zee!

He straightened up in proximity of his parents, taking both of your luggages before you even had the chance to reach for yours. You found it so cute on him — this need to impress his parents, ears reddening with embarrassment while proving he would forever be their baby. You swore he willingly leaned into his mother’s grasp when she went to pinch his cheeks.

Jon went for you instead, offering a hand as he welcomed you. Finally meeting the two people you were most excited to meet, you shook hands with puffed cheeks, bashfully raising your shoulders to your ears. You made it your mission to be adored by his parents. Most parents loved you — but you were hoping to one day have his parents be your parents, so it was imperative they wanted to have you too.

You tried not to think about the logistics too much. You couldn't afford to lose your mind at the sight of jewelry.

Yes, he was happy to see you, but the bulge in Clark’s pants wasn’t anything but a velvet box. A velvet box that held the ring he bought for you about nine months ago. Technically, the relationship became official in December, the night you confessed your love mid-accidental-sextape; but he's considered you his girlfriend since September, and this was his justification for getting a ring so early.

You had also, at the time, come out with a piece discussing how to pick the right engagement ring. Apparently there was some quarrel with the women at the Daily Planet — Cat went around the office, asking whoever would listen, if they thought her friend's ring was ugly. She had been friends with this woman since childhood, and the ring she received didn't match up with the ring she's claimed to have always wanted. However, somehow, she cherished it more. Lois gave a mature response, albeit finding the ring sort of tacky: “as long as she likes it, right?”

You patted her back, causing her to choke on her coffee, thanking her for the idea.

The piece began by describing various rings, from royalty to friends you knew, even past rings you've received, until eventually describing your ideal ring in detail. Clark followed it word for word like a to-do list. Cat's friend may have enjoyed the ring she got, but he wanted to give you this one exactly.

And that's the ring currently sitting in his pocket.

Now, since he's read your column about the ring, he knows you didn't specify the jewel being made out of kryptonite, so he's not entirely sure why he's felt queasy the whole drive to Kansas. Despite the bright sun, he still had to pull off the road to catch his breath, your rubbing his back somehow making it worse. You assumed he was just as nervous of what his parents thought of you. But he knew that they already couldn't get enough, so it wasn't a concern.

His trigger-happy mind nearly proposed to you fifteen times so far, including while packing for the trip, checking into various hotels on the way to Kansas, and even at a gas station rest stop. Luckily, he came to his senses quickly enough to prevent the last one.

Outside of what’s written in your column, you've covered past relationships with Clark, including the two engagements. They were not what you deserved. And Clark knew you loved him, and he personally couldn't imagine a life without you, but this engagement had to stick. The third time will be the charm.

But due to his paranoid nature, he just couldn't let you out of his sight.

“Clark!” Martha shooed him away, flapping her hand up and down. By this time of day, the sun hovered unforgivingly in the middle of the sky. After your much needed cup of coffee, Clark and his father scrubbed the car clean from the long drive here. Across the drive-way, you and his mother were doing farm work among the cows. “Your girl’s gonna be fine! Keep starin’ at ‘er like that, you’ll burn a hole through ‘er.”

The water hose in your grip faltered as you laughed. Since you were born and raised in Metropolis, the last time you did any farm work was during a field trip in elementary school to a farm outside of the city. Martha found this adorable, giving you a set of simple yet important tasks so you could help out. Currently, you were refilling the cow’s water. 

You peeked over your shoulder at Clark, whose jaw clenched as he forced himself to stare at the car. Your thumb flipped the hose nozzle setting to jet and swung your arm around, aiming mischievously at his chest. He heard the water approaching quickly, and flew to your side. You flinched, yelping and trying to aim at him again despite the wind almost blowing you off your feet. 

Clark wrestled the hose out of your hands, smile growing as he flipped to the mist setting and pointed the nozzle in the air. The sun caught in the droplets, and as you two laughed, refreshed in the rural heat, a small rainbow appeared above your heads. Clark’s parents, now the ones standing across the drive-way from you two, elbowed each other at the romantic display.

On the first night, Martha had you sit down in her boudoir. Initially feeling misplaced among her perfumes and creams, she picked up a bottle and showed it to you. “Wanted you to try this, sweet girl. Got all the same scents as that bottle o’ perfume you put in the bathroom.”

