for him.

I was thinking maybe Clark and reader have been actively trying to conceive but to no luck. Clark comes home one night and the reader is waiting for him in their shared kitchen. She’s waiting there to tell Clark that they might have to accept it won’t ever happen.

“Clark, we’ve trying for forever for months and still nothing-“

Clark stops her mid-sentence. He looks surprised but not for what reasons she thinks. It’s because he hears another heartbeat. Originally that night reader was gonna give up… only for Clark to be the one to reveal she’s pregnant.

HEARTBEAT — ( clark kent! )

summary: Your greatest wish with Clark was to start a family, but life wasn't on your side.

pairing: Clark kent x fem!reader

open request - clark masterlist

The past few months had felt like an eternal mix of hope and frustration. From the moment you and Clark decided you were ready to start a family, everything in your life revolved around it. You'd always wanted to be a mother, and when you met Clark, it was impossible not to imagine a lifetime with him, with a pair of children who looked just like him, with those beautiful eyes and the warmth they emanated. But no one had ever told you how difficult it could be to achieve that dream.

Doctor visits, cycle-tracking apps, calendars taped to the refrigerator with days marked, ovulation tests, pregnancy tests purchased in multipacks, increasingly hidden in bathroom drawers. Prenatal vitamins, natural remedies, recommendations from friends, changes in diet and routine.

And yet, every month that passed brought with it the same solitary line on the test, a single faint pink streak. At first, the disappointment wasn't so great; they knew getting pregnant wasn't always something that happened easily, but when you started receiving negative tests one after another, it was like taking a huge blow to your ego and your mental health. Why wouldn't life give you the greatest gift you had ever desired with all your being?

Clark had always been your rock. No matter how many times you cried secretly in the shower or kicked one of the empty test tubes in frustration, he always held you just as gently, telling you he loved you, that no matter how long it took, you were in this together.

But over time, even hugs began to feel like a blanket stretched too thin in the face of a storm. Not from a lack of love, but from exhaustion, from the weight of pent up hope that never exploded into the joy they were waiting for.

You'd stopped counting the days. The calendars were still there, on the fridge, with their little red circles, but you no longer bothered to enthusiastically cross them off. The phone app you used to obsessively check now sent you notifications you didn't even open. Your friends kept sending supportive messages, some sharing news of their own pregnancies and you responded with happy emojis as you turned off your phone to cry in the dark bathroom.

The worst thought was the one you didn't dare say out loud: What if I can't? What if I never can? What if it's me?

Everything you had once thought would bring you eternal joy was hurting you deeply, you were already tired, everything was so clear, the problem in this equation was you.

And although he insisted that you shouldn't blame yourself, that time would bring its reward, you were beginning to feel like the wait was an open wound that would never heal. Every month that ended in another disappointment felt like a betrayal of your body, a silent slap in the face.

One night when Clark went to patrol the city that seemed calm, something that you hadn't felt for a long time, every night the idea that this would never happen made you feel bad, it made you anguish to the point of shedding the few tears that remained in your body, but you were already tired of crying.

You had been thinking about it all day; it was totally absurd to continue this medieval torture of your mind and body, so you just went to the kitchen, made yourself some tea, and sat down, alone, waiting for Clark to return.

That night you decided you were going to let him go. You didn't know exactly what you were going to say to him. You just knew that you needed him. And that you couldn't pretend you were okay anymore.

You could no longer carry the hope of something that never came. You needed to breathe. To live again without measuring time in menstrual cycles. To love your partner again without thinking about ovulation dates. To laugh again without feeling guilty. To be yourself again.

And when Clark walked through the door, he found you there, your face calm but exhausted, your hands wrapped around the cup of cold tea.

"Sweetheart?" he said softly, as he approached. "Is everything okay?"

You shook your head. "I need to talk to you," you told him, and he didn't hesitate for a second. He sat across from you as always, his eyes attentive, patient, always willing to give his all to help you and be so present.

You took a deep breath, trying to find enough courage to share your thoughts. You'd already decided, you didn't want to be a burden to him either. Neither with your pain nor with your constant sadness, they deserved better. The two of them deserved to be at peace. "Clark... we've been trying for months. Doing everything in our power. Looking for every possible way. And nothing's happening."

His expression remained serene, but you could see that glimmer of concern light up his eyes.

