#I had a lot of fun writing this!

[izzacripple]

“Weird” ways lads men like to ruin you

Or some of the fetishes they have when they fancy a bit of “how’s your father”

Warnings: dark kinks, dark fetishes, nsfw content, MDNI (im still studying Xavier and Rafayel so maybe they won't fit the description)

✷ Sylus

Sylus would definitely be into bondage; he's already always in control, but he derives pleasure from watching you restrained, all at his mercy. Sylus would also like experimenting age-play; he has lived years without you, making him all restless so he'd probably encourage himself babying you, making his kitten call him daddy :3

✷ Caleb

Caleb likes to fuck into you like a madman, he'd have breeding kink, watching you big and plumpy, stomach fattening holding his babies; he likes to see his cum dripping all over your stupid cunt, a reminder of his love for you. He would be also into exhibitionism, he loves being the only one who gets to have you all broken up by his cock and he makes sure that people see that you only belong to him ;)

✷ Zayne

Zayne will be into cnc, a lot. The only reason he's comfortable with ravishing you while you thrash around and yell at him to stop because you can't take his fat cock, is because, it gives him reassurance that you trust him. He is a big fan of lactophilia! He wants to watch you totally immersed in breastfeeding your newborn while he watches and jacks off to the pretty sight, and mayyybe, maybe he'll have a taste of you too if you let him :(

✷ Xavier

Xavier is a big baby. Spoiler alert : that's what YOU think. He's actually very dominant when he wants what he wants from you. He likes eroticically humiliating you, the sight of you being submissive and doing every stupid little task he tells you to do, makes him horny. He is also into macrophilia, he LOVES being squished and tbh he's also really really into pegging; only because he wants to be close to you ^^

✷ Rafayel

Rafayel...is kinky as fuck. Having two cocks wasn't enough for him, those cocks were also monsterous in size! Rafayel loves doing wax-play with you. He gets this erotic pleasurable feeling when you whimper and stiffen against his body as he paints your figure with wax, in an artistic way. He is also very much into agalmatophilia; he doesn't like fucking statues. No, no. He only likes treating them as a sex object when they look like you. He is into watching you in all latex too btw

[blissfulbluee]

Losing My Favorite Game

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63516925

Obviously, this little game of his would play into the grand scheme of things. It was born from the same urge to always prove his point and to teach Gi-hun a lesson about his blind faith in humanity. In-ho had to admit, though, he had other reasons. One of them was that any game he played was destined for him to win.

Except this time he doesn’t.

or,

In-ho creates a plan to sleep with Gi-hun as Young-il to worsen the betrayal, but the plan falls apart, and so does he.

…

Hey guys! Here is my first fic!! I hope you enjoy <3.

[xx-feministsamwinchester-xx]

More of my thoughts re Sam doesn’t know, Wincest would already be an established thing and I was thinking that dean and Lucifer meet up just the two of them and make that deal. I think it would be a random thing, there’s no pattern to when he wants to sleep with Sam. Lucifer has access to all of dean’s memories and takes a bit of a thrill at pretending to be him, also enjoys how easy it is to get Sam to do what he wants when wearing dean’s face. Also maybe Lucifer gets a bit of a kick using his brother’s vessel when Micheal never got to.

Sam would find out and be freaked at what the two were doing but with dean and Lucifer teaming up, I’m sure she soon “gets over it”

“Seriously?” Dean stared at the body that Lucifer was using in lieu of Sam. “That's what it'll take for no apocalypse?”

[Let me in, whenever I ask, to have sex with Sam.]

“Sam already agreed to letting me in.” He said. A smirk on his face, skin flaking away, inhumanity bursting at the seams. “But - who says I can't double-dip?”

If Dean hadn't already bought fully into this plan, hadn't already bucked fate, he'd balk at this. He should go and tell Sam about this. Tell her that this was happening. Their initial plan had half-failed; Sam was going to say yes, but Lucifer hadn't agreed to the plan.

But maybe it was a fear of not knowing, not being with this every single step of the way, not being there for Sam. Or maybe he was far too indulgent when it came to Sam.

Why should Lucifer get any more time alone with her?

“Fine.”

When the door to their motel room is opened, Sam is too busy poring over maps and plans to look up. A few weeks into their botched plan, Sam was close to tearing out her hair. Lucifer hadn't taken the bite. And that pushed them back into square one.

“Sam?” Dean called out and poked his head around the entryway. “You still -”

“Yes, I'm still stressed.” She threw a map of the country back to the table. Sam had no idea where Lucifer would be. And that ship with Bobby had long sailed. “Where were you?”

Sam scrunched up her face when it took Dean a few seconds longer than usual. But his reply was all the same.

“Supply run.” The tinkle of a six pack followed as he stepped closer. “Got the goods.”

Though she rolled her eyes, Sam happily took a beer. The slight burn of alcohol made the edges of Sam's anxiety blur. She finished the first and fished in the carrier for a second one.

“You were gone longer than the other day.” Sam mused, as she spoke between mouthfuls of six dollar swill. “What's up? Demons? Angels?”

She watched Dean lean his head back, lips puckered in thought. “Both? Didn't seem to be after me though.”

Sam nodded. Her eyes flicked back to their maps.

“Well, I think we should see if he's hiding out on the west coast next.” Sam tossed her second bottle to the side and then eyed a third. “Sorry for being greedy tonight.”

Her brother's eyes twinkled and Sam almost laughed.

“Did you pregame before you got back?” She nudged Dean's foot with a socked one. “You only get this sugary when you're tipsy.”

“Hhmm, maybe.”

Sam welcomed Dean invading her space, standing between her knees. She indulged her knight often, even if he couldn't be bothered as often. But the stress, anxiety, and everything made them both loose.

She welcomed the kisses. She even welcomed being carried into the bed, tossed and laid on. It was the same as before and Sam welcomed all of it. They were two pieces meant for each other.

(Even if she couldn't forget how much Lucifer made her feel complete, too.)

“Do you know I love you, Sam?” Dean was inside her, his hands cradled her face, and he looked reverent. “Do you?”

The edge of alcohol might have rubbed down the sides of her thought, but something about his words made her melt. Dean was never usually so lovey during sex, preferring to keep it to outside the sheets.

“The fact you've stayed by my side,” Sam slung an arm around her brother's neck, sweaty, and leaned in. “You didn't have to do that. You could have left me…”

“Never, Sam.” Dean leaned in, bridging the gap between them. “We're made for each other, you know?”

This close, Sam stared into Dean's eyes. Usually they drank in each other's presence. This closeness meant something quiet, something they rarely afforded each other. This close, Sam could see that there was something wrong with her brother's eyes.

But Dean drowned her with a kiss. And like so many times before, Sam put her own thoughts to the side for later.

…

Later meant that morning. Late start, sore limbs finding themselves both in the shower. Sam might be the presumptive heir to Hell but her body still held firm to mortal needs. And Dean's needs, as well.

“You've -” Sam lolled her neck for Dean to pepper it with kisses. “Been way more handsy.”

It felt nice to be wanted. Even if it was Dean, whose sole purpose in life now seemed to protect her. It felt like a chain. Their collars interlocked. Their fates joined like steepled hands. If Sam let herself believe she didn't deserve this it would feel like a curse. If God was watching, He must think He was a comedian.

“I can feel it.” Dean tilted his head. “Getting close to really clinching this victory.”

Sam let herself believe something was wrong, and not that she was second guessing herself. Dean wavered on both. Subject to his moods.

“Is it that?” Sam brushed her face against Dean's face, swaying in his arms. “Because it feels like something else.”

Dean let out a huff of a laugh. The same he always gave when she said something that he found ridiculous. It made Sam want to shrink away.

“I don't want to lie -”

“What do you mean?” Sam curled her lip, just a smidge. “That's like, your favorite activity.”

Sam watched as Dean scrunched up his face. It reminded Sam of a baby that had just tasted a lemon for the first time. It would be funny, if she didn't want answers.

“I don't want to lie to you, Sam.” Her brother repeated and finished his thought. Dean leaned over and turned off the shower. “You might not like this.”

Dean paused, tilted his head and then laughed to himself. It sounded different but familiar. “Okay, well, technically not a lie. You never asked.”

Sam shook out her wet hair and watched as the droplets splashed on her brother. And yet he just stared at her, the ghost of a smile on his face as it haunted her.

“Spit it out then.” Sam hated the chill that seeped into her skin without the hot water. “Before we freeze.”

“I'm not -” Dean's face broke out into a smile again. “I mean, he's in here. Watching. I'm not Dean, Sammy.”

That tone. She remembered it. Lucifer's - infinite, unending, so warm and plying. Sam tried to jerk away but Dean grabbed her by her hips.

“Don't be mad.” That was Dean's voice fully now. “I did it for you.”

“You let Lucifer -” Sam felt her vision shake with disappointment and something else - anger? It was hard to be angry with Dean. “Dean, what the fuck?”

“Sam. It's what he wanted.”

The way Dean said that, he was already getting annoyed.

(Sam, I gave up everything to protect you.)

(Sam. See the bigger picture. I'm doing this for you - for us.)

It set Sam's teeth on edge. But she knew Dean was doing what he thought best. And frankly, what other avenues did they have?

“If you did this -” Sam bit her lip. “Would he agree with our plan?”

“I don't lie.” Lucifer's intonation was nail-bitingly paternalistic. “Not to you, Sam. I want you.”

Those words had, in some form or another, left Dean's mouth months ago. If it wasn't for the faint skin flaking off around the edges of Dean's mouth, or the aged, wisdom tint to Dean's words, Sam would have mistaken this exchange for any other Tuesday in their life.

“You aren't being held captive in there?” Dean shook his head. Sam sighed. “I - Dean, next time, tell me?”

“Yeah.” Dean leaned forward to kiss Sam's forehead. “Though honestly I'm annoyed you couldn't tell it wasn't always me in the driver's seat.”

Sam rolled her eyes.

“Whatever, Dean. When do I -”

“Whenever you choose, Sam.” Lucifer answered, then tilted Dean's head. “Though, you might want to let me in soon. Might be my brother's vessel, but not mine. Isn't holding up too well.”

That settled it, then.

[specialinterestshows]

If it’s okay to request, would you be willing to write dom!Liv (IZombie) where she makes you be quiet? 👀 (gn!reader is completely okay)

You got it, beautiful!

I present my very first iZombie ficlet, a dom!Olivia Moore x genderneutral!reader story:

Don’t Say Moore

It had been an unusually tame week in Seattle, leaving the SPD morgue about as lifeless as the few corpses kept cold there. Strolling in, you set your coat down on a nearby chair before quietly creeping up behind a man you’d gotten to know well enough with to startle.

“Got you!” you declare triumphantly as Ravi Chakrabarti jumps at your touch on his shoulder.

"Another busy day going out of your way to harass hard-working medical professionals, I take it?" he asks you, feigned irritation in the undertones of his East London accent.

"Yup!" you reply cheerily, "One down, one to go."

"I believe your second victim is rummaging around the supply closet somewhere," Ravi said, a mischievous grin on his face as he watched you quietly turn the corner.

It was your turn to be startled as the supply closet door swung open, revealing the exceptionally pale, blonde woman you had been seeing for about a week now. Olivia Moore had saved you from a close encounter with a zombie and the two of you had gotten close in the process - as close as a human and a zombie can get without becoming two zombies, anyway. The way she was looking at you today was different: the hunger that you usually saw deep in her eyes as she scanned your body - that definitely-too-sexual-for-work longing glance - seemed to instead have been replaced with the genuinely ravenous stare of an apex predator.

“Babe, you look like you haven’t slept!" you exclaim, surprised to see dark circles around her eyes. Then, upon seeing her shoulder, you began to panic, "Is that a bullet wound? Wait, when’s the last time you’ve… eaten?” your voice gets softer as she walks past you. Despite not having been together long, the two of you had already had your share of arguments about the realities of her investigative work. You had honestly expected more of a fight.

“Rough night helping Clive. I’m handling it," Liv grunts, setting out the medical supplies she had taken from the supply closet and missing the questioning look you gave Ravi, whose eyes seemed to plead you to change the subject.

“It’s just... the detective work you do is so dangerous," you continue, ignoring the doctor's animated grimace, "I know you want to help people, but you're already a medical examiner, right? So do you really need to keep putting yourself at risk doing this detective thing?” You look over at Ravi to back you up, but he stands up suddenly.

"I’ll just go update Clive on our progress, then. Be right back,” and with that he ducks out, looking for all the world like he couldn’t exit the morgue fast enough.

“Babe, I worry about something happening to you all the time-“ you start before Liv interrupts you.

“You don’t have to worry about me dying," she said bluntly, "I'm already dead."

Liv keeps her eyes on the supplies as she keeps talking, "Just a shambling zombie dealing with a slow week at the morgue. If I've learned anything working here, it's that the people of Seattle don't usually stop murdering each other for very long."

“Liv, I care about you. How am I supposed to not worry when you’re putting yourself in danger all the time?” you put your hand on her shoulder, wishing she would turn around and look at you - only to regret it. Her head whips around, eyes turning red before letting out a growl and putting her hand around your throat.

“Shut. Up.” she spat, pinning you down onto one of the empty exam tables. Knowing her nails were one small movement away from taking your humanity, you kept yourself as still as possible and your breath as shallow as you could manage under her grip.

"Say another word and I won't have to wait for a murder to get my next meal," she snarled, inches away from your face. Your own heartbeat pounded loudly in your ears and you had a moment when you were sure you were about to pass out - then, Liv's eyes shifted just as quickly back to their usual muted shades and she let go of you. Gasping to get enough air again, you clutch your chest before feeling your neck for scratches. Thankfully, you seem unscathed. Looking up, you notice Liv is smiling now and decide not to say anything that might change that.

[end]

[chaosbean1443]

YOOOOOOOO been wanting to pop into your ask box for a while,,, What's your headcanons for some of the Mario characters? Could be from any game, can be any character. Imma just sit here and kick my feet :3

Heyyyy!! I've seen you a lot around here! Hi! :D

Ok, so most of my headcanons were kinda just absorbed from other people, but I do have a few of my own.

Mario:

- He's the guy that gets everyone to try new things. Sports, the Olympic games, the medical field... you name it, and he's probably dragged Luigi and/or anyone who would listen into it.

- When he's not busy saving the world he is a massive goofball and jumps between lots of hobbies.

- He's a movie nerd (wears a lot of 80-90s movie t-shirts) and once tried to get into filmmaking

Luigi:

- He wears his candy cane socks and a turtleneck shirt in every version of his design

- I reblogged a post about it the other day, but ENGINEER LUIGI ENGINEER LUIGI

- He LOVES reading, and in Mario Galaxy spent most of a lot of time exploring the library

(he also writes a bit but isn't very open to sharing)

- He was definitely called a nerd in middle/high school

Peach:

- Despite her looks, she is, if not more adventurous than Mario

- the two are made for each other and make a good team in pretty much anything

- I imagine her treating Daisy a like a cool little sister

Daisy:

- Oh yeah, and about her, she definitely wears tennis shoes under her dress

- I know they're two separate kingdoms, but I think of Toastarena as part of Sarasaland

-Also, I have no idea why, but I have always seen her as Hispanic

Rosalina:

- As evidenced by the Odyessy concept art, she plays the guitar. She plays for the lumas a lot :)

- She doesn't really talk much

Bowser:

-Kamek is his father figure, not just an advisor (I am still a bit salty over how they wrote him in the movie...)

- The Bowser's Inside Story version of him is my definitive version of him. He's such a overconfident doofus in that game I love it

-The Koopalings are his adopted kids and he loves them very much (no amount of retconning will change that for me)

- As seen in the movie, the guy is surprisingly musical. I like to think the castle track music in the mario kart games is composed by him.

- He also teaches his kids to play instuments! (I'll make a separate post for that. This is getting a bit long, haha)

So yeah, these are most of my headcanons for main characters.

Thanks for asking! :D I never really get to talk to people about Mario that much, so this was really nice.

[iffeelscouldkill]

Fic: a dream or two (away from you)

Dear @breeze-tells-tales - happy Fence Secret Santa! I was inspired by your prompt to write a Harvard/Aiden fantasy AU :3 It's a (loosely) mediaeval fantasy with some dream magic. I hope you enjoy it! 💜

a dream or two (away from you)

Rating: 12+/Teen

Ship: Harvard/Aiden (and a tiny mention of Nicholas/Seiji)

Summary: Everyone knows that magic isn't real. Never mind that Aiden, crown prince of Feldhaven, has been having strange dreams from a young age in which he meets and plays with a young boy from a far-away kingdom.

He can't explain it, but he isn't concerned - until years later, when an eighteen-year-old Aiden is suddenly introduced to the new Captain of the Guard: Harvard Lee. The boy from his dreams.

---

Aiden was standing in the middle of a wood.

This was a bit strange, because he’d gone to sleep in his bed in the castle, and he didn’t remember coming out here. Also, he was still wearing his nightclothes. But everything around him felt clear and vivid – the grass under his (bare) feet, the wind through his hair… The only other odd thing was that he didn’t feel cold at all, even though it had been a chill night.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement among the trees and turned quickly. “Who’s there?” he called.

A boy emerged from the trees, about his age, slightly taller and with dark skin. He was also dressed in nightclothes, and holding a stuffed teddy bear. “Hello,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “Who are you? I’m Harvard.”

Aiden wondered if Harvard’s family must be from far away, if they didn’t know how to recognise him, Crown Prince Aiden. Then again, where was this? Were they near the castle grounds? (He wasn’t allowed to go beyond the castle grounds on his own. Definitely not without at least two bodyguards). The wood didn’t seem familiar.

“I’m Joshua,” he said, which was his middle name, but he didn’t know what this strange boy might know about him and he decided he’d like to keep it that way. “Where are we, do you know?”