Your eyes widened. You’ve never experienced something like this before. Surrounded by vintage, saccharine scents and the kindness of someone’s mother, who looked at you like you were a long lost princess. “R-Really?”

Your past engagements had parents that made you feel like you weren’t enough. Not Jon, and not Martha. She smiled, and that night you’d go to bed with the lotion she handpicked, and hand-pressed, for you. “I want you to have it.”

“Thanks, Martha.”

"No, no, you can call me 'Ma'."

A small smile pulled at your lips, "thanks, Ma."

Dragging a razor across the side of his face, Clark stood in the humid bathroom after you went off with his mother. Stomach still in knots, his body slouched when his father stopped at the doorway.

“Something's troubling you, son.”

“It's not a big deal, I just… have something I want to do, but I'm… scared to do it.”

“Well, what could go wrong?” He put his hands in the pockets of his robe, watching Clark.

“I- I don't know.”

Jon's lips scrunched up in thought. “You love her?”

“With all my being.”

“‘N she loves you.” No questions asked. “Sometimes it's as simple as that. Worst case scenario, you give it time and try again. You never know until you try. And to think, where I'd be without your mother. And you. I didn’t know I was up for it until I first held you in my arms.”

Clark took a deep breath, holding the sides of the sink for stability. Jon put a hand on his shoulder.

“There's a reason you want to do this. It's because you can, and you want to. With her.”

Clark nodded, then nodded again. There's a reason he wants to do this. “Thanks, Pa.”

A blanket and pillow were subtly placed on the couch. Assuming this was your bed, you were headed towards it. Martha placed a hand on your arm, “couch is for Clark.”

You turned around, seeing your comedically large boyfriend standing in pajamas. By far the most clothes he’s worn for bedtime since dating you.

“You look adorable.”

His hand twitched, reflexes going for the box still in his pocket. He resisted. “Stop it.”

“You do!”

“Alright kids, nighty night. If you need anything, don't hesitate to holler, sweet girl. Our room is just down the hall. Nighty night, Clark.”

“Good night!” you chirped.

“Night, Ma.”

You rocked back and forth on your feet, waiting for the older woman to get to her room and close the door behind her. When it clicked shut, you whispered, “Clark?”

“Mm?” He was already swaddled on the couch, feet sticking out from below the blanket.

You giggled softly, “are you sure you wanna sleep on the couch?”

That question flew through the air and hit like an arrow to the heart. You can't just ask him that.

You can't just ask him that, standing with your hands intertwined behind your back, smiling in mid-thigh pajama shorts and a sweater so oversized, he'd bet it was his, skin leaving a sugary smell every time you walked by, and hair still in two braids from earlier. Thrilled to visit the farm, you packed various plaid and jean clothing items. He wouldn't be shocked if you had those braids for the rest of the trip.

This question was very hard on him.

He shook his head, overcompensating. “‘M fine. Ma just wants you to be comfortable, plus that bed is too small for the both of us to fit.”

“If you say so… And Clark? I'm having so much fun.”

“I can tell,” he laughed, and you caught it like a bug, covering your mouth. He went to speak again, your words leaving first.

“Good night, Clark.”

“Oh. Good night.”

Tip-toeing over, you politely pushed the door closed behind you with both hands.

Clark pouted, having to go to bed without you, not even a goodnight kiss to put him at ease. A fear grew in his chest, beginning to overwhelm him like the ride over. He wasn't sure he could do it. He wasn't sure he could propose.

Night after night, you taunted Clark at his bedroom door. Nighty night Clark! Goodnight Clark! Sleep tight, honey. Thoroughly enjoying yourself, you only noticed something was wrong the night you went to greet an empty couch.

You never thought it would be this difficult to find a six-foot-something man. Examining the house, nearly turning it on its head and shaking it to see if he would fall out, you finally saw Clark outside sitting in the tall grass, mingling with the cows.

Stomping in your cowboy boots, which you bought especially for this trip, you reached him with heavy breaths, hands on your hips. “What are you doing all the way out here? I almost didn't get to say goodnight and see you lay on the couch like an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on, Clark. Talk to me.”

You stood close to him, giving him the opportunity to rest his head on your stomach. In one breath he smelled home — the aroma of his house mixed with your natural, albeit heightened scent.

“Ever been on a boat?”

“What?”