"I know you always tell me to be patient, to take my time... but what if it doesn't happen? What if it's not meant for us?" in a tone of resignation on the verge of tears, and then you continued. "Maybe... we have to accept that it won't happen."

You felt yourself breaking as you said it, because it was no longer just a thought; once you let the words out of your mouth, it was officially a renunciation of a dream, a part of your life that you had always imagined.

But Clark didn't respond the way you expected. He didn't say, "Don't say that." He didn't correct you. He didn't try to find the right words to comfort you. He just stood there. His face hardened, not with sadness, but with something like… surprise. Or concentration.

“Clark?”

He opened his lips. He closed them. Then he knelt before you without a word. With both hands, he cupped your belly, with a reverential delicacy, as if it were made of glass.

"What are you…?"

Her expression changed, her eyes, filled with astonishment, began to fill with tears. Her lips parted. A tremor ran through her fingers. "My God..." she murmured, breathless. "There are two of them."

“Shh,” she whispered. “Wait…”

It took you a second to understand. "Two?"

“Two heartbeats,” he replied, looking at you with an incredulous smile. “One is yours. The other… it’s so soft. Barely audible. But it’s there. It’s there, my love.”

And then you felt it.

Not physically, of course. But his certainty. His conviction. That pure emotion that vibrated in his voice, in his body, as if he'd just seen the sun for the first time. "Are... are you sure? I don't want to get my hopes up," you managed to stammer, a hand covering your mouth.

"I've never been so sure of anything," he said, his voice breaking.

The emotion that came after was like a wave. Immense. It overwhelmed you.

Clark hugged you on his knees, wrapping you in those arms that had always made you feel safe, but now trembled for the first time in months. You cried on his shoulder. You cried against his neck, You cried for all the accumulated suffering and the relief of joy that had been waiting for and so did he.

You two stayed like that for long minutes. Saying nothing. Just listening to that meaningful silence. That new heartbeat.

The miracle that had arrived just when you were about to give up, how happy you were to have a Kryptonian boyfriend.

[rafesangelita]

♡ babydaddy!rafe and pogue!sweetheart!reader see their baby via ultrasound for the first time!

warnings: pregnancy, sweet fluff, both reader and rafe crying, medical terminology, brief flashback, small time skip

a/n: pogue!sweetheart!reader is only pregnant in this universe alone! if you want to read more of her and babydaddy!rafe you could click the tag with their pairing down below or you could just go to pogue!sweetheart!reader’s masterlist <3

“alright, mom and dad.. are we ready?” you and rafe shared a look, your eyes fluttering closed as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. taking hold of rafe’s hand, you hissed softly once you felt the warm clear jelly smear against your tummy. “so this might take a minute because i have to find the perfect spot, but if you feel any kind of discomfort just let me know.” the technician smiled sweetly as both you and rafe zeroed in on the monitor screen. he was so gentle and tender with you, his large build crouched down next to yours as he whispered encouragements in your ear.

“you’ve been doing so good, baby, you’re already the best mommy ever,” he praised you, “i love you so much, there’s no one else i’d want to be doing this with.” you were already so emotional before and during your appointment, you couldn’t help but get teary eyed at his words. “i love you, too.” you sniffled, averting your attention back to the ultrasound machine. “here we are!” you gasped when the technician got the right spot, the image of your baby illuminating the screen. “oh!” you melted at the sight as rafe rubbed your arm, his bottom lip trembling as the tiny little thing stared back at the two of you.

“so what you’re seeing right here is the head,” she paused the image, pointing a finger at the monitor, “and if you look closely you could see the daintiest little button nose i’ve ever seen.” you giggled, tears streaming down your cheeks now as she moved the transducer over your lower abdomen. “so since you’re at ten weeks, that means baby is about as big as a strawberry right now.” rafe stared down at you in awe, his heart feeling so full in this moment. his baby was having his baby, he couldn’t grasp just how beautiful that really was.