Harvard shook his head. “I thought I was asleep in bed, then I was here,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think this is near my house.”

So this other boy didn’t know where they were either. Aiden thought. This could be an elaborate plot to kidnap him, but he didn’t see any kidnappers, or anyone else here besides Harvard. And he’d never been able to make a friend just on his own, before. His mind suddenly flooded with excited possibilities.

“Do you want to play tag?” he asked.

Harvard frowned at him. “Shouldn’t we try to find out what’s happening? Or find our parents?”

What Harvard was saying made sense for a boy like him, but for once Aiden’s parents (or the castle guards, or his nurse, or anyone) weren’t around, and he was desperate to make the most of it. “Maybe we’ll find out as we go.” He mimicked the way he’d seen commoner children playing out of the windows of his carriage, and reached out to brush Harvard’s arm. He felt solid. “Tag. You’re it!”

A grin grew on Harvard’s face as the thrill of a new friend and the game took over, and he chased after Aiden. Aiden shrieked and ran, and at one point tumbled to the ground and got leaves in his hair, and generally did a lot of things not befitting of an heir to the throne. It was glorious. He never wanted it to end.

He couldn’t say what it was that gave him the sense their time was up. But the sun cresting over the horizon might have played a part. “Harvard, I think I’m… going. I think I’m about to be home again,” he told his friend urgently.

Harvard nodded. He’d sensed it too. “It’s okay. We’ll see each other again,” he said.

Aiden was suddenly pierced by a stab of panic. “But how will I find you? I don’t even know where you live. What if we never come back here?”

Harvard gave the questions some careful thought, and then solemnly handed Aiden his teddy bear. “Here. Now you’ll have something of mine to keep.”

It didn’t answer his questions, but Aiden clutched the bear close to his chest. “I’ll take good care of him.”

Harvard smiled at him. “Bye! I had fun!”

“I did too,” Aiden said, but he found himself saying the words aloud to the dark of his bedroom. He was back in his own bed in the castle, like he’d never left. The only thing that had changed was the worn, stuffed teddy bear clutched in his arms.

(Read the rest on AO3!)

[kenslilove]

❤️ for the selfship game <33 pls i need to see how your family would react to the announcement too

Hehe hiiiii my beloved <333 this is so cute I’m so excited!! Thank you for asking <333

❤️ any talk about marriage?

Ken: yes, absolutely. But only after we’ve been together for about 5-6 years. Kenneth n I have a strong relationship, and we’re very in love, but we wanted to make sure that we were 100% on our feet and ready for marriage. Tbh, methinks he gave me a ring long before we were actually married. We wear matching gold bands <33 his on his chain bc he doesn’t wanna wreck or damage it at work 🥹 the reaction from my family too was very much expected. They got used to Ken being around bc I started bringing him to family functions the moment we started dating. They didn’t like him at first, but by the time marriage was purposed and they saw how he treated me they were thrilled to bring him into the family <33

Souf: omg yes, and he plans a big proposal with my mom n sister fr. It’s flashy and extravagant and the ring was his grandmothers, nothing but Portuguese gold <33 my family is so excited to have him apart of the family bc of our upbringings. He gets my culture and can actually communicate with my loved ones. He’s loud n rambunctious and gets along with my avo’s <33 despite the big proposal with my family hiding in the bushes taking a million pictures, at the lil party we have after he pulls me aside so we can have a private dance on the beach (yes I picture him asking me to marry him at a beach or on vacation) as we’re swaying he’d bring my hand ti his lips and kiss the ring. “I’m so happy you’re all mine, Gata.”

Barou: oh my Shoei… 😭 listen, the first time I brought up marriage he was white in the face. Life got sucked outta him for a moment even though I was playing. He wants to get married, but he’s so committed to his career he thinks that he won’t make a great husband. My family unfortunately, thinks that way too. Despite his success they think he’s too harsh, not devoted enough. But, I don’t care. My family has always been… a lil absent at times esp when it comes to seeing what’s really good for me and Shoei acknowledges that and reminds me of it when he’s holding me close after we’ve had a really long talk about marriage. “Don’t let them stop you from doing what you know you want to do. I’ll marry you— if you let me.”

Kuroo (n bokuto 🫣): EEEEEEEE KUROO MY BELOVED <333 tbh, kuroo and I were talking about marriage our first week of dating 💀 we were super lovesick for one another right off the bat and we were that couple in collage calling each other “hubbie” and “wifey” 💀 as we got older tne love was still there but it wasn’t as.. honeymoon-y :’)) here’s the kicker though. Bokuto joined our relationship before we got married, and here in Canada (in a lot of countries to I believe) plural marriages are not legal. Poly couples… well. They aren’t normalized in society, despite how valid they are yknow?? And my family is insanely old school. So, when we did told them the three of us were dating, let alone wanting to be married, it wasn’t pretty. It caused a big riff. Methinks my parents wouldn’t come to whatever wedding/ceremony we’d have for the three of us but that’s okai, my boys n I had a wonderfully magical night with the people who care <33

Self ship ask game <33

[crystalclear365]

All you wanted to be was a sandwich artist, like how Ma was, and how Grandma and Grandpa were.

You didn't think the decision to pursue such a career could potentially cost you your life.

Yet here you were, standing face-to-face with one of the city's most intimidating villains, who you decided would be such a great idea to base a sandwich off of. But could you really blame yourself? It was such a clever gimmick! It brought in a lot of customers, who were eager to try your sandwiches based off of the heroes and villains who seemed to have the city in the palm of their hands.

No wonder why the rent was so cheap... you should've expected that when moving to such a place.

And you also should've expected a villain to be curious enough to try a sandwich based off of them.

You should've expected a lot of things.

"H-hello, sir!" You stammered out. "Would you like to order anything?" You asked while giving a nervous smile, blinking rapidly as your heart threatened to explode from the amount of fear you were in.

It felt like you were serving royalty, and in a way, you were. His outfit was based on a prince's outfit, and he often fought with swords, bows, and arrows. The silver crown that adorned his head also helped convey the vibe you were privy to.

It felt like you were going to be beheaded if you misplaced a singular tomato on his sandwich.

"Hello," he replied back. He looked up at the menu and was silent for a good minute. The store was dead silent, as your customers stared at the man before you. Some began to quietly leave the building, others pulled their phones out, while a mother cautioned her children to "look away", as if you were about to be mutilated right then and there.

Finally, after a long moment, he spoke up again. "You make sandwiches based off of us?" He questioned.

"Y-yes. K-kind of a nice marketing technique if you ask me!" You squeaked out, trying to relieve the tension in the store.

He quickly looked down from the menu and right back at you, which caused you to slightly flinch.

You wanted to kick yourself for saying that.

Fortunately, he took the joke well, as he let out a quiet chuckle. "You're not wrong. I would've done the same thing... I should do the same thing..." He muttered that last sentence quietly to himself. "I'll take the 'Dark Flamboyant', please." He ordered while giving you such a kind smile, one would think that he was an actor on a preschool television show and not a cold-blooded villain.

"Of course!" You answered.

You then began the process of creating the sandwich right in front of him. Your hands shook as you felt his gaze observing your each and every move. Since you didn't die from a heart attack, you were sure you were going to die from your neck being slit by one of his swords, which he could summon at a moment's notice.

When you finished preparing his sandwich, you wrapped it up as neatly as you could, your hands still trembling from the anxiety that weighed on you like a steel beam. You rang up the price for the sandwich, and he paid using a credit card. After he finished paying, you carefully placed the sandwich into a paper bag, and handed it to him.

"Thank you!" He smiled at you again.

"No problem! Have a nice day!" You smiled back as your eye twitched.

He walked out of the store, his cape flowing elegantly behind him. As the door closed behind him, the whole store let out a collective sigh, and the tension in the atmosphere began to dissipate.

You passed out on the floor right then and there.

Later that day...

After a long day of serving sandwiches, you were now finally home, in the comfort of your own bed. You went to the website of your store to fix a minor issue, only to notice a new review.

It was the villain from earlier.

He had given you a five star review, and left a comment with it.

"This was one of the best sandwiches I've ever tasted in my entire life. The shop's atmosphere was pleasant, and the owner was very friendly. I think I'll come here again sometime. :)

If anyone tries to hurt this business in any way, contact me, and I'll deal with them for you!"

Reading that review left you speechless. You gently closed your laptop and stared at the ceiling.

You then decided to go to sleep, even though it was just past seven.

This day had been uncomfortably long and exhausting...

You own a sandwich shop in the heart of a superhero city. After gaining customers by making sandwiches based on heroes, you decided to try making some based on villains. Today, a villain stopped to review theirs.

[almondpiglet]

ppl were drawing mikus from all over so heres habesha miku and her lil twin sibs rin and len!!

[finnbin]

I love when my spam emails and my TV have a toxic relationship

More miscellaneous doodles for Factory settings AU I'm OBSESSED

[spikedfearn]

I Thee Bled

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On the eve of your arranged wedding, you flee into the woods with trembling hands and a bloodstained gown—only to slip a ring meant for another onto a graveyard root and wake something ancient beneath the soil. Remmick is not a man, not anymore, but he remembers how to be tender. Touch-starved and centuries dead, he offers you the one thing the living never did: choice. In a forest that breathes and remembers, where the dead dream and the moss learns your name, you find yourself questioning everything you left behind. After all, what is a monster—if not a man who waits for you? And what is love, if not something you’re willing to bleed for?

(or: A Corpse Bride au)

wc: 15.2k

a/n: thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support you’ve shown my fics, it means the world to me!! I originally planned to release I Thee Bled on Monday to celebrate one month since Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her Insta story (!!!), but life had other plans, so she’s arriving fashionably late. This one’s especially close to my heart, and I want to dedicate it to the lovely Moga @somnolenthour, whose beautiful fanart for this fic when it was still just an idea (completely unprompted!!) lit a fire under me, this one’s for you <333 shout-out to my beta readers, starting with Liz who also came up with the title: @fuckoffbard @titaniasfairy @jaythewriter @anhelconhmuda @kkniveschau

warnings: Corpse Bride!au, gothic horror, supernatural romance, blood, vampirism, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), praise kink, dirty talk, creampie, touch-starved monster, monsterfucking, sub!remmick, ghost town setting, period-typical misogyny, vague Victorian era, Tim Burton aesthetics, mutual pining, tragic undertones, Remmick in his final monster form

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

Masterlist

It was a quiet kind of death—to walk toward a future that never belonged to you.

The candlelight danced in its sconce like it too was afraid of the dark, throwing gold and shadow in uneven patterns across the walls of your bridal chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed lilies—white, thick-stemmed, and already browning at the edges—as though the blooms themselves had second thoughts. A bridal veil hung limp from the mirror. You had not put it on.

You sat at the edge of the chaise, corseted to breathlessness, the bony ridges of your knuckles straining beneath the thin layers of skin from how hard you're clutching the ring.

Not your ring. Not yet. It was his—your would-be husband's—a man who smiled without his eyes and spoke of love like it was transactional. Whose name alone made your face pucker like you just smelled curdled milk. Mr. Langdon. So old your mother whispered “distinguished.” So cold the maids whispered other things when they thought you couldn’t hear.

Outside, the wind howled through the wrought iron balcony rails, shrill and wild like something mourning. You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the marble floor, gown whispering around your ankles like the ghosts of every woman who’d gone quietly before you. The gown had been sewn for beauty, not for running. But you would run in it anyway.

You packed light, brought a white shawl and gloves to combat the chill. You brought the ring.

Not because you meant to keep it. Not because it held sentiment. It didn’t. It had no warmth, no story, no soul—just gold, cool and dull beneath your thumb. But it was worth something. Enough to pawn. Enough, maybe, to buy a train ticket. A meal. A room somewhere with a bed that didn’t come with a price pinned to your spine.

You told yourself that was why you kept it clenched in your fist as you slipped out the servants’ gate and into the dark. Not because it was his. Not because it had ever touched your skin. But because the world beyond your wedding had no place for a girl with nothing—and a gold ring, even one never worn, could be a lifeline.

Or a curse.

Fate hadn’t decided yet.

A band of simple gold, dull with fingerprint smudges, too loose for your thumb. You had not even worn it yet. It was handed to you this evening after supper, set beside a slice of blood-orange cake you hadn’t touched. “Keep it close, darling,” your mother had said, smoothing your hair as if you were already a corpse. “It will be yours come morning.”

You slipped it into your palm. And now it pulsed there like a secret.

The hallway outside your chamber creaked and groaned, the house settling into its evening sighs, and still you waited. You waited until the grandfather clock struck eleven, slow and solemn, each chime echoing like nails hammered into your future. Then—silently, so silently—you fled.

The woods did not wait to welcome you.

They swallowed.

The moment your slippered feet hit the dirt path behind the manor gates, the trees leaned in like they were listening, thick with Spanish moss and shadow. The moonlight fractured through their limbs, casting the path in broken, silver stripes. Your breath came out fast, clumsy, fogging in front of you as the night grew colder with every step, every frantic press forward into bramble and black.

The hem of your gown—once bone-white satin—darkened with mud. Then blood. A snag of thorns caught your ankle, sliced skin. You barely flinched. Pain felt like permission.

You weren’t sure where you were going.

Only that it has to be away.

You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and the trees had turned unfamiliar, too thick, too silent, the air tasting of copper and something older—stone, earth, iron. You collapsed against the base of a twisted tree, your gown a tangle of ripped silk and smeared petals, a bridal bloom gone to ruin.

The ring was still in your hand.

You looked at it—glared, really—angry at its weight, at the heft something so small contains. “To have and to hold…” you muttered under your breath, voice bitter, breathless, a mockery of a vow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly through the loam, sticky with sap and rainwater, until you found what you thought was a root. Something slender and pale rising from the earth like a bony finger.

You laughed, delirious. “Here,” you whispered, sliding the ring onto it. “Do you, strange tree, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The wind rose.

“I do.”

You reached out to steady yourself against the gnarled bark—but as your hand met the tree’s twisted surface, a sharp edge of wood caught the pad of your finger, snagging your bridal glove and the soft meat underneath. You hissed.

Blood welled—bright and living. It wobbled off your fingertip and fell. One drop. Then another. The red hit the base of the tree and sank into the soil like ink into paper. The bark beneath your palm felt warmer now. Almost…breathing.

Something moved. Beneath the dirt. Beneath you. You blinked. Sat up straighter. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—again.

A twitch. A shift. Like the earth itself was exhaling after a long silence. The root curled, moved, wrapped just slightly around your finger. Cold as the grave.

You yanked your hand back with a startled gasp. But it was too late. Blood had already spilled from your hand, sliced on bark or thorn or bone, and soaked into the black, thirsty soil. You watched it disappear.

The tree shuddered. Not in the breeze—there was no breeze anymore. The air had gone still, heavy as boiled milk, clinging to your throat, your hair, the space behind your knees. Your breath hitched. The birds had gone quiet. The crickets. The frogs. The world was listening.

And below you, the earth moaned.

A sound like old wood splitting. Like ribs breaking beneath dirt. Then, suddenly, a violent lurch—wet, sucking, earthly. The ground near the tree root cracked open, moss peeling back like flesh. You scrambled backwards on your palms, your gown tangling around your legs, but you couldn’t look away.

It didn’t feel like waking the dead. It felt like being watched by something that had never closed its eyes to begin with.

First came a hand.

Wide-palmed, thick-knuckled. Fingers unnaturally long, his nails cracked and gray and dirty, like shale. A gold ring gleamed faintly from the third finger. The wedding band you slid onto what you thought was a gnarled uproot.

Then the second, this one skeletal, stripped clean of flesh and muscle and tendon.

And finally, the rest of him.

He rose in pieces, as if gravity itself hadn’t yet decided whether to allow him back. His body pushed through layers of sod and clay and root like a memory that refused to stay buried. His shoulders were broad, shoulders that had once carried something heavy—tools, a body, a burden. One arm braced against the edge of the grave, veins bulging under pale, slick skin.

You saw the sweep of a dark, deep blue tuxedo, its fabric dulled by dirt and time, stitched with the memory of ceremony. The jacket clung to his shoulders unevenly, one side sagging low with centuries of damp, the lapels wrinkled and soil-smudged. Beneath it, a white collared button-up lay partially unbuttoned at the throat, the linen stained faintly at the seams.

A slightly lighter blue tie hung askew from his neck, knotted but loosened, the silk puckered where it had weathered through the grave. His trouser legs matched the tuxedo, tailored once, but now creased and grimy at the hem. Shoes to match—oxfords, maybe—scuffed to near ruin, soles coated in moss and wet earth.

He pulled himself from the dirt slowly, deliberately, like someone waking from a sleep they weren’t meant to return from—each breath thick in his throat, each movement dragging time behind it.

And his face—God, his face.

He was beautiful. In the way statues are beautiful. The way a ruin is beautiful. Pointed cheekbones beneath a mask of grave-filth. Mud in the seams of his short, messy brown hair, clinging in dark curls across his forehead. His mouth parted as he panted for breath he didn’t need, and you saw the right side of his jaw was ruined—torn open, exposing ribbons of raw muscle and the gleam of sharpened teeth. All of them sharp. Uneven. Crooked in places, silver-fanged and jagged like they weren’t made for a human mouth.

He drooled. Milky and thick, slow as syrup, threading from his teeth to the black soil.

His skin was a deep, post-mortem blue—something between bruised flesh and storm-lit sea, like teal left to darken in shadow. In the moonlight, with his veins just barely visible beneath the surface, it looked like cracked glass. His chest heaved. His head turned. And then—

He looked at you.

His eyes were wide as a frightened dog’s. But in the shadows, they shifted—black, almost red, glowing from somewhere behind the pupil like dying coals still clinging to that cherried spark.

He didn’t speak. He just…stared. Watched. Not like a stranger. Like someone trying to remember you. Like someone who knew you. Maybe before. Maybe in another life.