“Yeah, me neither,” he pulled his head away, bad start. “Just- just imagine being on a sailboat. You're sailing across the sea, a bit unsteady because of the waves, but every time you check the horizon, it's the same, beautiful view. You can sail towards it all day long, but it will always be there, just out of reach.”

You listened, brushing through his curls as he gazed up at you. Having been with Clark this long, you know he's going somewhere with this.

“You're my horizon. I want you to be the sky, everyday.” He sighed, “it's gotta be perfect.”

“And you think you can never reach the sky?”

He realized how silly this all was, partially because of the sailing metaphor, but also because of all people, Clark could reach the sky. In a way, being a superhero was the same sort of challenge as being a husband, possibly a father. Only those who are up for it can do it, and can do it right.

You bent down to meet him, your arms on his shoulders and his arms wrapping around your bottom half.

“The best part about your dumb analogy is that the sky never leaves. It just becomes the universe the farther out you go. And you know the skies better than anybody else. You've got nothing to be afraid of. I'm right here.”

Throat burning and eyes threatening to spill years, Clark very uncomfortably said, “there's a ring in my pocket” like you were stepping on his toe.

It took you a moment to realize this, but once you did, you went treasure hunting. 

“Um, Clark?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Your pockets are empty.”

“Oh crud.” The one time he actually needed the ring. His hands hurriedly patted the Earth floor, “I can fix this, I can fix this!”

Clark tied a temporary ring around your finger made of a long blade of grass. He chuckled awkwardly, knowing that this wasn't what you had in mind. But when his eyes met your face, he eased at your expression. Lip quivering, you held up the hand with a piece of his home gifted to your finger, suggesting that you belonged to it just as he did. A small, satiric gesture meant the world to you.

He let you sit with it for a moment, then took your hand in his to lead you inside. “C'mon.”

In his bedroom, Clark handed you the velvet box. You flipped the top open, and there it was.

The perfect ring.

A shriek erupted from your vocal chords. Clark winced and leaned back.

“Sorry!” you whispered, touching a finger to your lips, and then his. “Sorry, honey.”

“No, that's good. That means you like it.”

You instinctively slipped it on, but you took it off and handed the ring back to Clark. “That's your job.”

He went into a kneeling position, back maybe a little too straight, and said the words you dreamed would one day come out of his mouth. “Will you marry me?”

You almost cut him off, “yes!”

Clark stood, towering over you. You placed your grass ring safely on the nightstand to keep for later, letting him slide the perfect ring onto your finger. He cupped your face, placed a strong kiss to your lips, and captured you in a hug.

You hummed, cheek to his shoulder, wanting this moment to never end.

“Do I have to go back to sleeping on the couch? I mean, that's a little ridiculous, after getting engaged.”

As much as you'd love to snuggle with your fiancée tonight — you're gonna have the time of your life saying that at work — his bed really only housed one width.

“Okay, well, I'll sleep on my left,” you chucked your cowboy boots to the side, “and you sleep on your right. Just don't switch to your back or I'll fall off.”

You crawled into his bed, moving the covers out of the way. Settling onto your side of the mattress, on your knees, you tilted your head at Clark. He hasn't moved a muscle.

“Clark?”

He's not sure if you realize what's happening in front of him. His fiancée, the love of his life, is sitting on his bed in his childhood room, legs folded and hair still in those stupid braids.

“Honey, can we make love? I sorta wanna make love.”

“Clark, are you crazy, your parents are down the hall.”

“Mhm. Yeah, you're right.” His hands were balled up into fists by his sides, trying to talk himself out of the visible erection forming underneath his pajama pants.

You huffed, knowing the situation just made the idea more appealing. “Fine, but this has to be silent. Pin-drop silent, you understand?”

Skin sizzling in anticipation, Clark smiled, removing his sleep shirt over his head. Similarly, you maneuvered your shorts down your legs and threw them to the side.

Clark crawled into his small bed with you, hands already trailing up your legs. Your panties were next to go, curling into themselves, discarded on the floor. His large hands easily spread your legs as you propped yourself up with his pillows.

“It’s so lonely on that couch, without you, darlin'.”

His mouth found your mound like it was his destiny. He immediately hummed, tongue enveloping your folds with his saliva. Your hips matched his movements, mouth wide but trying to hold back any sounds that dared to escape. He sucked on your clit, and you gasped, steadying yourself with his shoulders. “Oh…”

“Pin-drop silent, remember?” It was his turn to taunt you, easing two fingers into your sopping cunt.