“look at the tiny feet!” you squealed. you were smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt. if you were already dying of cuteness overload right now, you couldn’t imagine the pure and utter joy you’d feel once your little one was finally in your arms. “please tell me we could take home copies today..” you cried, sighing in relief once the technician nodded. “of course! i’ll start taking those pictures right now.” rafe wrapped an arm around your chest, leaning down so he could leave a trail of small pecks along the underside of your jaw. “oh, man, can you believe this?” he asked incredulously.

you shook your head, stroking the skin of his arm as you admired the different angles that popped up on the monitor. you’ve been pregnant for well over a month, already going on two and it was barely starting to hit you right now that you were really growing something inside of you. the feeling was surreal almost, like you couldn’t even articulate the words to describe how whole you felt having rafe by your side through absolutely everything. “no, not at all.” you whispered, clinging onto him as if he’d disappear into thin air if you let him go.

thinking back to whenever you first met rafe, you would’ve never thought in your most wildest dreams that you’d be having his baby. you two were so brand new to everything, the excitement never dwindling in your relationship. you were sweet and kind, and just overall good, rafe hoped with every fiber of his being that his baby would inherit every ounce of your heart. your gentle and nurturing nature was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. to feel your love all around him no matter how close or far you were, he had no doubt in his mind that your baby could feel the same love tenfold.

rafe was in pure bliss just thinking about seeing you carry a baby on your hip everywhere, that smile of yours adorning your lips as you gaze up at him through your lashes. the vision was so vivid, he felt his heart squeeze in his chest at finally having everything he ever wanted right in front of him. “are you two going to find out the sex after your first trimester, or will you be waiting until birth?” you pouted once the technician started cleaning you up, her screen going blank as she shut it off. “we’ll be finding out with a gender reveal.” rafe smiled, helping you sit up.

“that won’t be very long then,” she raised her eyebrows excitedly, “you’re not really showing just yet, but this is completely normal, especially since it’s your first pregnancy.. but any day now, and you should start seeing a little bump.” you smiled, lifting your arms up so rafe can adjust your clothes. “aw, i can’t wait.” you were already thinking of the shopping spree you’d have to go on in order to accommodate your new shape. yoga pants and fuzzy slippers here you come. “i’ll be right back with those photos!” she scurried out of the room, leaving you and rafe staring at each other in disbelief.

“i hope she prints enough copies, i want one for everywhere. the house, the truck, my purse—” rafe interjected, “oh! and one for my wallet—”

[littledes1re]

How to disappear | Chapter: one

Summary: after the passing of your mom, you and your dads best friend get close. You find comfort in him and he does the same because he also once lost something. While a relationship between you two sounds wrong and taboo, your feelings grow stronger. But Joel is an old man, guilt and the fear of losing you too, overwhelms him. So he leaves you.

Warnings: Angst, grief, heartbreak, lots of emotions, (fluff as a flashback), joels alcohol problems, dad that doesn’t care for his daughter, age gap! (23 and 61), crying, kind of depression, smut (as a flashback)

A/N: Okey Okey, I may said next week but I was already done with it so finally it’s here. Some dbf and Oldman!joel angst hehehe. Ngl I kinda hurt myself with this one.

Dear joel,

i‘m still thinking about the first time you kissed me, gentle, careful, caring.

I wish you‘d see how much I love you, how much I love being in your presence, how much I love our midnight talks.

We are both broken, something connected us. You made it a reason to leave me, I made it a reason to call you my soulmate.

I feel heartbreak. I cry myself to sleep, tell me..is that better than us comforting each other and having fun?

I miss our conversations, I miss your smile and your ability to comfort me.

Dad is asking why you are distancing yourself.

I love you, always.

Winter felt like forever.

A never ending cycle of dark and cold days, where the world stays still when snow falls. Lingering loneliness creeping up, as you fall for the hopelessness of it all and allowed the weather to dictate your mood while in the back of your mind the soft touches and whispers swam around of someone you where aching to be revolved around with once again.

Joel Miller.

Your last conversation stuck in your mind like the withering words only an enemy can say to you. Repeating itself over and over till there is only a echo of two words. We can‘t.

But there was no flicker of rejection in his eyes as he touched you, no regret as he cuddled you after his release, no shimmer of a different personality you weren‘t aware of, you knew him long enough. At least you thought so.

The aching in your heart and tummy was one that didn‘t go away no matter how much time had passed. The sadness clinged on you, wrapping tightly around your ribs, making it hard to breathe. It was one that grew each day for the past season, now coming to the point that you feel yourself getting sick from it. Flashes of memories startle you while you want to go on with your day. The glimpse of his brown eyes, landing on your face, soft and gentle the way you always knew him. Faints laughs of you two whenever it’s quiet.