“Are—are you…” Your voice broke, shamefully small. You didn’t finish the question. Couldn't.

He swallowed, thickly. The sound was wet. And then—he smiled. Not cruel. Not ghoulish. Soft, tender.

“I knew ye’d come,” he said.

His voice came low and lilted, thick with the cadence of an Irish accent—rounded consonants, vowels pulled soft and long, a kind of music in his throat whether he meant it or not. The kind of voice made for stories. For lullabies. For oaths.

He took a single, stumbling step forward, mud pulling at his shoes, laced tight enough to keep the soil from suctioning them off his feet.

You couldn’t move.

“Ye put a ring on me hand,” he said again, gentle this time. Coaxing. He held up his fingers, all blood-caked and twitching, the wedding band glinting faintly beneath the filth, fractals of moonlight dancing off the polished gold, a stark contrast to the dirt and grime clinging to his skin. “And ye spoke a vow. That counts, don’t it?”

He tilted his head, like a curious animal. “Didn’t reckon ye’d be so bonnie.”

You should have run.

You knew that. Every part of you knew that. The sensible part. The terrified part. The part that still heard your mother’s voice whispering warnings about strange men, and worse things still, things that didn’t breathe right, didn’t die right.

But something rooted you.

Maybe it was the ring still snug around that pale, twitching finger. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.

He took another step forward. Then another. His oxfords left deep, sucking impressions in the soil, and his gait wasn’t quite right—like a marionette with its strings pulled too hard, or a man remembering how to be one. You flinched when he got too close, but he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stood there, arms slack at his sides, mouth slightly open, that thread of spit still hanging from one fang like an afterthought.

His head dipped low, curls shadowing his brow, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost shy. Like he feared you might bolt.

“Was it the blood that roused me, then?” he asked, one brow raising slowly. Thoughtful. “Or the vow ye whispered?” He swallowed, working his jaw with a faint wince. “Might’ve been both. Hard to say.”

You blinked at him. Swallowed the lump that had risen hard and high in your throat. “Who…who are you?”

His smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not hurt—more like confusion.

“Don’t remember me, do ya?” His voice dropped low, almost tender. “But you called, lass. I heard ya—clear as day, so I answered.”

He tapped his skeletal palm against his chest, right over his sternum, his eyes round and brows raised in a puppy dog look, a pleading little tilt to his head like he's desperate for you to believe him.

“I felt you in here.”

You opened your mouth. No sound came out.

The man—the thing—before you cocked his head again, just slightly. His eyes were too soft for the rest of him, too warm. And the accent in his voice made everything worse, somehow. Made it gentle. Comforting. It stripped you of fear, piece by piece, until all that remained was the strange throb of something you didn’t understand.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

His gaze lit up like the question pleased him. He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of mud and grit and grave soil across his temple.

“I’ve been called a lot o’ names,” he said after a pause. “Some of ’em I earned. Some I didn’t. But the name I remember best is…” A thoughtful frown pulled at the less-damaged corner of his mouth.

“Remmick. That’s what me ma called me,” he said, almost shy now. “Back when the sky was still thick wi’ peat smoke and the land hadn’t yet learned the sound o’ English steel. When we carved prayers into stone ‘stead o’ paper, and the rivers boiled not from fire, but from the rage o’ gods long buried.”

He glanced at you then, as if expecting you not to understand. But you didn’t flinch, causing his smile to grow like a decaying flower that didn't know it was dead yet.

“Back when the forest had a name you weren’t meant to speak after dark,” he added, voice gone soft and faraway. “And folk still left cream out on the stoop, hopin’ to keep the hills quiet.”

You said nothing. You had no words.

He glanced down at himself as though just now noticing the state he was in. Fingers touched the torn lapel of his jacket before dusting the front off next. His nose wrinkled faintly, sheepish, eyes round and sorry.

“Would’ve cleaned meself up a bit had I known,” he said, glancin’ back up at you with a crooked smile. “But by Gods, ye caught me right in the middle of me dirt nap, didn’t ye?”

And then he laughed. A soft, broken sound. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t hollow. It was almost—sweet. You didn’t realize you’d taken a step back until your spine hit bark.

He noticed.

“No need to fear me, lass,” he said, quickly, voice pitching soft, hands raised just a little, his eyes bleeding red like a freshly weeping cut, “I won’t hurt ye. I wouldn’t.” His fingers curled back toward his chest again. “Not you.”

“Why me?” you asked, finally. “Why—why do you think I called you?”

His smile returned, slow and tender. He lifted his hand—the one with the ring, the one that was intended to collar you to Mr. Langdon before you turned tail and fled, looking sleek and shiny against grimy blue skin.

“’Cause ye put this on me finger,” he said. “Ye made a promise. A vow.”

You shook your head, your breath catching like a bird startled mid-flight, wings beating frantically in your throat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real enough for me.”

He looked down at the gold band, turned it with his thumb. “You bled for it, didn’t ye?” he murmured. “Spoke words into the trees. Placed a ring on a buried hand. That’s old magic, love. Older than graves. Older than the Gods above.”

His eyes flicked back to you—red blooming around the edges now like ink through water.

“Old magic don’t care whether you meant it.”

You didn’t know if it was the way he said love, like it meant something eternal…or if it was the silence of the woods, how they held their breath around him…but your world had suddenly been flipped upside down like you'd been living inside a snow globe and someone decided to just come along and shake it. All because you'd gotten cold feet. All because you couldn't bring yourself to walk down the aisle and wed a man who barely made your acquaintance prior to the arranged ceremony.

You recall last night in great detail, the last time you were alone with Mr. Langdon. It had been in your father’s study—dark-paneled, smelling of tobacco and power. He hadn’t touched you, not exactly. But his hand had rested too long on the curve of your shoulder, fingers splaying toward the top of your spine like he was trying to gauge how much pressure it would take to snap it.

“I prefer quiet girls,” he’d said with a smile that didn’t reach his shrewd eyes. “Ones who don’t ask so many questions. Obedience is a virtue, you know.”

You had smiled. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

He had leaned in close, breath stale with wine and something bitter, suppressing the reflexive urge to recoil, “After tomorrow, your body belongs to me. That’s what marriage is. Best you start getting used to the idea.”

You hadn’t answered. You’d gone to your room and vomited in the basin. And tonight? Tonight—you ran. You didn’t bring a bag. You didn’t bring a plan. You brought the ring.

And you brought the no you hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It’s only then that you start to notice—the world around you moves. Not with the subtle rhythm of wind or wildlife, but with a kind of strange, theatrical breath, like the forest is alive.

The tree behind you creaked like a yawning coffin, bark groaning against your spine as if waking from its own long sleep. Overhead, the moon hung too round, too large, almost theatrical in its glow—more paper lantern than celestial body. It cast light not white but a washed-out bluish silver, the kind that made every shadow look like it was up to something.

There were no clouds. The sky didn’t need them.

Instead, the forest itself began to shift—bending at the edges like a curtain drawing inward, branches twisting and stooping with exaggerated grace, their tips curling into crooked little hooks. The trees no longer stood tall and noble; they hunched and leaned like gossiping old women, knotted spines cracking as they bent to get a better look at you.

The leaves above clinked faintly like dry metal. One branch spiraled down and hovered beside your shoulder, like it was waiting for permission to touch you.

And still, Remmick didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he was used to it—the way the world rearranged itself around him, the way nature bowed and blinked and breathed differently wherever he walked.

Maybe he’d never known a forest that didn’t follow.

He took another step toward you.

He was close enough now that you could see where the flesh on his cheekbone pulsed faintly, still clinging to old life. Where blood had dried in a crooked path down his exposed jaw. Where some of his teeth weren’t perfectly sharp at all—some had chipped, split, yellowed in ways that proved he hadn’t always been what he was now. He had once been a man.

You stared. Not at the horror. At the detail.

His collar was unbuttoned. There was a ring of skin just below his throat that was somehow clean, as if protected by the chain that still hung there.

“You’re real,” you breathed, as much to yourself as to him.

He smiled again. Small, head bowed slightly. Like the thought embarrassed him.

“Aye,” he said. “At least I was.”

Your heart skipped. The accent curled around that last word—was—turning it melancholic and soft. He sounded deeply lonely in a way that didn’t scream or shudder, but bled slow and quiet—like a candle left to burn itself out in a chapel no one prayed in anymore.

You didn’t realize your hand had risen until he caught it. His grip wasn’t strong. In fact, it was hesitant. Loose. Like he feared you might flinch, and he was giving you time to do it. To reject it.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged over the small wound on your finger where your glove was torn. The one you’d cut on the tree. Your blood had dried there, rust-colored and still.

“’S’what woke me,” he murmured. “This wee thing.”

You tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other, panic and fascination tangled in your throat. “What are you?”

Remmick looked up at you, then down at your hand in his. He didn’t let go.

“I was a man once,” he said. “Before they put me in the ground like a secret.”

There was no anger in his voice. No grief. Just barebones honesty.

“I remember cold,” he continued. “I remember bein’ bound.” His brows drew together. “I remember hunger.”

You swallowed.

His head tilted slightly again. “But now I remember you.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t anyone, that this was all a mistake. That you weren’t his. That you weren’t meant to be anything.

But the woods behind you had gone too still. And he was staring at you with a gaze so tender it made your stomach twist.

“Ye came in white,” he said, voice softer now. “Like a bride. Ye gave blood. Ye spoke vow.” He brushed a skeletal knuckle to your chin with aching slowness, the bone surprisingly soft, “don’t reckon the veil’s far behind.”

The branches rustled above, though there was still no wind. You realized the forest wasn’t closing in. It was gathering.

And Remmick…he was looking at you like he was home.

It was no longer night in the way night should be.

Time moved differently now. The sky above bled grey and silver and rust, but the moon never shifted from its throne behind the trees. The light stayed fixed in place, like the forest had slipped sideways into some pocket behind the world. Hours passed like fog. You slept, but never fully. You walked, but your feet left no prints.

And Remmick—Remmick stayed near.

Not hovering. Not leering. Just there, always just far enough not to crowd you, yet always within reach, like the forest had redrawn its laws to keep him at your side. Like you were its axis now.

You thought of Langdon.

Of his voice—measured, polished, practiced. The kind of voice that never raised itself above a certain register, as though passion was unsightly. He had a way of looking at you that always felt more like study than affection. Like you were something to be assessed, not adored. His fingers, when they grazed yours, were cold from gloves and colder still beneath them. Everything about him had been lacquered to a shine: his shoes, his manners, his hollow future he spoke of with such sterile pride.

You remembered one night, not long ago, when you’d dined together at his family estate. A private supper. Three courses. Too many forks. You’d asked him if he liked poetry.

He blinked. Set down his wine glass. “I tolerate it,” he said. “In women.”

That had been it.

No questions in return. No warmth. No wanting.

You’d spent the rest of the meal smiling at your plate, wondering if it would be considered madness to simply climb out the window and run.

And now—here.

Now, you were with a man who’d crawled out of the earth, with dried blood under his nails and a ruined jaw, and somehow he made you feel safer than any lace-draped parlor ever had. Remmick, who flinched when he touched your skin like you were the sacred thing. Remmick, who didn’t ask you to perform, or flatter, or prove anything—who simply stayed close because he wanted to be near.

He was a walking corpse.

And he seemed more human than Mr. Langdon had ever been.

Remmick spoke in murmurs. Half-conversations.

“My folk used to call this part the belly,” he said, gesturing toward a clearing that bloomed only with pale fungi and white moss. “Said the trees grew too thick with memory. Said it weren’t safe for the livin’.”

You stepped forward slowly, the hem of your gown brushing through the hush of strange underbrush. The clearing pulsed in stillness, like something held its breath just beneath the surface.

The fungi were long-necked and ghostly, some capped in translucent bells, others curled like fingers mid-spasm. They glowed faintly in the dark—not enough to see by, but enough to feel seen.

Overhead, the trees now leaned inward with impossible arches. Their bark smooth and gray as drowned bone, and where knots should’ve been were instead hollowed faces, soft and suggestive, as though the trunks had grown around someone who once leaned too long against them. One of the branches creaked in a slow, pendulum sway, even though there was no wind.

You tilted your head. The white moss underfoot looked soft, inviting—until you noticed it wasn’t growing in any natural pattern. It coiled in tight spirals, some large enough to circle your slippered feet, others small and delicate as lacework.

When you asked what he meant, what memory had to do with the trees, he only gave a crooked smile and pointed at your feet.

You looked down. The moss had formed perfect circles beneath your heels.

Spirals.

“See?” he said. “She’s already learnin’ you.”

And sure enough, even as you stood there, the spiral beneath you shifted. Just slightly. Not like a plant reacting to pressure, but something alive—tracing the shape of your sole, marking your weight, remembering the heat of your blood. It liked you.

Or worse—it recognized you.

He never called the place a graveyard. He called it “the kept.”

You first saw them while following a worn path between black pines—stones laid flat into the dirt, unmarked, sunk deep with age. You almost stepped on one before he reached out and caught your wrist, not harshly—just quick.

“Aye, mind where ye tread,” he said, voice gentle, Irish vowels lilting around the warning. “They don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed.”

You stared at the stone. And then you realized it was moving. Not rising. Not moaning. But the soil above it—it breathed.

You took a step back, heart climbing into your throat.

“They don’t wake unless they’re called,” Remmick said softly. “But they listen.”

Far off, from a hollow deeper in the woods, a chime echoed. High and delicate, like a piano key played underwater. Another answered, lower, more metallic. You didn’t see the source, but you could feel them vibrating in your bones. And yet it didn’t frighten you.

He never told you how he died. You tried to ask. More than once.

The first time, he looked away. The second, he closed his mouth mid-sentence and didn’t speak for a full hour. Not angry. Never angry. Just—withdrawn. The third, he reached up and touched the ruined side of his jaw, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

Then he whispered, “Not yet,” and nothing more. You didn’t press.

Some things, you could feel, were kept buried by more than soil.

It was on the fifth day—if you trusted your own body’s clock—that you tried to leave.

You didn’t make a show of it. You waited until Remmick went still beneath the shade of a hollow tree, head tipped back, eyes closed like he was listening to something beyond your hearing. You crept away quietly. You didn’t look back.

You hadn’t meant to stay that long. You told yourself it was only curiosity, only caution, only until you understood what he was. But the forest had begun to feel too quiet in the right places. Remmick had begun to speak too softly, like a prayer meant only for you. And that was precisely the problem. He was too gentle. Too kind. Too patient.

You weren’t supposed to like any of this—weren’t supposed to be lulled by a dead man’s voice or find comfort in a world where bones lined bird nests and laughter came from unseen mouths. You ran not because you feared him. You ran because, terrifyingly, you didn’t.

At first, the trees parted for you. The path unfolded.

You ran.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t call his name. You just ran. But the forest…it shifted.

The branches overhead grew too low, too tangled. Vines curled beneath your feet like hands reaching out to stop you. A bramble reached out like a whip and slashed across your collarbone, slicing clean through the dress, nicking your skin just enough for blood to bead along the uneven seam of your cut. Still, you kept going.

Until you hit it.

The edge.

It wasn’t a wall—not exactly. It was air. Thick, humming, wrong. The veil between life and death. When you stepped into it, your skin felt like it peeled. Your lungs refused to fill. The world blurred and bent at the corners like warped glass.

You stumbled back, coughing. Gasping. Remmick was there. Not chasing. Not angry. Just there.

He caught you around the middle before your knees buckled, arms strong but careful, like you were made of spun sugar and he was afraid you'd shatter.

“Sshh, now,” he whispered, curling you to his chest, soothing, the brush of his lips, the bloodied network of muscle fiber and tendons woven through his jaw pressed to the side of yours, wet and textured, “easy, easy, you’re alright.”

“I—I had to try,” you managed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t mean to—I can't stay.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “I know.”

You felt him exhale into your hair. Slow. Shaky.

“I know wee bride,” he murmured, the accent softening everything it touched. “But she don’t open the same way twice. Not once she’s taken a name.”

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, trembling. And for the first time—you wondered. Not how you got here. Not how to undo it.

But if you even should.

You thought of Langdon. Of his thin lips, the contracts, the expectations. Of your mother, her quiet threats tucked into lace gloves. Of the veil that felt more like a burial shroud than a blessing.

And then you thought of the way Remmick had caught you—like a man catching the last soft thing left in the world.

Later—how much later, you couldn’t say—you sat with him in the moss-ringed clearing where the mushrooms bloomed like broken teeth, soft and damp and glowing faintly blue at their tips. The forest had gone quiet again, but not heavy this time. Not watching. It simply…was.

Remmick had taken to lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his ruined jaw turned slightly from view, though you were never sure if it was for your comfort or his.

His fingertips brushed through the withered stems, and chose one near the base of a crooked stone. It was long-dead, crumpled and brittle at the edges, the color all but drained. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, and as he rolled the stem, you watched something shift. The petals darkened—deepened—like blood soaking back into flesh. It bloomed, slow and unnatural, into the shape of a dried red rose. Not living, not quite—but remembering life. Like something dressed for mourning.

“These only grow where the veil’s thin,” he said quiet-like, voice laced with that low, lilting Irish bend. “Where things slip in and out. Couldn’t say for certain which side they’re meant for, if I’m honest.”

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him.

There was dirt under his nails. sediment clinging to his collarbone. His oxfords were still caked in grave mud, but he hadn’t touched you with anything other than gentleness.

Your voice felt small when you spoke. “Why did you wait?”

Remmick blinked slowly. His fingers stilled.

You clarified before he could pretend not to understand. “All this time. You said you felt me. But you were already down there, weren’t you? In the earth. Waiting for someone to call you back. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look at you. And just when you were sure he wouldn’t speak—he did.