You gasped again, harder, rolling your hips, taking a pillow from behind your head and shoving it into your face. You whined your vulnerabilities into it, muttering all the things you'd be screaming at your apartment. Clark enjoyed it still, maybe even more, like a message just for his ears.

Your body didn't quite get the memo, sputtering and squelching every opportunity it got while Clark fingered you. He angled upwards, sometimes knowing your body better than you did, and rubbed right at the spot that made you feel stupid. You clawed at his pillow the way you'd usually claw at his back, smothering your sweat and breath.

You twitched in that beautiful way you always did, cumming around his fingers. He sucked his fingers clean, prying the pillow away and revealing a wry smile. “You just made a mess in my bed. Thing of dreams...”

Hair stuck to your face and neck. When you first got together, you realized how much Clark took advantage of his size and strength, and that he'd never admit. But here he was, tugging your legs, flipping your body, manhandling you until you were laying down over a pillow. He splayed his body right over yours, kissing down your neck, distracting you from his hands sliding down his underwear.

Passionately kissing your shoulder, he pushed his body forward and you felt it. The same fullness you'd now have for the rest of your lives. Slow yet demanding, he froze when he reached deep inside. A pathetic groan shook your spine, leaving your lips with little hesitation. You bent down, hugging the pillow to your chest, a bit of drool trailing down your mouth from how long you had kept it open. “Clark.”

One hand on the bed to hold himself up, he collected your hair and held it away from your face, meeting your cheek with his lips. He entrusted you with his most vulnerable sounds, mewling into your neck with each patient roll of his hips. Your voices matched desperate tones. 

You don't know why you insisted on repeating his name. Maybe in disbelief of how good you felt. It felt good every time, and you were so thankful for the time in between where you could forget what he felt like, just to be reminded again.

His thrusts remained slow but purposeful, slamming into you harder rather than faster. And you weren't complaining. In fact, you couldn't say much, the bottom half of your face shoved into the pillow with dazed eyes.

“Will you marry me?” Clark couldn't have made the act of marriage sound more sensual.

“Yes,” you whimpered quietly. He awarded you with a kiss to your collarbone, catching a glance of your engagement ring on the hand you used to fist the pillow. It made him twitch.

“Will you marry me?”

You giggled, “yes.”

“Gosh.”

His knees came forward so he could adjust himself and thrust comfortably quick, still keeping you close. You're smothered.

“Honey, look at me.”

You laid one side of your face on the pillow, staring back at him with heavy, fucked-out eyes. Greeting him with a grin.

“Will you marry me?” This time, he grunted his words, brows curling in the middle. He was so sensitive inside your wet, sopping pussy. You'd control him for the rest of his life. People didn't know how much of a threat you were to the world, really, as it was this easy to get Superman to obey you.

“Yes.” As if he wasn't already obsessed with you, completely drunk under your spell, just as you were, you pointed your ass up to the sky. Like a moth to a flame, his hands came down and held onto the plush of your butt, using his x-ray vision every other time he blinked to watch himself fuck you.

The next time he asked, it was more of a demand, leaving his mouth in a whine. “Marry me.”

“I will.”

His hips sputtered, overwhelmed with the sounds of your bodies meeting together and the complete sight of you. You had to shove your face into his pillow, cursing an absurd amount of times into it. By far the messiest this bed had gotten, you both came. Clark gasped, witnessing your muscles contract and suck every drop he gave. Pulling away, your mixed arousals didn't stand a chance. Liquid trickled down to your thigh. Clark was so mesmerized, his face blank with pure concentration. He didn't think through placing his thumb at your center and rubbing the evidence over your clit.

One of your hands flew back, holding his wrist. “Fuck, Clark!”

He took his hand back, smiling stupidly, sucking it clean again like licking frosting off a cake. “You're perfect.”

Clark came back from the bathroom with a damp towel to clean you up. Handling you once more, he slid behind you, trying to squeeze in a cuddle where you both would fit. You both took some deep breaths for a moment in silence, buzzing in satisfaction.

“Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Are we moving too fast?”

“You're asking me this after I agreed to getting married?”

“No, no! I'm not trying to insinuate that I regret proposing — I mean, I almost did it a thousand times. It's just… how do you think people will react? I don’t want them to overwhelm you.”