And somehow underneath all of this it remembered you of your mom. The day she passed, the darkness that fell on you, the ability to not think straight as your eyes were hurting from crying. The shock not letting up, moving like a ghost trough life, pretending to function. Time would heal, but it didn’t. Time just showed you how to carry the pain without showing it.

You wanted to be small again, cradled by your mother’s hands, soothed by her voice.

“It feels like time has stopped for you and the people around you don’t care. You somehow have to function, but the person was your sole reason to function.” His eyes were emotionless.

Joel stopped crying after five months. He became a vessel of a man who once showed his kindness through actions and words and now someone who shuts everyone off. Grief is not predictable. It changes, buries itself deep beneath the skin and eats you alive. Joel never asked for comfort. But he gave it to you. He thought he didn’t deserve warmth, he thought he didn’t want to feel joy. But he let you feel all of those things.

The rough patch of his beard tickled your skin as you laid on top of him, nuzzling your face into his neck. The tears were dry on your cheeks, your eyes swollen and red as a headache started to form. His big hands rubbing circles on your back, soothing you to sleep.

“She is watching over you.”

The line that was crossed was blurred. The day you caught feelings was unknown. You just knew that there had been this silent connection between you two right after he decided to knock on your door to check on you.

“How y’doing, kiddo?”

Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t except it from him. Maybe it was the fact that your dad was distant after your mom’s passing. Maybe it was the fact that both of you lost something.

A man you should suddenly avoid because of his alcohol problems; your dad’s sayings. After his daughter’s passing he developed an alcohol problem, something that was clear whenever he was in your house, his eyes hazy, movements too unsteady. Your heart ached for him, never understanding how people do that to themselves. But after your mom, you did. His actions spoke louder than his words. He still helped your father around the house, with his job, with other things. He was there ,only his emotions were completely submerged, a veil placed over them so no one could recognize his true feelings.

That night, changed it all. He calmed your nerves, gave you the comfort you’ve been aching for the past eight months, and after that he finally let you in his heart. Told you what he was feeling. Guilt, anxiety and anger. His lips were quivering, eyes dark and swollen. Jaw clenched, as if he was trying to bite back the sob clawing up his throat. His breath shaky.

“I should’ve been there.” The only thing that he would murmur and then silence. A rather comfortable and understanding one. You don’t say anything, you just watch. Seeing the same emotions going through him as the day you lost your mom. His eyes would finally lift, and they would shine but not with kindness but with anger and sorrow. You could see it.

“An-and I feel selfish. For now coming in here and telling you this while you also lost someone.”

“Hey, hey. No.” Your hand gently lands on his shoulder, slowly moving to his hair caressing through his curls, while looking at him. His eyes softened, suddenly filling full of worry, bottom lip pouting. Looking at you like a kicked puppy. You felt tears leaving your eyes, landing on your thighs, you wanted to hug him. You knew how he was feeling. You also wanted to give him comfort.

“Don’t even think like that. You’re not selfish for speaking it out. You’re human, joel.”

He tilts his head slightly, you doing the same. A flicker of something knowing passing through your gaze.

“And if you really think thats selfish, then i’m selfish too. For wanting to hear it. You should’t carry it alone.”

For the first time, joel let’s go of the breath he has been holding for a long time. It doesn’t fix anything— but in this quiet moment, something shifts.

A piece of his sorrow, no longer carried alone.

He came over more often. Opened your door, sneaked in your bed and cuddled you, whenever your father was at home, you went to his place. He didn’t care anyway. You two had small road trips, where he drove you to his favourite places, music in the background, your head out of the window, enjoying it. It felt safe, it felt right.

Every worry in your head disappearing when he put your head on his chest. Soft humming and fingertips caressing the skin. Your conversations were not only about loss. They were flowing easily, they were funny.

“This thing is gonna give me a heart attack one day, I swear.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying to find the right buttons to put it on silent.

“Ain’t working like that, wait—you have a nokia? Where the hell is your phone?” You asked widened eyes, after you snatched his supposed phone out of his hands.

He snatched it back, eyebrows furrowing.

“What about it? Tommy bought me one because they are easy to use.”