“I didn’t know I was waitin’,” he said, voice gone low, just a touch rough. “Not truly. Time goes quiet when you’re laid under like that. Y’don’t count the years. Some days, y’don’t even remember your own name.”

He looked at the sky through the trees.

“Sometimes I’d dream o’ faces. Yours, maybe. Or someone who looked like ye. Sometimes I’d think I heard someone weepin’. I’d think, was it me?”

You felt your chest tighten. Remmick smiled again, faint and lopsided, like a man recalling a song he hadn’t sung in years.

“But when I felt ye, I knew. I knew it weren’t just hunger or ghosts or wind. I knew it was real. Ye bled for me. Ye called for me.” He glanced over. “No one’s ever done that before.”

You stared at him. At his hands, broad and veined. At the faded chain around his throat. At the ring you’d slipped, thoughtlessly, onto the hand of a tree like a promise.

A tree that had promised back.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you said.

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed.

He said it without venom. Without accusation. Just—resolute. And maybe something softer curling underneath. He rolled onto his back, the moss giving way beneath him like a cradle.

“I’d have waited another thousand years for that drop of blood,” he said, quiet now. “Another thousand after that just to hear your voice say I do.”

You turned away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because some part of you did. And it made your throat ache.

Your gaze drifted to the edge of the clearing, where the trees stood thick and close.

“Will it ever open again?” you asked. “The forest.”

Remmick didn’t move. “Aye. Someday. When she’s good and ready.”

“And if I’m not here when it does?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Then I’ll follow.”

That made you look back. He didn’t smile this time.

“I’d walk through fire to find you, wee bride.”

His voice was still Irish—but there was something else behind it now. Something old. Ancient. Something so sure of its longing it didn’t need to shout. It just was.

You realized, in that moment, how terribly lonely he must’ve been. How quiet his world had become. How loud your heartbeat must be to him now.

And how warm you still were.

He asked if you wanted to see the rest.

Didn’t demand. Didn’t lead without waiting. Just…offered.

With a hand half-outstretched and those eyes still puppy-wide, still lit like you were a miracle he was afraid to touch too quickly, lest you vanish into smoke.

You hesitated. But not long.

The forest parted for you both this time. Not like it had when you tried to run. Now it was more like—inviting. The way a house might creak its doors open when it recognizes one of its own.

You slipped your hand into his, the one that still wore flesh. His fingers were cold, yes—but not corpse-cold. Not the kind that bit. His hand was rough in places, as though he’d lived long enough to carry calluses even through death. His thumb flexed gently along your knuckles, testing. Not possessive. Just…checking.

Reassuring himself you were real.

He showed you the orchard first. Or what was left of it.

A grove of trees that no longer bore fruit, only ribbons—hundreds, thousands of them, hanging from the branches like wilted party streamers. Blue, white, ivory, pale lilac. Some patterned, some torn, some fraying from centuries of wind.

You reached up and touched one.

“They’re wishes,” Remmick said, voice softer than ever, his breath beside your cheek. “Made by the dead. Before they were buried.”

You turned to him.

“But they never came true?”

His expression shifted—fond, wistful.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Doesn’t matter.” He touched the ribbon nearest to him, the pad of his thumb brushing its edge. “It’s the hoping that counts, innit?”

You said nothing. The breeze moved the orchard like a lullaby.

Further in, he showed you a town of sorts.

Carved into the side of a crumbling cliff where the rock split into ribs and the stone seemed to breathe, the little village clung to the earth like a half-forgotten secret.

The houses were squat mudstone cottages, weathered and slouched, their chimney pots crooked like snapped fingers. Moss crept up their sides in thick velvety bands, swallowing old lanterns, window frames, and entire doorsteps. Windowpanes blinked with eyes pressed from the inside.

The doors were low and arched, some made of driftwood painted in peeling funeral hues—deep violet, waxy blue, iron black. A few homes had teacups balanced on their roofs. Others had shingles shaped like fingernails or pressed flowers. Bones hung from strings between rafters, clacking gently in the hush, arranged like wind chimes or family crests, each one carved or etched with little initials, or painted with the ash of something you couldn’t name.

A skeletal cat darted past your ankles, all jangling vertebrae and twitching tailbone, its paws clicking faintly against the cobbled path. Its jaw hung open in a rictus grin. You didn’t scream. It looked up at you once—empty sockets glittering faintly—and carried on.

And then the town began to move.

A shutter creaked open. A door whined on its hinges. A hatless man with no lower jaw swept the stoop of what looked to be a bakery, the scent of charred sugar and burnt cinnamon floating faintly from within. He nodded at you politely, bits of soot falling from the collar of his shirt, and kept sweeping. Further down the lane, a trio of old women sat in rocking chairs that had been nailed directly into the wall of a house—sideways, five feet off the ground—and knitted with thread made of silver hair. One of them had no eyes. The second had too many. The third winked at you with a socket.

“Don’t mind them,” Remmick murmured. “They been there long as I can remember. Like to keep to themselves.”

He led you past a crooked fountain that spewed a slow, syrupy trickle of black water, and through a crooked square strung with dim, blue lanterns that hung from lengths of discolored intestine braided like ribbon. In the center was a music box the size of a carriage, its brass bell warped and dented, still playing a waltz you could swear you remembered hearing in a dream long ago. No one danced to it—but some of them swayed.

There was a tailor’s shop with mannequins made of stitched skin and bent spoons. A chapel whose bell tower rang without sound. A bar, glowing faintly green from the inside, where shadows moved across the windows though the glass had long since clouded over with frost from the wrong side. A child floated by without legs, giggling into a jar that held a swarm of candleflies. You saw a man with a flowerpot for a head watering it with tea. A woman selling buttons shaped like teeth.

This was not a place that mourned death.

This was a place that remembered it, wore it, built tea tables from it.

Remmick led you down a sloping path toward a cottage built halfway into the stone, the door crooked, the curtains made of faded funeral veils.

“This was mine,” he said, his voice almost sheepish. He toed at the dust near the doorstep, head ducked slightly.

“When?” you asked.

He smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder. “When the veil was thinner. When the dead and the livin’ shared more than just memory.”

He said it like someone recalling the smell of something they’d never taste again. Like someone who’d tried, once, to live after he’d been buried.

You looked around you.

The town wasn’t decayed. It was…rearranged. It had rules you didn’t yet understand. Gravity worked only where it felt like it. The dead did not walk in straight lines. Some glided. Some bounced. Some stitched themselves together fresh each morning and wandered about humming.

And the strangest thing of all?

You didn’t feel afraid.

Not in the way you should have. Not even when you turned around and the fountain had grown teeth. Not even when a man tipped his hat and his entire scalp followed. Not even when a door sighed open with a voice like your own and whispered, Stay.

Remmick was beside you, his body casting a shadow even here, where most things didn’t. He looked at you not like you were lost—

But like you were home.

That night—you still called it night, even though the moon hadn’t moved—he brought you to a bridge.

It spanned over nothing. No river. No ravine. Just a stretch of fog and sky. A ghost bridge.

You sat beside him at the edge, your legs dangling off as if you could fall somewhere, though you knew you wouldn’t. He sat close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.

He didn’t move away.

“Used to dream o’ this,” he admitted, after a long silence. “Not the forest. Not the dirt. Not the blood.”

He looked over at you, slowly.

“Just this. You. Here.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat ached again.

His voice dropped, deep in his chest, accent thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. “Haven’t been touched since they put me down.”

The confession wasn’t vulgar. Wasn’t even pleading. It was starved. He smiled, crooked and small. “Can’t remember the last time someone just…looked at me. Like I wasn’t somethin’ to be feared.”

He didn’t touch you again, not even your hand.

He didn’t need to.

Your fingers brushed his pinky. Slowly. Once.

And his breath hitched so sharp you felt it in your bones.

By the next day—if you could still call it that—you weren’t watching the sky anymore. Weren’t thinking about what the world looked like outside these woods.

You walked the paths beside him. You listened to the hush of wind that sang like violins through cracked branches. You let him point out where the ghost-lanterns grew, little flowers with glass bell-heads that chimed when you passed them. You started remembering the feel of his shoulder bumping yours and missing it when it wasn’t there.

And you started to wonder.

Would it really be so terrible if you stayed?

You asked yourself that once. Then again. Then again.

At first it was just a whisper behind your ear. A suggestion. But now it nestled behind your ribs. Grew there. Took root.

Because you remembered Langdon, didn’t you?

You remembered his hand on your waist at supper, always too firm, like you were something to steer. You remembered how he spoke over you in every conversation, like a man correcting a child he hadn’t bothered to raise. You remembered how the ring—his ring—had been handed to you by someone else. No kneeling. No asking. Just expectation.

You remembered the way his lips never curled unless he was closing a deal.

And then there was Remmick.

Who asked if you wanted to see the rest. Who offered you his hand like it might be too much. Who waited every time you hesitated, and looked like it hurt him to do so.

He smiled with his whole mouth—ruined and all. He grinned when you laughed, even if he didn’t understand why. He softened around you like someone desperate to remember warmth. Every time he brushed against you, it wasn’t accidental. It was careful. Measured. Hopeful.

He looked at you like he was still not sure he deserved to.

You sat on the bridge again. Together.

Remmick had his hands in his lap, thumbs tracing nervous circles against each other. Every now and then, he’d glance at you. Say nothing. Then glance again.

You finally looked back.

“What is it?” you asked.

He startled slightly, sheepish. “Ah—nothin’. I just…”

His jaw clicked when he closed his mouth, then tried again.

“Ye don’t wear nothin’ on your finger,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“No, no, love, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, huffing a laugh with no sound. “I know ye didn’t mean what ye said under the tree. I know ye weren’t…ye weren’t askin’ for all this.”

He paused, eyes dropping to the ring still on his own hand, the one you'd given him. “I just thought,” he added, quieter now, “maybe it’d feel a little less lopsided, is all.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your silence wasn’t rejection.

He must have felt that, because something flickered behind his eyes. He turned his palm over, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. From it, he drew something strange.

A spool of hair, spun fine as thread—white and silvery-blue, like spider silk in moonlight. A broken thorn. A sliver of bone, no longer than a sewing needle. And the petal of one of those ghost-lantern flowers, shriveled but still glowing faintly at the edges.

He looked at you. Not for permission, exactly. Just to be sure you were still there.

Then he began.

He wrapped the hair into a loop, whispered to it in a language you didn’t understand—soft, low, rhythmic, like a lullaby hummed through soil. The thorn pierced the bone. The petal melted as it touched the band, fusing everything together in a slow flicker of light. It wasn’t magic like fireworks. It was quieter than that. Sadder. But it was real.

When it cooled, it had taken shape.

A ring. Fragile-looking, but solid. Matte white, like pearl gone to sleep. Veined faintly in red.

He offered it, resting on the flat of his palm like an offering. You looked at it. Then at him.

“It’s not a bindin’ spell,” he said softly. “I’d never do that to ye. It’s just a…a mark. That ye’ve been seen. That someone loved ye enough to make it.”

Your breath caught. You reached out, fingers trembling, and took the ring. And when you slipped it on—

The forest sighed.

Branches curled in. Flowers blinked open. The bridge beneath your feet thrummed like a harp string plucked once, gently.

And Remmick—Remmick made the smallest sound.

A choked inhale. Then, in a voice so soft it broke your heart:

“Ye look like someone worth waitin’ for.”

You don't remember dozing off.

But you did—still sitting beside him on the bridge, the soft weight of the ghost-ring warming your finger, his presence beside you steady as the moon that never shifted in the sky.

And when you woke, he was gone.

You startled upright, heart lurching. Your hand flew to the ring first—still there. Then to the edge of the bridge—still solid. The air felt heavier. Scented with something faint and iron-rich.

You called his name.

No answer.

Not at first.

You stood, blinking the fog from your lashes—and that’s when you saw it.

Laid carefully across the planks of the bridge, stretching in a line from your feet to the treeline beyond, was a trail of dead butterflies.

Hundreds of them. Each one perfectly intact, wings folded like prayer hands. Black as pitch with veins of crimson. Their bodies still. Sleeping. Dreaming. Waiting.

You followed.

Each step brought a rustle beneath your slippers, the softest stir of powder-dust wings. And up ahead—beneath the crooked trees that hung low like eaves—there he stood.

Remmick.

He had one hand behind his back, and his head tipped, sheepish as ever, like he’d been caught with something sinful in his pocket.

“Didn’t mean t’worry ye,” he said, voice soft.

You looked at the butterflies. Then back at him.

“What…is this?”

His smile wobbled.

“A bit of foolishness, maybe. Or maybe not.” He stepped forward, still holding whatever it was behind his back. “Back where I’m from… when we had no coin, no land, no dowry to offer—only things we’d taken from the earth—we’d still find a way t’make a gift.”

He stepped closer.

“An’ the most prized thing a man could offer…” He brought his hand forward.

In it, he held a locket.

But not gold. Not silver. It was made of bone, carved smooth and rounded into the shape of a heart. Not anatomically perfect—no, it was whimsical and off, a little uneven, the way a child might draw one. Etched into the surface were little spiral markings—like the moss had made beneath your heels that first day.

He opened it.

Inside was a pressed bluebell, perfectly preserved, its color dimmed to twilight. Across from it was a single moth’s wing, paper-thin and gleaming dully like wet stone—its veins iridescent, its edge slightly frayed. It shimmered like dusk and felt like a secret, as if it had been plucked from some dream before it could end.

Remmick didn’t explain right away. He only watched you open it, watched your thumb trace the curve of the petals, the fragile line of the wing. When he did speak, his voice had gone quieter, almost reverent.

“Th’bluebell,” he said, “they grow o’er graves where the dead were loved. Not all graves. Just the ones where someone wept hard enough t’water the earth.”

Your fingers stilled.

"And the wing?" you asked.

He hesitated. His eyes—those soft, wolf-sad things—lowered.

“She followed me once,” he said. “When I had no body. When I weren’t really a man at all. She’d land on me shoulder. Wouldn’t leave. Thought maybe she’d carry me soul somewhere if it ever got light enough.”

His smile came crooked. “She never did. But…I kept her. Just in case.”

You looked down at the locket again. At the love tucked carefully inside it—not gaudy, not gold, not spoken in flowers or poems, but in grief. In memory. In quiet things that didn’t ask for attention, only to be kept.

That was how he loved, you realized. Not loudly. Not demanding.

But devoutly.

With mourning in his blood and hope in his teeth. And you, wearing that little bone heart, felt something ancient stir beneath your ribs. Like maybe you'd been waiting for this place—this grave-bound man—just as much as he'd been waiting for you.

You blinked. Then laughed. It startled even you, the sound of it. But he didn’t flinch. Just watched, like you’d handed him the sun.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, that left side of his face pulling with a skeletal twitch where the wound exposed too much. “But I’d like you to have it. If you want it.”

You took it with both hands.The weight of it pressed into your palms like a heartbeat. You looked at him.

At his eyes—those wide, sorrowful things that glowed only faintly red now, not from hunger, but hope. At the way he didn’t reach for you, didn’t presume. Just stood still. Waiting.

You reached up. Tied the chain around your neck. It settled just above your collarbone. Close to your throat. Close to where he watched your pulse.

When your hand brushed his chest after—just lightly, just shyly—he let out the breath he’d been holding like it was his last. That was the moment you knew.

Not the rose. Not the bridge. Not the ribbon orchard. Not even the ring.

This.

This strange, mournful creature who had carved you a heart from the bones of the dead. Who watched you like you were worth every moment of his waiting. Who asked for nothing except to love you.

And you thought—

I feel more alive here, in this place of ghosts and ghouls and goblins than I ever did among the living.

You didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Because the forest heard you.

And so did he.

You held the locket in your palm long after it cooled, long after the weight of his gaze had eased—but not faded. He didn’t speak again. Only watched you with that tremble behind his smile, like he was scared his own heart might make too much noise and scare you off.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The sharp, wolfish teeth. The wound yawning over the right side of his jaw, red-veined and lipless but somehow not grotesque—just raw, unhealed, honest. The way his suit jacket hung slightly crooked over his frame. The moss in his hair from when he’d laid down in the grove beside you and listened to your voice like it was music. The wedding band still on his finger, slightly dirty with time passing but not with meaning.

You thought of the bluebell. Of the moth wing. Of all the things buried. And you asked, gently, “you never did get to kiss your bride, did you?”

He blinked. His breath caught like a match about to light. “No,” he said, slowly, voice cracking around the edges, thick with barely restrained emotion. “Never did.”

You stepped closer. Bare feet brushing bone-white moss, slippers silent as ghosts. The town behind you stirred like something dreaming—warm, moon-drowsy lamplight spilling from crooked windows. A cart creaked past on rusted wheels, pulled by a skeletal mule with eyes like glow-worms. Somewhere overhead, a thousand paper bats took flight from the belfry, flapping on stringy wings like dying leaves.

You lifted your hand.

Touched his face—gently, gently—cupping the uninjured side, but letting your thumb rest just at the edge of that ruined jaw. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in.

He just…stood there. As if he was scared his own desire might shatter him.

“Then kiss her now,” you whispered. “She’s right here.”

Remmick’s eyes burned. Not metaphorically. Literally.

A ring of red swallowed his dark gaze—glowing like coals in a hearth that hadn’t felt breath in years. His lips parted, a tiny whimper caught between them. His hand twitched at his side, then lifted—hovering over your waist, then pulling back, trembling.

“I—” he choked. “Tell me if y’don’t want it. I’ll wait, I swear, just—just say it, an’ I’ll wait ‘til the grave grows cold.”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t chaste. It was raw and starved and aching. His hand finally landed on your back, gripping your gown in a fist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. His mouth was cold—unnaturally so—but the longer it moved against yours, the warmer it got, like you were coaxing heat back into him.

He whimpered into you.

That sound—ragged and small—was almost too much.

His other hand found your cheek. Not greedy. Just reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were solid under his fingertips.