Despite how obvious you could've misunderstood his concern, your brows rose. You've done the whole engagement announcement thing before, your boyfriend proving once again to be the biggest fan of your column. “I think they’ll be thrilled.”

Clark would ensure this would be the last engagement you'd ever have. This’ll last. He kissed over your knuckles, “I’m glad.”

It made you smile. “I can’t wait to shove it in their faces when we get home.”

A light rumble left his chest. “Of course, dear. But we, uh, have to tell my parents first.”

“That's a good start.”

Your gaze lingered over the house in Kansas you now felt confident enough to call your second home. When you showed his parents the ring, past the initial cheering, Jon teared up while Martha put a hand on the side of her face and said “oh yes, that's a handsome one.”

Then they both gave you a hug.

Both you and Clark felt much lighter, relieved that things worked out the way they did. You went back that morning to the field before the long drive home to make another ring out of grass for Clark. In your opinion, the grass rings paired with the jewelry nicely.

He caught you staring fondly at your finger. “Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Happy?”

“Yes. Beyond happy.”

He took your hand while driving, grazing his thumb over your skin.

You placed your head on his shoulder, but pulled back when you remembered something else to look forward to. “Now all I gotta do is meet your cousin!”

“Oh fun!”

These article title ideas had you blushing at your computer in the apartment. Decide Who Holds The Ring. His Parents Love Me. How To Do a Couple's Roadtrip the Right Way! And, cheesiest of all, 5 Reasons to Love the City (And 5 to Love the Farm).

By this point, Dex had killed about half a dozen people for Wilson Fisk. With Julie out of his life, Fisk seemed to be the only one who could truly understand him. He didn't have to feel ashamed of his shortcomings — stuck in a path of endless self-correction; or slowed down by his emotional burdens. Fisk freed his rage, and in turn, freed Dex from discipline. So, he yielded to his urges, did what he was good at, and killed for Fisk.

After successfully wrangling Agent Nadeem and several other FBI agents to his side, Fisk assigned Dex a separate task. Pleased to be of use, Dex accepted, dutiful enough to think he had a choice in the matter. When in reality, Fisk ordered a sprout to tend the garden.

So, Dex drove to the address he was given, shielding a gun behind inconspicuous clothing as he was told to do. Apartment 423. Through the fire escape. It's always open. Surely enough, it was. Dex pulled the window sash up and crouched through the gap, into the living room of his next victim. Grabbing hold of his gun, he raised it in front of him, traversing through the dim living room and kitchen area in search of his target. A bullet in her head will do.

He hugged the walls, peeking past the corner and keeping his ears open for a sign. Anything. His body stilled upon the sound of bare feet strolling across bathroom tile. He took a quick breath, turning the corner and aiming his handgun at her head.

The woman froze, looking at Dex from the corner of her eyes, face visibly reddening, her hands in the air from drying her long inky hair with a bath towel. Stray pieces of dead skin flaked at her nose, but it couldn't distract from her magnetic eyes. She stood in pajama-wear, a black tank top and shorts, with stray water droplets rolling down her shoulders. Her hands lowered, “Agent Poindexter! I wasn't expecting you…”

“Don't move…” Dex wanted so desperately to sound authoritative, but confusion tainted his words. He recognized this woman, and clearly she knew him, but he wasn't sure from where. She didn't work for the FBI, and definitely could not have worked for the suicide hotline, since she didn't resemble anyone from the picture that hung on his wall. He swallowed his spit, recalling how things ended with Julie, her memory forever tarnished with a knife to her image.

Her eyes followed the length of his arms, falling on the gun. She pursed her lips with realization. “Fisk sent you. Did he say why?”

She's behind on her quota.

“He said you're behind on your quota?” Why was he asking her? How did she know? Fisk’s directions from earlier were too vague for a confrontation like this. Dead people can't talk, but he hadn't killed her yet. Dex felt like how he was before, this vampiric woman draining the confidence out of him. Like he hadn't already proved himself a murderer. Like seeing the horror in Julie’s face when he revealed himself to know her all too well.

“Bullshit.” She tossed her towel in the sink, then placed her hands on her hips in disbelief. “The deadline is Tuesday. It's Monday night. I've got Hancock tomorrow.”