“No, no. S’nice.” You tried to suppress a giggle. And as you swallowed you looked around his house, he looked at you with a grumpy expression.

“What? I can’t keep up with your new generation shit.”

“Oh I bet, I bet. I just find it funny.” You finally giggled, laying back down on his couch, holding your tummy.

“Y’know what’s real funny? You don’t even know half of these movies that I showed you.”

You gasped, sitting up again. His face all smug, a smirk on his lips.

“What? They are cult classics c’mon now—“

“Yeah, for old people.” You rolled your eyes playfully, seeing his face all serious now.

Giggling, you stood up as he abruptly did so too, stretched out his arms to reach for you.

And you knew what that meant. You laughed just more, running around his coffee table and he followed you, trying to grab you. And suddenly he did, throwing you gently on the couch and began tickling you.

“J-joel” you couldn’t breathe from the laughter.

You thought your dad would comfort you and be there for you after what happened, you didn’t think it was going to be joel. But your dad locked himself up, ignoring his dad duties. Leaving you alone, not showing his emotions, not letting you show yours. His demeanour was cold, distant it felt like living with a stranger. You understood why. You understood that he also lost someone, but he never once asked how you are, never once opened the topic of Mom again. Deleted it from his life like it never existed. And while doing that he also deleted you slowly.

Your friends stopped texting, one didn’t know how to comfort you. The other one was acting like it wasn’t a big deal. So you also deleted that topic from them, from your father. Joel was the only one who heard you talking about your mom.

And then he left you. So now, you were completely alone.

But maybe you didn’t really love him. Maybe you just loved his comforting. Maybe you just needed someone and he was there. Would you love a man forty years older than you if your father acted like a father? The way he looked at you, worshipped you, made you feel good. Made you feel special. Took care of you. Something connected you two. Wasn’t those signs of love?

“Hurting?”

“No, think i’m good.” You whispered to him. The stretch was unusual, nothing that you haven’t had before but it felt different. It was with joel.

“S’good, real good.” He nodded his head to you. Under the covers, vulnerable, you two were naked. There were goosebumps all over your skin, and his too. Joel lets you adjust on his shaft, worried eyes scanning your face to see if you show any sign of discomfort.

The atmosphere in the room was calm, lights dimmed and if felt comfortable. The first time you really made out with him and laid your hands on his bulge he stopped you. “Wanna do it right.” He took his time, kissing every inch of your body, teasing you, loving on you. Calling you his pretty girl. Making your eyes almost tear up of how much love he was giving you.

He was extra careful as he started to thrust into you, little breaths leaving his mouth, your hands gripping his biceps. A little moan leaving your lips, feeling the pleasure in your belly slowly fill.

His gaze never left you, he noticed it all. The smile you give him, cheeks flushed, trying to breath right and suppress a loud moan. The way he handled you with gentle hands cupping your cheek, kissing your forehead.

“Joel—please.” A coo leaving his mouth, speeding his thrusts into you.

Joel would bite back a groan, his thrusts sometimes sloppy, sometimes losing the rhythm because it’s been so long. But you didn’t care. You loved feeling him all, you loved being with him.

And when he came his face would twist, you would gently touch his face. He would bury himself into you on last time and then hide into your neck, leaving wet kisses while catching his breath. While you didn’t come, you were still content and satisfied to have him on top of you. But of course he realised it and ate you out for one hour, taking his time, giving you the best orgasms of your life.

You never got an answer from the letter. You never got an answer on your countless texts and calls. He cut you out. And you were trying your best to be angry, you really were. But deep down, the sense of understanding was spreading. You knew how much trouble you two would be going through if your father or anyone in your family found out. Anyone in his family too.

The age gap would let everyone turn their heads in the streets.

Your friends, colleagues everyone would think he is a weirdo. That you are a weirdo.

But then you ask yourself why?

Why did he let you develop these feeling for him? Why did he give you a reason to think that he was in love with you? Why did he comfort you? why did he give you this feeling that everything is going to be fine? Why did he make you believe that there was a connection between you two?

A knock pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Can you help me set the table? Joel is also coming—oh and his girlfriend too, apparently.”

AAA this took so long, but i’m actually proud of this. Please if you see mistakes or want to give feedback, feel free to do so.

Thank you so so much for 900 followers, it’s truly unbelievable.🥹🥹

Chapter two!

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