And all around you, the forest bloomed.

Not with roses or lilies—but with boneflowers and glowing toadstools, with lantern-bugs that lit the air like constellations. Wind chimes made from ribs began to sing, and the belltower rang once, a low, humming note that quivered like a heartbeat.

You didn’t want to pull away.

Not because it was perfect. But because it wasn’t. Because it was messy and trembling and stitched together from grief and longing and the quiet, sacred madness of being wanted exactly as you were.

When you finally parted, his forehead dropped to yours.

“Christ above,” he whispered, voice gone soft and accented and wet with disbelief, “Ye taste like warmth. Like bloody spring after a thousand years o’ frost.”

You smiled.

Because for the first time in your life, you believed someone meant it.

His forehead rested against yours, breath shaky and uneven as if he’d forgotten how to need anything until now.

The world around you hummed in its stillness. Lantern-light flickered like breath behind gauze. Something in the cliffs sighed—the sound of wind moving through the hollow spaces of a place not meant for the living. The scent of old parchment and smoke-moss clung to the air. The boneflowers glowed dimmer now, like candles burned low in anticipation.

Remmick’s hand still cradled your cheek, reverent as a benediction. His thumb moved once, a trembling stroke along your jaw.

You looked at him. Really looked. The way his lashes fluttered like he couldn’t hold your gaze too long. The way his lips—wet, bitten, parted—trembled just slightly even though he’d stopped kissing you. He looked stunned. Like a man waking from a century-long dream and realizing heaven hadn’t been a lie after all.

You pressed your hand over the one still clutching your back.

And you asked, very softly, “Is there somewhere we can go?”

He blinked. “Go?”

Your thumb brushed his wrist.

“Somewhere private,” you said. “Somewhere we can be alone.”

You let the weight of your meaning hang there, open. Raw.

His eyes—still rimmed in that glowing red, still almost black where the light didn’t touch—widened just slightly.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “Y—ye mean…”

You nodded.

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, but something caught in the middle. His jaw flexed, the muscles around the torn part twitching as if it ached to smile and didn’t remember how.

“Aye,” he said at last, breathless. “Aye, I—Christ. C’ourse there is.”

You followed him through the quiet town, through paths lined with broken gravestones and wrought-iron gates wrapped in black ivy. The skeletal mule lifted its head as you passed, but didn’t move. The sky flickered between colors that didn’t exist aboveground—indigo, absinthe green, deep plum, midnight rust.

The house he led you to was small, crooked, nestled between two weeping trees. Its windows were frosted over from the inside, but lanterns glowed behind them—soft and inviting, not gold but something bluer, like the edge of candlelight seen through tears.

He opened the door and held it for you, eyes not leaving your face even once.

And when you stepped inside, the house breathed around you.

Like it had been waiting too.

The moment you stepped inside, the door shut behind you with a hush like a drawn curtain. No click. No finality. Just the sound of something sealing the world away—just the two of you now, cocooned in this crooked little house where time didn’t dare intrude.

It was warm, impossibly so. Not with fire, but with memory.

Lanterns floated untethered above the room, bobbing gently like sleeping fireflies in glass cages. Their glow was the color of old violets pressed between pages—dim, wistful, soft. A chair sat crooked beside a hearth with no fire, its frame carved with sigils too old to name. The walls were mismatched wood and stone, patched in places with stained-glass panels that bled moody light across the floor. Dust danced in the air like confetti made from ash and pearl.

And across the room stood a bed.

Not some pristine matrimonial thing. No, this was older. Lovingly worn. A frame of twisted wrought iron and bone-white wood, headboard etched with curling ivy and crescent moons. The sheets were moth-gray and velvet-soft, tucked in neat but frayed at the edges like they'd been waiting for years—centuries—to be touched again.

Remmick lingered behind you, his presence like a shadow you didn’t want to outrun. He hadn’t stepped closer yet. He was giving you space. But you could feel the way he vibrated with restraint. His hand hovered just inches from your back, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch without unraveling.

“If ye…” he began, and his voice cracked down the middle. He cleared his throat, tried again. “If ye’ve changed yer mind, just say the word. I’ll not take a thing ye don’t want to give, not even a breath.”

You turned to face him.

There was nothing hungry in his stance. Not yet. Just reverence. Just awe. But something in you had already begun to ache with want.

You stepped closer, silent as snowfall, until your fingers found the button of his collar. He startled at the contact—but didn’t stop you.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, voice hushed. “I want this.”

You slid off the suit jacket, palms skimming the broad expanse of his shoulders, Remmick's lashes fluttering in response. Underneath, you found a pair of suspenders stretched taut over his chest, creating wrinkles in the fabric of his collared dress shirt.

You undid the top button. He didn’t move. Then Another.

His throat worked around a swallow, breath trembling. The glow in his eyes flickered, pulsing, softening. Like it responded to your touch.

Another.

You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and shallow as he tried not to pant. As if the sheer fact of you, undressing him—not in horror, not with trembling hands, but deliberately—was too much.

Another.

You laid your palms flat against his chest now, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The white wife beater underneath clung to him, threadbare and soft, stretched over his broad frame. He was muscular in that quiet, devastating way—someone who’d labored long past death. His chest heaved with breath he didn’t need.

He hadn’t stopped watching your face.

Not once.

“I dunno if I remember how to do this slow,” he murmured, voice hitching on every word. “I’m too far gone for gentle if ye ask me to take too much control.”

You smiled, cupping the side of his neck. The unbroken one.

“Then let me.”

You stepped back once, your own hands now at the hem of your gown, torn at the hem, blood dried like rust at your shin. You pulled it loose now, bit by bit, letting it fall from your shoulders with the softest sigh of fabric meeting floor, leaving you in just your panties.

Remmick stared. His lips parted. No sound. His knees bent slightly, like he was fighting the urge to fall to them.

“Sweet hell,” he whispered, reverently. “Ye look like…like the night I died dreamin’ someone might love me anyway.”

And then, as if the words had summoned it, the lanterns above bloomed brighter, casting kaleidoscope patterns over your bare skin. The stained-glass windows threw ribbons of blue and red and indigo across your collarbones, your hips, your thighs.

Remmick reached out—slowly, slowly—and let the backs of his fingers trail along your arm. He didn’t dare touch your breasts. Not yet. He touched the hollow of your elbow. The dip of your wrist. The edge of your shoulder where your gown had once kissed your skin.

“Are ye sure?” he breathed.

You nodded.

“Lay with me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since his last life.

And then he moved.

He moved like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Like the spell might break if he touched you too boldly—if he let himself believe for even a moment that he could have this. Have you.

You were already on the bed, the velvet beneath you rich and rippling like ink-stained water. Your head resting against moth-gray pillows. The locket he’d given you pressed cool against your breastbone, shifting with every breath. The air smelled of petrichor, moonlight, and something sweeter—something you’d begun to associate only with him. A scent like charred lilac and old longing.

Remmick knelt beside the mattress on one knee, wide palms gripping the edge of the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.

“Christ, darlin’,” he rasped, his voice thick, slurred just slightly with his Irish cadence. “Ye don’t know what ye’re doin’ to me.”

But you did.

You could see it—see the way his jaw clenched, the left side twitching faintly where the skin had long since been torn away. The way his fangs caught on his lower lip, not bared, but there—unavoidable. You could see how hard he was fighting himself, how deeply he was suppressing the parts of him he feared you’d flinch from.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his thin undershirt. Pulled him closer.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He froze above you, nose inches from yours.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” You cupped his cheek, gently thumbing along the edge of exposed muscle. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in affection. “I want all of you.”

Something in him broke.

He surged forward with a noise caught between a sob and a growl, his mouth crashing against yours. It was not the kiss of before—this one had heat, had desperation, the kind of longing that hadn’t been touched in over a thousand years. His lips were cold, but his tongue burned. You tasted the salt of old grief and something copper-sharp beneath it. His hands—God, those hands—one cupped your jaw while the other slid around your ribs, feeling flesh and bone simultaneously, cradling your back like you were sacred, like he might be punished for touching you too hard but couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

“So soft—” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your neck. “So fuckin’ soft, love, like the world before it soured…”

His fangs dragged the faintest line along your throat. Not piercing—just testing. Just tasting. His breath hitched like it pained him to hold back.

And you whispered again:

“It’s fine.”

That was all he needed.

A low, guttural moan tore from his chest as he finally let himself grip you harder—your hips, your thighs, hauling you into his lap like he needed you closer, needed your skin pressed to his or he might rot again right there on the floor. His body was strong, stronger than a man’s should’ve been, and you could feel that strength now as he spread your thighs wide and settled between them, the weight of him pressing down deliciously heavy.

He groaned when he felt the heat of you beneath the fabric, when your legs wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t shy anymore. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kissed you again, hungrier now, drooling slightly with want—not from gluttony, but from sheer, unbearable starvation.

“Ye smell like everythin’ I’ve ever lost,” he murmured raggedly. “And everythin’ I thought I’d never be allowed to touch again.”

His hips rolled once, helplessly, against yours. You felt the hardness of him, thick and restrained behind old linen and buttons. His breath hitched, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I’m tryin’, I swear it, I’m tryin’ to be slow…”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice gone small and shaking. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you’re trying to hide.”

He lifted his head slowly—eyes glowing red now, the pupils huge and blown with need.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed. “Marryin’ me twice over, sayin’ that.”

You hadn’t meant to tempt him. Not exactly. But you’d said the words—I want all of you—and now you could feel what that meant in the trembling of his fingers as they hovered over your body. Not touching. Not yet. Just breathing you in like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were happening.

His voice cracked through the hush of the room. “D’you know what yer sayin’, love?” He cupped the back of your neck, gentle as a grave flower. His thumb dragged along your pulse like he was listening to it. “A thousand years o’ hunger in me…an’ you go sayin’ that?”

Your answer came not in words but in action—pulling his hand down, pressing it against your chest so he could feel your heart race for him. For this. For the way his eyes glowed like twin embers in the dark.

That did it.

He surged forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Then lie back for me, mo chroí,” he breathed. “Let me see what I’ve been dreamin’ of since before I knew what dreamin’ meant.”

You reclined against the velvet, heat curling low in your stomach, and Remmick followed you down—kneeling between your legs like a knight in a fairy tale gone all wrong and better for it. His skin caught the light, that blue like moonlight over still water, marred only by the right side of his jaw—where muscle and bone were laid bare, yet never once did he try to turn his face away from you.

Because you didn’t flinch.

You reached up and traced the edge of the torn flesh, and he shuddered, a sound like something old breaking loose in his chest.

He kissed you then—not hurried, but deep, wet, needy—and his hand came to rest between your thighs, warm despite everything. His fingers traced the seam of your inner thigh first, featherlight, before his mouth followed. Down your jaw. Your throat. Lower.

Praise spilled from him like prayer:

“Look at ye—soft as sin, warm as summer rain—ain’t never seen anythin’ like ye.”

He mouthed at your thighs, biting down just enough to make you gasp, but never break the skin. He lapped at the indentations like he wanted to memorize every tremble, every twitch. When your legs started to close reflexively, he hooked an arm around one, spreading you wider with a low, sinful groan.

“No, no, love. Let me see. Let me taste. It’s been so long—I’ll be good, I swear it, I’ll make ye forget everythin’ but me.”

His hand moved between your legs again—rough palm against soft heat. He doesn't remove your panties yet, content to tease you through the., letting the slick there soak into the cotton. He rutted his palm against you, slow and grinding, until your hips started chasing it.

You keened. And he moaned in response—open-mouthed, desperate.

“Fuckin’ drippin’ f’r me already…ain’t even had a taste…”

And he did.

One long stripe with his tongue over the damp cotton. Then another. Until he was panting into you like a starving man nosing through the seam of your underwear. One hand splayed over your belly, keeping you still.

Then he sucked the fabric into his mouth like he could wring the taste of you through it.

When you gasped, he looked up—eyes blown wide, red rimmed, lips wet and parted.

“Beggin’ ye,” he whispered. “Let me have ye proper, yeah? Just me mouth for now—let me make ye sing, mo chroí, let me worship ye like the altar ye are.”

And when you nodded—more a whimper than a yes—he pulled your panties aside and groaned, deep and broken.

You didn’t expect him to kiss your cunt.

But he did.

Like he meant it.

Like it was holy.

He parted you with reverence—his breath hot against your folds, one trembling hand holding your thigh like it anchored him to the earth. The other lay against your belly, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to claw, to grasp, to sink into your softness and never let go.

And then…he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just lips to flesh, slow and aching, as if the act itself might undo him. As if his very mouth might shatter around you—and he’d welcome the breaking.

Your back arched.

Not from shock—but from the texture.

Because his mouth wasn’t whole.

His lips were soft, yes. Warm, even. But where the skin gave way—where bone and sinew lay exposed, where every sharp, imperfect tooth glistened with preternatural hunger—his kiss became something otherworldly.

It should’ve been frightening.

It wasn’t.

It was devastating.

You felt it not just in your cunt, but in your spine, your ribs, your soul. He didn’t just use his tongue—though God, that tongue, wet and thick and curling with practiced strokes that told you he hadn’t forgotten how to ruin a woman—he used his mouth in full. The broken parts. The jagged ones.

He scraped—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tease. Just enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream. That this was him. Remmick. The dead man with the living hands. The monster with the gentle touch.

He licked you like you were spun sugar and sacrament, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your clit and sucked, your hands shot to his hair, tangled in it, dragging him closer—

He moaned. Moaned into you, like the taste alone could kill him.

“Christ alive,” he rasped, pulling back for half a second to pant against your slick. His voice was wrecked, thick with emotion and want, thick with his Irish cadence.

He ducked back down—open mouth, flat tongue, slow circles that made your thighs tremble—and then slid two fingers inside you in one smooth, devastating motion.

“Tight little thing,” he whispered, “grippin’ me like ye missed me your whole life.”

You sobbed something between his name and God and yes, your thighs clenching around his ears, and he groaned again—deeper this time—rutting against the bed like he was getting off on the noises you made alone.

And somewhere between the moaning and the wet pop of his mouth over your clit, somewhere between the slurp of his tongue and the squelch of his fingers moving inside you, the thought came—

My mother warned me of what goes bump in the night.

She whispered it when you were little. When the winds howled. When the floorboards creaked.

She said, “There are monsters, my love. Stay in the light.”

And now here you were, sprawled beneath one, flushed and soaked and gasping, letting him drag you apart with teeth and tongue.

You wondered what she’d say if she saw you like this.

If she knew that you’d chosen the dark—and begged it to keep you.

You felt it coming.

Not like a storm—fast and brutal—but like a tide, rising slow. Heat bloomed between your hips, slow and dangerous. Your thighs ached with the effort of keeping him there, like if you let go he’d vanish back into the earth that made him.

And still he stayed. Mouthing at your cunt like a man devoted. Like a man damned.

His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue circled your clit, drawing wet, lazy shapes—infinity, you thought, or a name—until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your body began.

And then—

His eyes opened.

They glowed dimly at first, that reddish hue flickering like coal beneath ash. But when he felt your hand trembling against his scalp—when you whimpered “Remmick, I—”, his gaze snapped to yours.

Locked. Frozen. Held. It wasn’t lust you saw there. It was awe. It was reverence.

It was a man who hadn’t been touched in thirteen hundred years, now watching you—bare, flushed, trembling—fall apart beneath his mouth like a blessing.

His lips glistened. His fingers curled inside you, stroking something sharp and sacred. And still, he didn’t look away.

He stared at you like he was watching the stars be born. Like you were the only heaven he ever hoped to find.

And you knew—without him saying it—that if you asked him to stop, he would. If you asked him to die again, he would.

But you didn’t want that. You wanted more. So you said nothing.

You only whispered, voice shaking, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His jaw twitched. His breath caught. Then came his voice, low and ruined:

“Can’t help it, darlin’. Ye look like salvation.”

And you broke.

Your thighs clamped around his ears. Your back arched. You came with a sound so soft it felt like mourning. Like prayer. Like surrender.

And Remmick—beautiful, monstrous, trembling—moaned like he’d been given breath again.

He kept licking you through it. Slower now. Gentler. One last kiss to your clit, soft and grateful. He pressed his cheek to your thigh, jaw wound resting against your skin like it belonged there.

And still, his eyes never left your face.

After, you pulled him up.

He came willingly. Crawled over you with something almost shy in the set of his shoulders, the way his body trembled despite its strength. You reached for him—and for a moment, he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe you were still here. That you wanted this. That you wanted him.

You cupped his face.

Cold skin. The torn edge of his right jaw like worn marble. One fang brushing your thumb where it passed his lip. His eyes flickered between black and red—uncertain, afraid he might be dreaming.

“Remmick,” you said, your voice thick and still breathless, “do you want me?”

The question broke something in him.

He nodded too fast, like a man who’s never been given permission to hope. “Aye. Christ, aye, I do—been wantin’ ye since the trees took yer scent. Since ye bled on the bark and woke me.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down the wife beater—until you reached his belt. He sucked in a breath, whole body twitching when your knuckles brushed the tented front of his trousers.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me how much.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, wide and crooked. “Ye don’t know what ye ask, lass.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, your whisper soft and sharp against his skin. “Then show me anyway.”

He kissed you—harder this time, desperate now, hips grinding against your thigh with the ragged rhythm of a man barely keeping himself leashed. His tongue pushed into your mouth, all heat and hunger, and you could taste blood and lavender and something older, something wild, on his tongue.

And God, he kissed like he meant to die in your mouth. When he pulled back, his voice rasped, thick and low:

“Ye sure?”

You nodded once. Twice. Then said it, clear and sure:

“I want to feel you inside me.”

He shuddered. Not just a tremble—but a full-body quake, as if your words went deeper than skin, straight to the buried places inside him.