Dex had no idea who the fuck she was talking about. Or what arrangements she had with Fisk, until it clicked for him. Among Felix Manning, this woman worked very closely with him. She wore professional work attire every day she visited the penthouse, hair often at different lengths, and never once spoke to Dex until he took a bite out of Fisk’s burger.

His fingers flipped through the top bun, patty, and the bottom bun, proceeding to shove a smug bite into his mouth. Watching him place it back down and wipe the metallic lid with his sleeve, she chewed her lip anticipating for the lid to return to the tray so it could get to Fisk already. Her nose flared in silent irritation, hands fidgeting with the ends of her hair. She stepped out of the way so the server could wheel it in, following behind.

Then she mumbled the words she couldn’t say to his face, “jerk.”

He couldn't allow this recollection of her to be a distraction. If Fisk wanted her dead, killing her was the least he could do. He readied a finger on the trigger.

“Wait, hold on… I don’t want it to make a mess.”

For a woman that was about to die, she seemed oddly calm.

She swung each leg one by one to step into the tub, holding her hair up to prevent it getting caught, then sat with her knees to her chest. After stretching her neck in both directions, she gave him a nod. “Okay, go ahead.”

On edge with how long it took him to finally do it, Dex fired the gun instantly. The apartment silenced to as it was before his arrival, and the woman sat there peacefully, head lolling to the side with black holes for eyes, dark and empty.

Dex needed a moment to collect himself, turning away from the stark red splatters in the porcelain tub. Really he should be hauling ass, since a gunshot inside her apartment surely must've alerted the other residents. He took a deep breath, shoving his gun back in its hiding spot, taking one last glimpse at the strange woman's cold expression.

She knew she was going to die. And had accepted it long before Dex came to take her life. Perhaps all of Fisk’s thugs had accepted this as fact. They'd work until they were replaced by fresh meat. But killing her felt like taking a wounded bird out of its misery. Something surprisingly thoughtful of him. This kill felt off, offering him little release compared to previous ones.

This was, until a wet, squelching sound released from her head, followed by a loud pop. Dex's brows drew in to meet in the middle of his forehead, scowling beyond confused. He bent down, hands on his knees to investigate the woman's bullet wound. A nasty thing it was, exposing various layers of flesh, meat, and bones. From his proximity to the body, his nostrils had filled with its metallic aroma. But its intensity slowly went away. Dex sniffed the air, trying to retrieve it, but the smell of blood quickly faded away. A pit grew in his stomach.

When warmth returned to the woman’s complexion, he assumed the blood was shifting in odd ways throughout her body. When she took a shallow breath, he figured he'd stop assuming things and flee out of the apartment as fast as he could, skipping steps down the fire escape. He practically flew down to the ground level and shoved his keys inside his car.

He did his job. He shot that woman in the head. Of all people, Dex was the guy to make sure someone was dead. It grounded him in a way he hadn’t appreciated until tonight. One throw, with intention, was sure to kill whoever he wanted. So, how could shooting a gun at a woman from just a few feet away not be cut-and-dry murder? He watched her die. That woman was dead.

The shrill ringing from his phone made him jump in his seat. Fisk.

He answered, “y-yeah, all taken care of.”

“You eliminated her?”

“Oh yeah, she's done for.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Nice work, Dex.” Fisk ended the call.

Dex didn't realize he'd been holding his breath the whole time. His chest sank with a sigh, finally relaxing his shoulders. But even after showering and discarding his task clothes into an overflowing laundry basket, he kept thinking about her. About the blood dripping down her temple below the entry wound. Running down the side of her face until it hit her jaw. How her cheeks flushed. Her lips blended from pale blues to soft pinks. When the impact of the bullet hit her head, the only reason it hadn't fallen off her shoulders was from the slender muscles in her neck recoiling to keep her in place. How could a human survive all that violence?

He laid in bed, in hopes the darkness would force him to get some sleep. But, of course, it never did. His eyes chose to stare at the impossible mural of the woman on his ceiling instead.

In the monitor room at the Presidential Hotel, Dex poured himself a cup of coffee. He stirred the stick in a circular motion, feeling the calm settle into his body. After replaying the memory over and over again in his mind on the way here, he's decided that the woman he killed yesterday certainly died.

A hand intruded his line of sight, grabbing the coffee pot off of its insulation plate. Dex looked over with irritated eyes, taken aback by this breach of personal space.