“Then lie back, ma wee bride,” he murmured, voice shaking, thick with that Irish lilt you’d grown to crave. “Let me make a proper mess of ye.”

He moved slowly, reverently, as he undressed you fully, fingers shaking as they peeled your underwear down. His breath caught at every inch of exposed skin, like he was memorizing it with his mouth slightly parted.

He bent low, kissed the inside of your thigh again—then your hip, your stomach, your ribs. Worshipful. Starved.

And when he reached for himself, undid the buckle of his trousers with fumbling hands, he looked up at you once more, almost apologetic.

“I—ah—may not last long,” he confessed, shame flickering across his face. “Not when ye’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when I’ve waited this long. I’ll—I'll make it up to ye, I swear it—”

You touched his face again.

“Then come undone for me, Remmick,” you whispered. “You’ve waited long enough.”

He lowered himself between your thighs like a man preparing for worship, not fucking.

His forehead pressed to your sternum. His breath trembled. You felt him—not just the weight of his body, but the heat of him, pulsing against your thigh, thick and straining beneath your touch.

And God, he was big.

You glanced down and saw it—long and flushed dark at the tip, veined like marble, so hard he twitched in time with his breath. The way his cock curved heavy toward his stomach made your breath catch. He looked like something carved from sin.

He saw your eyes widen and started to pull back.

“I—I’ll wait, love, I’ll—”

“No,” you breathed, grabbing his arm. “I want it. I want you. Just…slow.”

He swallowed, hard. His throat clicked.

“Gonna ruin ye,” he whispered, voice thick with Irish dusk and awe. “Gonna stretch ye wide and deep and still wish I could go deeper.”

Your legs parted further on instinct. Your heels dragged the sheets. He looked down at you like you were something sacred, worshipped and half-afraid of.

Then his hand moved between your thighs.

His fingers—two at first, slow and careful—slid back into your soaked heat, working you open gently, watching for every flinch, every sharp breath. His jaw—half-torn and glowing faintly with the light of his hunger—tightened.

“Look at ye,” he whispered hoarsely, breath like a vow. “So soft f’r me. So warm already.”

Your hips arched into his hand. You whined when his thumb brushed your clit, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his name escaping your lips again and again in half-sobs.

“Please, Remmick,” you gasped.

He kissed your knee. Your hip. Your inner thigh again. Then—

He lined himself up with you, shaking. “I can feel ye callin’ f’r me,” he said, voice low, trembling. “Can feel yer body beggin’ mine to belong.”

You didn’t have words for what he made you feel. Only need. Only the hot, aching stretch inside as he finally pressed forward, the thick head of his cock nudging into you with aching slowness.

And God—the burn. It wasn’t pain. It was too much and not enough all at once. You clutched his arms. Gasped. He froze.

“Too much?” he rasped. “Do I stop?”

“No—Remmick—don’t stop,” you moaned, “just—go slow—”

And he did. So slow, like he was trying not to shatter.

His cock dragged deeper, inch by inch, your walls clutching at him, your slick coating him as he bottomed out in you with a shudder that shook his whole body. His arms shook. His forehead dropped to yours. His mouth opened but nothing came out—not until your name escaped his throat on a cracked, desperate sound that felt more like prayer than pleasure.

“Fookin’ Christ,” he choked, barely moving, buried to the hilt inside you. “Ye feel—Gods above—ye feel like fire.”

You were full. So full. Stretched in a way that left your eyes fluttering, your voice catching in your throat. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe. You only wanted to feel him there, pulsing deep inside, trembling like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

And maybe you were.

He stayed there, deep and still, as if even the smallest movement might break you. His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw flexed against the side of your throat. You could feel him shaking—not from strain, but from the restraint it took not to move.

You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “I can take it.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just trembled, breath warm on your shoulder. But the sound he made when your hips tilted up—when your walls squeezed gently around him—wasn’t human.

It was a groan wrenched up from the deepest part of him. A sound centuries old.

“Ye don’t know what ye’re sayin’,” he rasped. “Ye don’t know what I’ll do if ye tell me I can…”

“I do,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I want you to.”

And that’s what broke him.

The first thrust was shallow, but sharp—his hips twitching forward, grinding deep. Your mouth fell open, a gasp slipping past your lips. He did it again. Then again. Each movement just a little rougher, a little more desperate. Until he was fucking you with the kind of pace that spoke of appetite, not lust.

He pressed you down into the sheets, breathing ragged, body arched over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. His lips dragged down your throat, over your collarbone, mouthing at the tops of your breasts like a man starving.

He muttered something in Irish against your skin—raw, thick, ruined—but you didn’t need to understand it. You felt what it meant in the way he rutted into you, deep and fast, his cock dragging along the parts of you no one else had ever touched.

You sobbed his name.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. You felt his back ripple beneath your hands, all sinew and strength, every part of him working to fuck you the way he’d been dreaming of since long before your first breath.

“You feel me?” he groaned into your mouth. “Deep in that sweet lil cunt, aye? So warm—so wet—I could drown in ye.”

You cried out, back arching, thighs trembling.

His mouth kissed down your breast, licking over your nipple before sucking it between his teeth. Your whole body jerked beneath him.

“Fook,” he breathed against your skin. “Ye’re squeezin’ me like you like it when I lose m’self.”

“I do,” you sobbed. “I want you to—Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He didn't.

He pounded into you, hips snapping, the slick drag of his cock obscene as your bodies slapped together. His jaw wound gleamed faintly with wet, his eyes glowing a deep carnelian red. But even with his mouth parted, his teeth sharp, even with the beast in him taking hold—he still looked at you like he loved you.

Loved you, even if he didn’t dare say it yet. You clenched around him. His rhythm faltered.

He growled, low and broken, “Tell me if I hurt ye, love. Tell me—swear it—”

“You’re perfect,” you whimpered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re perfect, Remmick.”

His forehead dropped to yours. Then he rutted into you with such bruising depth, you saw stars.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Even as his body rocked into yours, even as your legs wrapped around his hips and your nails raked down the meat of his back, Remmick trembled like a man possessed.

“Can’t hold m’self back,” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked and soaked in longing. “Not when ye’re like this—soft and beggin’ beneath me—so fuckin’ warm—”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—don’t hold back—just take me—”

Your words undid him.

He groaned low in his chest, mouth falling open, and something inside him slipped. His pace turned brutal—not cruel, never cruel—but driven. Like centuries of craving finally had a body to answer to.

Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and the wait had nearly broken him.

The frame of the bed creaked beneath his rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips, slick and trembling, your body rocked with every deep, ragged thrust. And still—still—he tried to speak.

“You feel me, yeah?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Deep in that sweet cunt…like I belong there. Like I was meant to be there—"

Your hands curled at his nape. Your lips brushed his ear.

“You do,” you said.

That was all it took.

Remmick let go.

His body slammed flush against yours, hips stuttering hard, cock pulsing deep inside you with a heat so full, so heavy, it knocked the breath from your lungs.

He groaned brokenly against your skin, his whole body arching as he spilled inside you—deep, thick, endless—his forehead resting against yours like he had nowhere else left to go.

You clung to him. His breath hitched. Then again.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your thighs parted with a sticky ache—you saw the proof of him leaking back out of you, thick and warm where you were still stretched around the base of his cock.

A creamy ring of white.

Remmick saw it, too.

He moaned—deep, guttural—and pulled you closer, nosing at your throat like he was afraid you’d disappear. “So full of me,” he whispered, dazed. “Look at ye. Stuffed so pretty…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Remmick,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

And when you looked into them—when you saw the pain, the wonder, the sheer reverence—you knew. He’d been waiting longer than you’d been alive. For this. For you.

His voice cracked, Irish accent trembling:

“Don’t leave me, love. Not now. Not ever.”

You kissed him back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The air felt different after.

Not warmer, not colder—but fuller. As if something ancient and unseen had exhaled at last. A spell released. A promise made flesh.

Remmick lay tangled beside you, arms wrapped tight around your body like he didn’t know how to let go. His cheek pressed to your shoulder, jaw wound cool and tender against your skin. His breath was shallow, uncertain—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You watched the glow-worm lanterns drift lazily overhead. Somewhere outside, the bones in the wind chimes knocked gently together like teeth. The forest whispered.

You should’ve been afraid.

Of the damp, breathing woods. Of the moss that learned your name. Of the way the moon never moved and the veil hung so thin you could taste it when you kissed him.

But you afraid. You were…calm.

He stirred slightly when you traced a lazy pattern down his back—soft whorls against undead skin still damp with sweat. A low, content sound rumbled in his throat, and he nosed into the crook of your neck, whispering something like “m’wife…” so quietly, you weren’t sure if it was meant for you or just the silence.

And God help you, you smiled.

It hadn’t been love with Mr. Langdon. It hadn’t even been kindness.

It had been a future written in ink not your own. One you’d been expected to accept without complaint, because it was tidy. Respectable. Fitting of a girl raised to smile politely, to never contradict her elders, to marry for property and speak only when spoken to.

Your mother had called it security.

Had warned you to stay away from things that wandered in the woods. From things with glowing eyes and sharpened teeth. Things that hungered.

And now—

Now you lay in a moss-slick bed of dirt and silk, bare and marked and full of one such thing. You wore his locket. His bite. His ring.

You brushed your fingers along the smooth place at your neck where his lips had lingered. A perfect bruise. A signature.

And still you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed. You were…

Content.

“I wish I’d met ye sooner,” he whispered against your collarbone. “Back when I still knew how to be a man.”

You turned your head, met his eyes. Those wide, glowing eyes.

“You still are.”

He swallowed, expression caught between reverence and disbelief.

“I ain’t decent,” he said, voice thick with that Irish lilt again. “Ain’t clean. Ain’t right. I sleep in the dirt, I feed when I must, and I carry more ghosts than I do breath in m’lungs.”

“You’re kind,” you said.

“A monster.”

“You’re mine.”

He closed his eyes at that.

You rested your palm over his heart—cold and still. But when you pressed closer, you could swear something stirred there. Like an echo. Like a wish.

He buried his face in your chest, arms tightening around your waist. And you let him hold you.

You never looked back again.

Not at Langdon. Not at the mother who warned you off the dark but allowed the devil in anyway. Not at the world where your name was written beside a stranger’s in a church you hated.

Instead, you stayed in the belly of the forest. In the town built of bones and moss and memory. You watched the ribbons in the orchard sway like breath. You fed the skeletal cat scraps of peach and laughed when it swiped at your slipper. You kissed your husband when the wind moaned, and whispered promises against his cheek when his hands trembled.

Because you loved him. Because he waited.

And because when you reached for a tree with trembling hands and a bloodstained ring, he was the one who answered.

Not Langdon. Not God.

Him.

On the morning the bluebell bloomed again—only one, shy and frost-bitten—you knelt beside it with Remmick and whispered,

“Maybe this was the wish that came true.”

He stared at the bloom, then at you. And smiled.

“I ran from a man with a pulse,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through your undead husband’s. “But I stayed for the one with a soul.”

[saltcxrcle]

not our universe ── . ✶ c. kent

summary: you've had a complicated relationship with being a metahuman, but after taking a look into the multiverse—you've never hated having your powers more.

pairings: established!clark kent x gn!reader, clark kent x metahuman!readerノ wc: 7.9k warnings: no use of 'y/n, buckle in bc it's a long one!, fluff in the beginning, then there's angst, reader is a metahuman who can see through the multiverse, reader's nose bleeds a lot, insecure!reader, avoidant!reader, reader is described to be shorter than clark, clark gets frustrated, fluffy/happy ending, the ending is so sappy, and i love it, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: saw an edit on my feed about all of the iterations of clois and i was like...this is primetime for some angst for the reader LOL :p. also sorry for taking so long to write this i was waiting until i rewatched the movie to finish this but enjoy!! oh and a simple comment or reblog goes a long long way for writers!! clark kent masterlist

IT STARTED OFF SMALL, YOUR POWERS.

You didn't even realize you had powers at first. In your young mind, you thought you were having really vivid dreams at first. Your parents thought you had an overactive imagination when you ran into their room in the morning and blabbed about your dreams with them at the ripe old age of eight. 

It was only when they turned on the news that morning that they realized what had happened across the globe was the same scenario you had described in your dream that morning. Your parents were at a loss for what to do with you and your newly developed powers (even if you had no idea that you had them).

After a lengthy discussion between the two of them, they took you to a specialist in metahuman powers (who was a metahuman themselves) to try and figure out what powers you actually possessed.

After weeks of going to several appointments with this specialist, you found out alongside your parents that your powers consisted of a form of astral projection, but would manifest and grow in power over time to the point where you didn't need to sleep anymore to see into different areas of the globe at any time you wanted. 

And oh, did your powers grow indeed. By the time you were in high school, you could see alternate dimensions in your sleep. You hadn't quite mastered being able to travel places and dimensions awake. Though that skill wouldn't have developed until you graduated from college.

Your doctor was an essential instrument for you to not only control but also understand your metahuman ability. If it wasn't for them, you would not have found out that you can't actively affect the events you're witnessing or be seen by the average person. 

You had yet to find a person to "sense" you while you were in your 'ghostly form' besides your doctor (how else did you know that you had a transparent form when you were using your powers). That was until you had projected into Superman's apartment one night while you were asleep. 

It happened purely by accident. You were up thinking about Clark Kent of all people before you fell asleep. He was your really kind and very attractive friend who happened to work at the Daily Planet alongside you. You couldn't help but think about how he had gone out of his way to grab you coffee that morning since you hastily texted him to get him to cover for you as you ran late (granted, if he wasn't late himself). 

So, your subconscious decided to transport your astral form into a familiar-looking apartment that you've been to a couple of times when you guys would have your movie nights.

Superman had his red boots kicked off when he turned around abruptly and saw you in the hallway leading to his apartment. 

You looked around at the familiar hallway of Clark's apartment when you saw Superman(sans boots) standing in his living room and staring directly at you. You were used to people looking through you—some even walked through you like you didn't even exist. 

But Superman didn't look through you, but he looked AT you. You stood there, shocked. What the hell was Superman doing in Clark's apartment, and how the hell could he see you right now? 

Clark called out your name breathlessly, and it snapped you out of your stupor. You realized that Superman could see you. You got scared and vanished out of his sight. You immediately shot up out of bed, panting, and you could feel liquid dripping down your face. You groaned, getting out of bed and rushing into your bathroom, turning on the faucet and cleaning your now bleeding nose. 

You hadn't gotten one in years since your freshman year of college. As you cleaned your face, your mind was racing. 

I mean, I knew Clark knew Superman, but I didn't think they knew each other on an intimate level. However, now, how Clark got all of those interviews makes sense.

You cleaned your face of the blood and exited your ensuite bathroom when there was rapid knocking at your door. Your heartbeat caught in your throat as you walked towards your doorway. You looked into the peephole and saw a disheveled Clark. 

You opened your door hesitantly and confused. "Clark? Are you okay?" You asked as you took in his rumpled white t-shirt and joggers. Your brows were furrowed. How did he get to your apartment so fast? 

"M'fine. How did you get into my apartment?" Clark asked, ducking into your apartment. Suppose he was going to air out his secret identity to you. In that case, he'd prefer the privacy of your apartment to having the discussion in the hallway. 

"What? Clark, I wasn't in your apartment." You closed your door and said as you followed him into your living room, turning on the lamp on the end table near your couch. You were still a little drowsy, so Clark got into your place without much protest from you.

Clark looked unimpressed by your confusion. "I saw you in the doorway and then I blinked and you were gone. How did you do that?" 

In your sleep-addled brain, you barely registered his words. "What are you talking about? Superman was the one who saw me, and he was in—" You cut yourself off. The realization hit you like a lightning strike. 

You were fully awake now as you looked at Clark in shock. "You're Superman." He wasn't wearing his glasses, and the similarities between Clark and Superman were uncanny. 

Clark swallowed thickly. "Yeah." He admitted after letting out a breath. "So, can you answer my question? Since you kinda just appeared in my apartment and then disappeared." 

You couldn't help but let out a delirious giggle, confusing Clark slightly, but the corner of his lips couldn't help but twitch up at the sound of it. You really didn't think your night was going to turn out like this, hence the random giggle (or was it the sleep deprivation? You couldn't tell anymore). 

You shook your head. "It's a long story." You sighed, walking over to your couch and throwing yourself into the well-worn cushions, gesturing for Clark to sit down. 

"I've got time." Clark said softly as he sat down on the cushion next to where you were sitting. 

So, you told him everything. You told him about your metahuman abilities and the process you went through in order to get a handle on your powers. Clark listened intently, his eyes never once straying away from your form. 

"Any questions?" You asked after letting out a breath and sinking back into your couch as you finally looked at Clark, meeting his intense gaze. 

"Do you usually 'project'," Clark mimed air quotes, making you smile, "into your friend's apartment?" 

"No, I've got a good handle on my powers eighty five percent of the time." 

"So, the other fifteen percent is room for error?" 

You laughed softly. "Yeah. I guess tonight was just one of those nights." 

Clark nodded. "I see. Can I ask another question?" 

"Are you going all journalist on me now? I think you forgot your notepad and recorder Mr. Kent." You teased Clark. 

"I don't think an interview with you will make the front page." Clark played along and shot you a smug grin. 

You scoffed. "Right, because your favorite person to interview is yourself ironically enough." You shot back, a sarcastic smile on your face.

Clark was fighting the smile that was trying to grow on his face. "Shut up." But his words had no real bite to them. 

"Oh please, you love hearing the sound of my voice." 

You'd be right. He thought, but Clark bit back his real response. "Why tonight? You mentioned that you don't usually project at night right before you sleep." He asked his question instead of continuing the banter that was usually thrown around between the two of you. 

That was the thing with your powers. Once you had gotten them under control, you never wanted to use them.

You were warned that the older you got with having your powers, the more dangerous the places you find yourself in, both asleep and while you use your powers on purpose. Yeah, your physical body would be fine—but you didn't want to sacrifice your mental health to satiate your curiosity for other parts of the world or alternate dimensions.  

You bit your bottom lip. Clark's eyes flickered to how your teeth were pillowed by the fullness of your lips. You sighed, making Clark's gaze meet your own. 

"Sometimes, when I don't use my powers for a long time, I project without meaning to—it doesn't happen often. But when it does, it means I have a lot on my mind." Yeah, you had a whole lot of Clark Kent on the mind. You tried looking away from Clark, but his eyes always seemed to pin you in place. 

Clark could hear the rapid beat of your heart, almost mirroring his own, and it filled his chest with hope as his lips stretched into a tender smile. He shifted on the couch and closer to you. Warmth radiated off of him—even through the material of his sweatpants as his thighs brushed against yours. 

"Can I admit something? Since we're airing secrets out and all." Clark's voice was gentle as he looked down at you with soft eyes, filled with affection. 

You nodded. "But if you tell me that you're Superman, well, I know now." 

Clark chuckled at your playful words, and a surge of confidence went through him, channeling a little bit of Superman into his actions. One of his hands found your own. "I am Superman. And it makes this easier for me to say, but I like you. A lot." He tacked on at the end as he stared at your face, trying to read your expression. Clark felt his ears turn red, and a warm blush climbed down his neck. 

"Really?" You asked in disbelief.  

Clark looked away for a brief moment. "Yes." 

A giddy feeling started to course through your body as you squeezed his hand. "You're in luck. I like you a lot too." 

Clark looked back at you, his lips split into a blinding grin, his dimples appearing, and you couldn't help but mirror his smile. You were practically turning into putty at the sight of his adoring grin.

Clark leaned in, and the sharp sting of ozone and the fading scent of his cologne emanated from him and filled your senses. The close proximity of Clark and his scent was almost dizzying—you barely knew your left from your right at this point, but you knew you wanted him closer. 

Clark used his free hand to gently cup your cheek, his eyes darting between your lips and your eyes. "You're so pretty." He muttered almost absentmindedly, like being this close to you, disengaged his filter, and was unable to resist telling you now that he was this close to you. 

And you were. The warm glow from the lamp behind you gave the illusion that there was a halo behind you. Your cheeks immediately flooded with heat at the sudden praise—you were torn between ducking away from Clark's adoring gaze and leaning into his palm. You did the latter, Clark's hand was warm, and you couldn't help but let it lead you closer to his face. 

"You're not so bad yourself." You murmured softly as the warm light washed over Clark's face, making his blue eyes even more intense as he stared down at you. 

Clark's nose scrunched at your words. "And here I thought you liked me." 

You chuckled, rolling your eyes in amusement. "I'm sorry, but have you seen Superman? He's gorgeous. A real God amongst men." You quipped playfully. 

Clark shook his head at you, clearly exasperated, but the smile on his lips said otherwise. "You're ridiculous, I thought you didn't like Superman?"  

"Opinions can change." You shrugged. "But considering that I know you and him are one in the same, he doesn't seem all that bad anymore." 

"Oh, so he's not a reckless hero with no spatial awareness when it comes to the destruction of the city?" Clark raised an eyebrow at you, amusement coloring his tone as he quoted a line from the one article you did write on Superman. 

"Well, if the shoe fits…" You trailed off, pursing your lips in mock thought. 

Clark scoffed. He thought for a second about how to retaliate verbally before a mischievous smirk grew on his lips. You barely caught it before you erupted into shocked giggles. 

"Take it back!" Clark laughed alongside you as he poked at your ribs and tickled your sides. You fell backward on your couch, trying to get away from his hands, but it was fruitless against the man of steel. 

"N-Never!" You exclaimed through your laughter, trying to curl in on yourself, but Clark wasn't having it. He managed to straddle you and doubled down on his actions. 

The room was being bathed in yours and Clark's laughter alongside the soft glow of the lamp and moonlight filtering through your curtains. The sounds of joy and love swirled around the two of you as you slowly forgot the exact circumstances that led the two of you together. 

"UNCLE! Uncle, uncle!" You gasped out desperately. Joyful tears wet your cheeks as your stomach began to cramp from the laughter. 

Clark stopped tickling you and let his hands rest on your waist. You looked up at him. He was slotted in between your open legs, hovering over you with a lingering smile playing on his pink lips. Clark's head was slowly ducking down, getting closer to yours. 

"You know," You started to murmur, eyes flipping between his lips and blue eyes, "Superman is great and all, but I like Clark a hell of a lot more." 

"That's good to know." He replied in a soft tone. Clark's forehead landed against yours, a sliver of space between the two of you. 

Clark let out a stuttering sigh. "Can I kiss you?" 

Instead of answering, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips against his. It felt like the world went quiet as soon as your lips connected with Clark's. A surge of warmth shot through your body as you sank into the cushions, as Clark's body blanketed yours. Your hands made their way into his dark curls as your lips moved against each other. 

You felt like you could stay in the bubble you and Clark had made for eternity. Trading soft kisses and caresses until you physically couldn't anymore. Every unspoken feeling and desire was poured into each kiss the two of you pressed against each other's lips, keeping them soft and tender until Clark pulled away—his hand caressing your cheek as he looked down at you adoringly. Affection was written all over his face as he smiled softly at you. 

"Be mine?" You asked quietly, looking into his slightly blown-out gaze. 

"You have me. You've had me for a long time." He admitted, reverence in his tone as his thumb moved against the apple of your cheek. 

Everything shifted into place after that night. Clark was the most thoughtful and attentive boyfriend you ever had. If you had trouble thinking about him all the time before, the problem (not that you consider it one) got a whole lot worse when you guys started dating. If you had a dime for every time you thought about it, you'd be rivaling Lex Luthor in terms of money.

Clark was just so endearing. He'd text you randomly throughout your day, even though he was no more than fifteen away from your desk at work. He'd send silly pictures that reminded Clark of you or what he thought you would like. You don't even know how many conversations you've screenshotted. But there were a lot more pictures of him in your camera roll than the screenshots. 

Sometimes, Clark would show up at your door with flowers because they reminded him of you before your movie nights. Or he would grab takeout for the both of you when you're working late on your article at home and has to practically feed you as you type furiously away at your laptop. And without fail, he texted you before and after he'd go on his Superman duties and more often than not, found refuge in your apartment after a battle.  

Things were going great for a few months, until your powers acted up while you were asleep again. 

You could hear the faint rush of traffic from a street enter your ears before your eyes opened. You were standing outside, on a terrace of sorts. You looked around and saw the city. The buildings looked familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place where you recognized them from.

The doors to the terrace opened, making you turn around. You saw a woman in a white dress with a sheer blue overlay draped over it holding a pencil and notepad, going to sit down at the table positioned right in front of the open doors. 

The woman was a little nervous, as you could see in her expression as she poured herself a glass of wine. But as she was taking a sip of the wine, you felt him before you saw him. 

"Good evening, Miss Lane." You turned around the same time she did. 

It was Superman. You were shocked to see a more vibrant and more form-fitting version of his suit.

You could barely wrap your head around this entire dream? But you knew deep down this wasn't one of your regular dreams. It was your power at work. And right now, you're seeing a version of Lois and Superman—you mean Clark interacting right now. 

This version of Clark didn't seem to notice you at all, staring directly at the version of Lois that was sitting down right next to you. She got up from her seat, clearly a little flustered and surprised that he dropped in so suddenly. 

Lois, in her very familiar Lois Lane fashion, started to interview Superman, and you could tell that there was tension between them. They were both flirting with each other as they flew through the questions, making something inside of your chest twist. It didn't make any sense to you. Why were you seeing this now? 

You stopped listening to their banter and questions as you started to spiral into your thoughts, only being broken out of your stupor when Clark grabbed the notepad and pencil out of her hands and led her to the more open spot of the terrace. Your vision blurred as they shot off to the sky—a flash of white blinding you. 

You shot up from the bed with a start, falling off the bed in your shock. Clark woke up from your sharp, but loud gasp as you fell. 

He got up from the bed and quickly made it to your side, flicking on the lamp to see your wide eyes. They were filled with confusion as they darted around the room. It was like seeing a cornered dog trying to find its way out of the situation they were in. 

Clark fell to his knees beside you, using a gentle hand to turn your face towards him. His gaze dropped to the nosebleed you were having. 

"Sweetheart, look at me." Clark softly commanded.

Clark's voice filtered through your ears, making your shoulders relax as your eyes finally met his. Your breathing was still labored as your mind tried to process the images you saw, feeling the brewing headache beginning to form. 

"Can you take some deep breaths for me?" Clark's voice was a soothing balm, and you nodded in response. 

You took deep breaths, exhaling shakily until your breathing became even. Clark's warm hands were on your face—grounding you even further until you calmed down. 

Clark's eyes were zeroed in on the drying blood on your face. Wordlessly, he picked you up from the floor and went into your ensuite bathroom. Sitting you on the counter, he picked up a spare washcloth, wet it with some warm water, and started to wipe off the blood from your nose. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" He murmured quietly, breaking the silence that had settled in the bathroom. 

You sighed. "I think I projected." You said, inadvertently answering his question.

"You think?" Clark asked carefully. He finished cleaning your face and went to rinse the blood from the towel. 

"It was different this time. I thought it was a dream at first, but everything looked familiar but it wasn't the same. Not like here." You swallowed thickly. "I think I saw a different version of you." You admitted quietly. 

The neutral expression on Clark’s face fell. "How?" His forehead creased with confusion.

You shook your head. "I don't know. He had a similar suit to yours, but he looked different. Like completely different from you." 

Clark dropped the towel in the sink, grabbing your hands with his own as he saw yours start to shake. "Hey, we don't have to figure it out right now." He consoled as one of his hands cupped your cheek. "Let's go back to sleep," Clark suggested, tugging you off the counter. 

You followed him with no complaints. Your hazy mind would have gone more insane if you had thought about it for a second longer. Once you and Clark settled back into your bed and in his arms, you spoke up. 

"I'll have to call Dr. Parker in the morning." You whispered into his chest.

Clark kissed your forehead. "Sounds like a plan." He muttered into your skin before kissing your hairline—wrapping his arms around you a little tighter. 

You decided to take the day off and recover while you tried to wrap your head around what you saw last night. 

Clark went back to his apartment to get ready for work, but not before leaving you with a sweet kiss on the lips and a promise to give him an update after you call your specialist. 

You called Dr. Parker, and after exchanging some pleasantries, you explained what you saw the night before to them, in extreme detail (besides revealing the fact that Clark was Superman, for obvious reasons). 

They sighed into the receiver. "I was afraid this day would come." Their tone was grim. 

Your eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean? Do you know what's happening to me?" 

Dr. Parker sighed. "After discovering that you could see into alternate dimensions, I figured that one day your ability would grow powerful enough to see into alternate realities." 

"H-how is that possible? I try not to use my powers at all when I can." You couldn't believe what you were hearing. 

Dr. Parker said your name in a soothing tone. "I've been tracking and studying your ability since we've met, and this was going to happen regardless if you used them or not." 

You felt like the rug was pulled from beneath your feet. You sat down on your couch. "What do you mean exactly when you say 'alternate realities'?" 

"I don't think that is some-" 

"Dr. Parker. I need to know." You pleaded as you cut them off, gripping the edge of the cushion you were sitting on and trying to ground yourself in the moment. 

They were silent for a moment. "To put it simply, you can see into the multiverse." 

You've vaguely heard about this theory before when interviewing scientists from Star Labs for an article you were writing on the expansion of Star Labs to Metropolis. 

"I thought the multiverse was a theory." You breathed out in disbelief. 

"I don't think we can discount the impossible here. You know the world that we live in." Dr. Parker said knowingly. 

If aliens and metahumans can exist naturally, who's to say scientific theories aren't actually true? 

You shook your head, blowing out a harsh breath through your mouth. You leaned back into your cushions. "Okay then, why didn't Superman sense me when I was on the terrace with him and that version of Lois? I mean, he should have, right?" 

Dr. Parker hummed in thought. "The only idea that I have is that the distances between the universe you saw and our own is far enough to where any metahuman's enhanced senses couldn't detect you."  

"Is there any way to prove that idea right?" You asked jokingly, but it sounded flat in your ears. 

"Not right now. It would take multiple years to just try and prove the theory outside of your powers." 

You sighed. "I figured. But thank you again Dr. Parker." 

"It's no problem, my dear. Please remember to call me if anything else like this happens. Preferably right after they do." 

You chuckled. "I'll try." 

The two of you exchanged goodbyes before you hung up. You stared at your phone blankly. You're only hoping that you don't project to any more universes right now or in the near future. 

Well, you were completely and utterly wrong. You thought that your projections into different universes would be different each time. You thought you would see various aspects or perspectives of what other universes would look like. While you did, you saw the same dynamic each and every time. 

It was always about Clark and Lois. 

If you thought the first time you saw them together was just a fluke. You'd be sorely incorrect. 

When you first came to the Daily Planet, you weren't blind. You saw the banter between Clark and Lois they had as they parried back and forth on article ideas or random topics you guys would talk about on your lunch break. You would try to ignore the sharp sting to your heart each time you saw them interact. 

You weren't even that mad at seeing them together—they meshed well together despite how different they were. You are admittedly envious of Lois Lane. You were a big fan of her work before you came to work at the Daily Planet, and once you got to know her, you could see anyone falling to their knees for her.

Lois was unabashed and unashamed about her pursuit of the truth, was incredibly smart, and quick with her wit. Yeah, she was a bit abrasive, but Lois had a confidence that you couldn't fake—it came naturally like breathing for her. 

Lois Lane seemed like everything you weren't and what you wanted to be. 

You tried to squash the growing crush you had on Clark. Hell, you even thought they were dating at one point and just keeping it a secret from the office until you went out with them one night, and Lois had brought the girl she was seeing to the bar you guys were at. 

Each time you closed your eyes, you saw a different version of Clark/Superman and Lois, and the seed of insecurity only flourished when you woke up. It gnawed at you endlessly. 

It was borderline cruel. Having to witness each iteration of Clark and Lois being together. Like they were destined for each other in each universe, and they were taunting you. You had wished that you had learned how to wake up in the middle of your projections, but once you were there, it was practically impossible to snap out of it. 

With each projection into a different universe where Lois and Clark were together, you started to retreat into yourself and slowly extracted yourself from Clark. 

It started off small.  

You'd reply to Clark's text messages that he sent hours after he sent them, being dry as you texted him, not stopping by his desk during your downtime at work, and giving him smiles that he could see through—but you knew that Clark would be too kind to say anything about it. 

You'd make up flimsy excuses to avoid spending time with him when he asked to come over or have date nights together. He let them slide, but you could tell he was worried about you and your attempts to blow him off. 

It got to the point where you stopped talking to him altogether, practically ghosting him in your texts and avoiding him at work. The only time you spoke to him was short and clipped one-word responses when Jimmy and Lois would pull you into discussions before getting back to work. 

Was acting this way rational at all? Absolutely not, but how else were you supposed to react when you were forced to see your boyfriend be with someone else in multiple different universes? And at the same time, you seemed to cease to exist in all of them.

Clark was rightfully frustrated and confused. He thought you guys were doing well and going steadily. He didn't like the 180 you did in attitude towards him when you seemed to act normal around everyone else. 

He tried to be patient with you, but you were icing him out of his life, and he wanted to know why. 

So, he pulled you into a storage closet at work one day when you were coming back from the bathroom. 

Clark quickly flipped on the light. "Why are you avoiding me?" He wasted no time and started to question you. 

You blinked up at him, a little confused and dazed from being abruptly pulled into a dusty storage closet. "Huh?" 

Clark, the usually patient guy you knew, looked anything but. "Please," He sighed out your name. "You're avoiding me. Was it something I did?" He asked quietly, almost folding in on himself, insecurity written in his icy blue irises. 

Your heart twisted as a lump grew in your throat. You never meant to make Clark feel this way. "No! No, not at all." You shook your head, trying to swallow down the persistent feeling in your throat. 

Clark looked down at you, waiting for you to continue. You met his gaze, and your breath caught in your throat as you realized how close you were to him. You hadn't been close to him in some time, and all you wanted was to lean into his warmth and cocoon yourself in it. Then the flashes of the other Clarks and Loises flashed into your brain, reminding you of why you were avoiding him in the first place. 

"I've just been focused on work." You said, looking away from him. 

Clark said your name in a low tone, like a warning. "Please, don't lie to me."  He sounded tired as he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

You looked at Clark, really looked at him. He seemed visibly defeated—his shoulders were sagging like he had stayed up all night and was dragging his feet in his exhausted stupor. His clothes were more rumpled and wrinkled than usual.

"I'm not." You were. "This article has been kicking my ass and the deadline is too close for me to think about anything else." 

"You could have asked for my help. You still can." Clark was practically pleading to try to spend time with you in any place he could. 

You shook your head. "I don't need it. I gotta go back to work, Clark, and so should you." You shut down the conversation and, faster than he could anticipate, you left the storage closet. 

Clark cursed under his breath and put his glasses back on. He rubbed at his forehead as he exited the closet. The one thing that bothered Clark the most was leaving important conversations unfinished.

He made his way back to his desk dejectedly and in a bad mood. Clark shot a glance your way to see you actively trying not to look over at him, typing aggressively at your desktop. 

You were staring hard at the Word document as you typed away at it. Your eyes were getting dry, and you realized you hadn't blinked in over five minutes, so you did. 

You opened your eyes, and suddenly, you were standing near your desk instead of sitting down. The time of day was no longer mid-afternoon, but it was morning. You looked around and noticed that everything was the same. So why the hell was it morning? Then you looked at your desk, which was adjacent to Lois's. 

Why the hell was it empty? 

You were completely oblivious to the conversation happening between your coworkers until Lois stood up and switched the channel on the surrounding TVs on the pillars. 

"Yeah, Superman did say that he thought that the hammer might be faking a Boravian accent." Clark said as he stared at the screen, leaning back in his chair. 

"Superman said that?" Lois asked skeptically. 

"Yeah, I interviewed him right afterwards. Great guy." He said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, his eyes never once straying from the screen. 

"You know, it's funny you keep getting all these interviews with Superman, Clark," Lois said, almost knowingly, but played it off as a question. 

"Huh, I don't think there's anything funny about good journalism Lois." Clark threw back at her, brushing off her question. 

"Uh huh." Lois stared at Clark for a brief moment before going back to her desk. 

You squinted at the interaction. The question of how Clark always managed to get an interview with Superman was a recurring conversation between Lois and Clark. But now there was an undercurrent of tension you picked up on. Before you could dwell on it even further, your vision blurred. The scene had changed, and you were suddenly following Lois back to her apartment. This hadn't happened before. Ever. 

It felt like something was tethered between you and Lois as your feet mindlessly followed her into her apartment. There was a clatter coming from her kitchen, making Lois alarmed. Lois reached through you and grabbed the bat situated near the door and inched closer to the kitchen. She relaxed when she saw who was in the kitchen. You looked over her shoulder and saw Clark. Your Clark. 

"What are you doing here?" Lois asked as she dropped the bat, but still had it in her grip. 

"3 months ago, we had our first date. And so to celebrate, I am making you your favorite. Breakfast for dinner." Clark said, moving around Lois's kitchen as if it were his own. 

"That's your favorite." Lois set the bat right next to the fridge. 

"You love breakfast." 

"Yeah, for breakfast. You love it for dinner." Lois said as she approached Clark.

He turned off the burner and faced Lois. Without any hesitation, Clark grabbed her by the waist, and Lois pulled into a passionate kiss. You crumpled to the ground, falling to your knees—your eyes never leaving the intertwined pair in front of you.

You could faintly hear someone calling your name, and you could feel a phantom hand on your shoulder, shaking it. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and with a flash of white, your eyes shot open. 

You were met with the ceiling of the Daily Planet, and you felt the cold temperature of linoleum seeping through your clothes. Clark's and Lois's worried faces hovered above you, making you blink hard at the sight of them, looking identical to the ones you saw kissing in an alternate universe that seemed to be exactly like the one you were in now. 

Their words were muffled in your ears, like you were underwater. They helped you up from the floor, but you immediately ripped your arms out of their grip, confusion flashing through their concerned expressions. 

You could feel the eyes of everyone in the bullpen as you tried to rein back in any dignity you had left in your body. A handkerchief entered your eyeline. You grabbed it, knowing that it was for the wetness you were feeling under your nose and down your chin, seeing that your own boss had given it to you, with an uncharacteristic soft look in his eyes. 

"You alright there kid?" Perry asked. 

You couldn't meet anyone's eyes as you wiped your face free of blood, staining the patterned fabric with it. "Yeah." You rasped out. "I just overworked myself, I guess." 

"Take the rest of the day off, and matter of fact, the rest of the week." Perry said, but you heard the worry underneath his stern tone. 

You nodded in response—it was only Wednesday. You could handle missing two days of work.  

"Get back to work!" Perry's voice boomed through the bullpen, making the crowd that surrounded you disperse, and the chatter around the office started back up again. 

You couldn't bear to look at either Clark or Lois as you left the Daily Planet, despite Clark's attempt to try to talk to you—but Perry yelled at him to work. You used the opening to leave the office as swiftly as you could. 

Later that night, you were lying in bed, just having gotten off a call with Dr. Parker. It made you feel marginally better, having an impromptu therapy session with a medical professional who was definitely not qualified for therapy—but it was good to get the images that were burned into your memory out of them. 

You heard a knock at your door, but you made no move to open it. You knew exactly who was at it. You immediately slowed down your breathing, and hopefully, your heart rate would follow in its footsteps, trying to mimic the fact that you were asleep. 

Clark called out your name softly, but you still heard him through the thin walls of your cheap one-bedroom apartment. "I don't know what you saw, and you probably don't want to see me right now, but I made some soup for you. I'll just leave it outside your door." Clark paused before he continued. 

"Just don't push me out anymore, please. You really scared me today sweetheart and I just want to know that you're okay." You heard Clark linger at the door until his footsteps could no longer be heard from your spot on your bed. 

You stayed still as you could as you took in his words. The lump in your throat was massive, and tears gathered in your eyes as his earnest and honest words hit you harder than you expected. You missed Clark. You missed him a lot. But seeing what you saw today solidified the fact that you and Clark weren't meant to be together. 

In any universe. 

Tears fell from your eyes at the thought. Clark and Lois are meant to be together—it has been proven to you time and time again.  Fuck, you hated your powers. It effectively ruined the one good thing you had going for you, and now you had to tear it down for the universe to right itself. 

Your weekend was spent wallowing in bed and trying to build up the courage to text Clark to come over to talk—and to break up with him, as much as you didn't want to. You were making a plan to transfer (escape) to Central City because you couldn't bear the thought of being in such close proximity to the love of your life when you weren't his. 

Can we talk? You sent the text to him on Sunday morning. 

Yeah, what time do you want me to come over? He responded instantly. 

Give me twenty minutes. You texted back, knowing Clark could be at your apartment within the blink of an eye, and you needed to get cleaned up and mentally prepare for the irreparable damage you were about to cause. 

You took the quickest shower ever, opting out of washing your hair and getting dressed in a new set of pajamas to wallow in after the conversation that was about to take place. Twenty minutes later, on the dot, you heard a knock on your door. 

You took a deep breath before answering it. Clark stood in front of you, an awkward smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. 

"Hi." Clark greeted you with a kind smile. Oh, that smile is going to make you crumble and chicken out on your plan. 

"Hey Clark, come in." You gestured for him to come in. 

You closed the door and followed behind him into your living room. 

"How are you?" Clark asked you, albeit it came out a bit awkward as he fiddled with his glasses. 

"I've been doing fine. Haven't projected at all since Wednesday." You told him. 

He nodded, his eyes brightening at the news before they dimmed. Clark cleared his throat. "What was it about?" 

"What?" You were slightly taken aback by the blunt question. 

"What you saw while you projected. What did you see?" 

"I-why do you want to know?" You weren't at all comfortable telling him what you saw. 

"Because I know it had something to do with me and Lois." 

You cursed yourself out in your mind. Clark was perceptive when he wanted to be, and it was obvious that he noticed your reaction to both him and Lois earlier that week. You stayed silent, avoiding his eyes. 

Clark pressed his lips together, trying to quell the growing frustration. "Sweetheart, please, I just want you to talk to me." 

"I am." 

"You know that isn't what I meant. You've been so far away from me for a while now. I gave you your space, but a man can only take so much before he starts to feel unwanted." Clark stepped forward and tried to catch your gaze. "Please honey, talk to me." 

You let him pull your hands into his. You closed your eyes for a moment, relishing in his familiar touch since you've deprived yourself of it for so long. 

"I learned that I can see into the multiverse." You admitted. You had a written script in your mind, and now you were going off of it. Damn it, curse Clark and his addictive touch. 

Clark furrowed his brows. "Multiverse?" 

"I can see into alternate realities. Some look similar to ours, or completely different. And for the past month and half, I've seen god knows how many, but my powers have shown me the same thing every time." You looked down at your conjoined hands. 

"What did they show you?" Clark asked quietly. 

You gathered the courage to look him in the eye. "You. and Lois. Together." 

Clark's eyes went wide with surprise. You let his hands fall from yours as you wrapped your arms around yourself. 

You let out a bitter chuckle at the lack of response he gave you.

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either. But in each universe I saw, you and Lois were perfect together, the power couple of the century. You know what I saw on Wednesday? The universe I projected to was nearly identical to ours. I mean, that Clark looked exactly like you and everyone else here. But the only difference was that you two were together and I didn't exist at all." You spared him the details of what you saw, because you weren't keen on reliving it at all. 

Clark was speechless, but he managed to find his words. "Why didn't you tell me that this was happening?" He said, a hurt expression on his face. 

"Because I didn't want to bother you. I thought after the first one that it was a one-time thing." You shrugged off his concern. 

"You could never be a bother." He promised, bringing his hands to cup your cheeks, getting you to look at him. "You should have told me." 

"And what would you have done about them, Clark? If I can't stop this from happening, what makes you think you could have?" You lashed out, ripping his hands from your face. 

"Do you know how it feels to have the power to see through realities, to only be taunted by the fact that the man you love is meant to be with someone else? That there's proof that you don't exist in every universe, and you can't do anything about it. T-that you aren't good enough for your boyfriend because you've seen the evidence that he and Lois are destined for each other?!" You ranted, tears falling from your eyes as you expelled the frustration that had been brewing since you've been seeing different universes. 

"I don't care about the other universes!" Clark exclaimed, cutting you off before you could continue. 

You looked at him stunned. You've never heard him raise his voice in the two years that you've known him.

Clark stepped forward again and took your face in his hands once more, wiping away the wetness on your cheeks. "I don't care about the universes, because you're not in them." He repeated again softly. 

"I'm eternally grateful that you're in this one. I will always want you in this one. Not Lois. She doesn't know how I like my coffee in the morning, or how I always manage to lose my wallet, or how I'm addicted to having sweet sugary cereal in the morning, or how I get really cranky when I don't get enough sleep."

"She isn't the one I call sweetheart, honey, or any other ridiculous nickname I come up with. She isn't my personal ray of sunshine. Lois isn't the one that I trust with my whole being or who knows my greatest secret. That's reserved for the one that owns my heart. I don't care what you saw, because it isn't true. You and I are destined for each other in this universe." 

Clark's gaze was steady as he spoke, and his words were filled with sincerity and laced with love and passion, striking you hard in the heart and rattling around in your ribcage. 

"I hate how good you are with your words, Clark Kent." You said wetly, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love that you felt swell in your heart, but there was a smile on your face as you leaned into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

Clark's chest vibrated with his chuckle, letting you sink into his figure as he pressed a kiss to your hairline, adjusting his grip, and wrapping his arms around your waist. The afternoon sun filtered through your curtains as the two of you stood wrapped around each other, the cracks in your relationship mending with each stream of sunlight that illuminated the two of you. 

You eventually pulled back, but stayed in his arms. One of Clark's hands left your waist and caressed your cheek. 

"I'll spend the rest of my days showing you that it's always going to be you. No matter what. I'll love you until the sun burns out." Clark promised, looking deep into your eyes. 

You couldn't help the loving smile that stretched on your face. "That sounds like an awfully long time. You sure you can put up with me for that long?" 

"Yeah, and even then some." Clark said with a smile on his face, his dimples making an appearance before he leaned down and pulled you into a kiss that sent a warmth from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. You couldn't help but smile into the kiss as you poured all the promises you'd make to each other for the future. 

Forever sounded nice when it was with Clark. 

[starsintheskyandtheeye]

Phantom Lane

Danny Phantom and Lois Lane are an under utilized combo.

One of Lane's sources in a story she was following comes to her with a tip that LexCorp has found a new, and steady source of kyrptonite. Well there's nothing else for her to do but to go the source, one Amity Park- smackdab in the middle of nowheresville.

"No Clark you have your own story and I don't need my partner with me 24/7. Go work on your mysterious expose on the lead levels in underprivileged metropolis neighborhoods."

Only when she finally gets there, after a very uncomfortable flight, in an actual plane for once, she's not a fan. She finds a very confusing situation.

LexCorp employees seem to be disguising themselves by dressing in white and pretending to be government employees, already a story. But they are using this "disguise" to abduct what look like ghosts?

"No Perry I'm not saying ghosts are real, what do you take me for, Clark? No, I'm saying that Superman is an alien so it's not such a reach that these beings are as well. And well, if they are ghosts, then I'm going to be the one to break the story that ghosts are REAL"

So she's going around interviewing the "concerned citizens, once a terrified town now a collection of people just trying to go about their day in this strange new normal." It makes a good line but really that is the vibe she gets. There's ghostly updates along with the weather (and a Fenton? driving update??) but most everyone seems to be fine with working around the occasional ghostly drama.

Her pizza is delivered in a bowl.

Her main sources end up being very convenient for her, at least in terms of location. It's important to be unbiased so she finds sources willing to talk to her with opinions across the spectrum. Including, two doctors Fenton - negative, one Danny Fenton (son of the doctors and without a named credit to protect privacy) - positive, one English teacher - neutral. Danny Fenton is also able to point her towards one Valerie Gray (no comment) who is able to get her in contact with the most commonly seen "ghost" in the town.

"Your name is Phantom correct? Is that how you would prefer to be addressed? A little on the nose considering your alleged ghostly nature, no?"

"So your claim is that Kryptonite is a byproduct of ectoplasm, something that makes sense when you believe in ghosts, which apparently I do now. Although I will need independent verification of course.

"But you're saying that when ectoplasm crystalizes it becomes what is commonly known as kryptonite, something that is famously toxic to Kryptonians. How exactly did these "Guys In White" come to learn and harvest this dangerous material. And less important but confusing to me personally, how can a material that has been proven to be sourced from astroids be supernatural in origin?

"Right, death of a planet imprinting on ectoplasm, no makes total sense."

She leaves Amity Park with enough material to write three separate articles, four bruised ribs from a particularly violent escape from alphabetically challenged weirdos, four new sources to draw upon for said articles, two new superhero contacts, and a new found respect for rectangular shapes.

She is going to get some scientists from Star Labs down here to get a tertiary verification and then she is going to write the biggest article since the introduction of Superman.

And Clark can be jealous since he may have gotten the Superman Saves Metropolis from Raging Wildfires story but she's going to take down a pseudo-government agency, announce the existence of ghosts, AND open up extraterrestrial relations all with one article.

Beat that sweetheart

[zorangezest]

2/2

(part 8)

soundwave makes his choice

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[remcadll]

Gen obsessed with how.. *dead* your Jason's color pallete is. Like, that's corpse pale right there. Not a spec of blood left flowing in there (also father Todd's skin being full of color in comparison is a nice touch)

THANK YOU I love making him look a bit ghoulish. Guy who's not supposed to be alive but yes he is. no he isn't <3

[chromieclipse]

A fellow Krusielle hyperfixation haver. Blessed be, love your art, and all the expressions you draw Noelle with. Also, just really like Kris's design. Gives me life. Got any random/silly headcanons for them?

A lot of my headcanons spawn in my brain like weeds and I just dont know where they come from until I'm drawing, but let's see...

Kris is the one most head-over-heels between the three of them. Noelle is very obvious about her crushes, but Kris is fucking SMITTEN and doesn't know what to do about it.

Kris's love language is bullying, but not in the "im gonna pick on this kid and be mean" way, in the "im going to egg these two on until they do something about it" way, and then they profit via getting reactions (whether it be Susie grabbing them/manhandling them, or Noelle becoming incapable of looking them in the eye)

Noelle, while the most obvious about her crush, is also the one most willing to put that aside and get shit done. You CANNOT manipulate her to save your life. Susie rubbed off on her a little much, plus the scariest person she's ever met is her mother, and neither Kris nor Susie could get her to do something she isn't already okay with.

Susie can and will pass out anywhere, at any time. She sometimes just needs a good nap, and this can also mean in the middle of watching TV or playing video games, she just. Knocks out. It's a comfort thing; she feels comfortable and safe, she falls asleep. Noelle has stopped Kris from drawing on her face multiple times.

None of them have ever officially said they're dating, but everyone assumes they are. I don't want to define the relationship they all have together either, but I think that's more due to me being aromantic personally and not fully knowing/experiencing attraction so defining that is hard for me :'D you can just assume my krusielle art is them together in some capacity, even if not defined.

There was a brief time where Kris was trying to set up the pair of Susie and Noelle and then shy out of it as if they weren't there, which Susie didn't pick up on (and would force them into socializing anyway), and Noelle thought might be that Kris hates her now. In reality, Kris knows their history and imagines that neither would like them "that way". This gets resolved very quickly because when Susie is stubborn, she's REALLY stubborn.

kind of a reverse headcanon, I don't have an assigned gender at birth for Kris like. At all, when I'm drawing them. I've joked with friends that it's whatever's funniest in the moment and that's probably what I'm going with, because why does that matter, they're nonbinary and its nobody's business LMAO

Susie is the most touchy-feely of the three of them, the most willing to engage in PDA. Kris is the most touch-starved but they're also avoidant as HELL of saying it out loud, and would rather die than admit they just want to be held. Noelle's firmly in the middle, but she does very much like affection, she's just more of a words of affirmation person.

They CANNOT study together. They never get anything done and just fuck around. There have been multiple times where Kris has turned them into "impromptu flirting lessons" and managed to cause both Susie and Noelle to break down flustered because they know exactly how to do that to both of them.

Noelle has snuck out of her house multiple times to see them both, and it's a thrill she never gets over. It's almost like she's hanging out with Dess again, and she craves to be rebellious and loud and speak her mind, she's just never been given the space to do so. While she's the gentlest of the three, she sometimes just wants to let go and get angry or loud and Susie + Kris enable it.

I said this before but I'll say it again: Kris gets fainting spells/headrushes on a semi-regular basis that they don't really tell anyone about or talk about. Susie learned about it first, but then Noelle did. Whenever Kris feels faint, Noelle is quick to take charge and get them somewhere they won't potentially hurt themself.

All three of them are deeply accident prone in different ways. Kris will get themself hurt unintentionally, Noelle tends to get caught in any slight against authority she does (which is something Kris and Susie have started preparing for), and Susie is the most likely to accidentally hurt someone/bump into them/isn't very aware of how big she is compared to those around her.

But yeah that's about it! I hope you enjoy the couple of doodles I did, and the headcanons I have off the top of my head <3