It was her.

Hair just below her shoulders, wearing a grey pin-striped suit with a white button-down underneath, there she stood, alive and well as Dex had feared.

His tongue went dry from his mouth agape, and she took notice without having to look at him. Maybe if she didn’t say anything he would forget she was there.

“How the hell are you still alive,” he sneered at her. Despite being able to smell the mint on his breath, she stuck around and poured herself a cup.

“Good morning to you as well, Agent Poindexter.”

His name in her mouth after he'd been stressing about her state of livelihood made his blood hot. She spun in the other direction and went for the exit. He sped up, footsteps in tandem with hers as if they were conjoined by the hip.

“Nuh uh,” he snuck a pencil from one of the desks and threw it at the door right as she was about to walk into it. He hadn't missed, and she knew this. He was trying to stop her from walking away. She turned her head in his direction, brows wrinkling her forehead.

Dex placed his hands on his hips. He's never demanded her attention like this, having to catch his breath. “Who are you and how are you still alive?”

The woman pulled the pencil out of the door, thin wooden chunks flying out of the small hole he created. She tossed it onto the carpet, “let's go ask the big man himself, shall we?”

The two entered the penthouse together, keeping their distance from each other like a couple that had just broken up. Fisk was actively enjoying his breakfast at the table.

“I see you two have gotten to know each other.”

“Not officially, sir.” He glanced in her direction, but made no effort to actually look at her.

“Then, allow me to do the honors. Agent Poindexter, this is Giselle Orkiss — Giselle, Agent Benjamin Leonard Poindexter.”

“Pleased to meet you.” It was all he could offer her.

She gave a disappointed “likewise.”

“Giselle, could you pour me a cup as well?”

“Of course.” She placed her mug down at a spot at the table, then made her way to the kitchen.

Dex fidgeted in place, hands in his pockets, until Giselle was out of earshot, his tone hushed and sweat on his brow. “Fisk, I swear, I did everything you said. I saw the life leave her eyes, I-”

“As you know, Giselle works for me. A bright young woman, with cellular powers. She ensures everything goes according to plan. Her durability is very valuable to my business.” The man spoke in chess pieces, and Dex couldn’t help but get the feeling he was being sold an idea. “She has feelings for you — 

“Sir, I seriously doubt that.” 

Fisk ignored his objection, “— and sometimes she just needs a little reminder of who's in charge.” The man adored in white raised the cloth to his lips, wiping them clean, “but she gets the job done. Her loyalty is her greatest weapon.” 

Lastly, Fisk gave Dex a small smile. “You're both promising.”

Giselle wasn't the solution to every problem. She had to be used strategically. Plus, if Kingpin had her kill every person who stood in his way, he'd be placing her under a spotlight. The possibility of her activities gaining news coverage, becoming a perceived figure of Hell's Kitchen, or having a run-in with Daredevil, were not sacrifices Fisk was willing to make. The city needed a villain in Benjamin Poindexter, the Daredevil imposter — not Giselle Orkiss.

She worked in silence, rummaging through the dark, vacant parts of town and killing in subtlety. Her attire was a simple white motorcycle onesie made of leather, matching the bike. When the helmet was off, she slid on a pair of goggles and got to work.

Her suit, bike, and apartment were gifted to her by Fisk. Three months into living at the apartment complex, she realized it housed no other residents except her. Unsure at the time why Fisk would keep her in an empty building, Giselle began to feel like a caged animal. But killing for Fisk paid well, as he trusted her to do it, and in return, she acquired his security. After aiding him for the past five years now, he's grown fond of her. For birthdays, he'll send someone to deliver a cake. Giselle made a collection of candle numbers, already having the number two and receiving a six in the mail most recently.

Fisk would be the closest to a parent she's ever had, outside of the guidance of her late sister.

His fatherly treatment of her was conditional, however, and disappeared at the smallest mistakes. On occasion, someone would be sent to “refresh her memory”. Death made little impact, other than stun her. Of course, a shot to the head took longer for her to come back from, for example, if her occipital lobe needed to regrow itself, she'd be temporarily blind. She knew Fisk relied on her cell manipulation more than she did, so death could never be a permanent option for her.

Instead, it was about sending a message. You've disappointed me. But she had done nothing to deserve Poindexter in her apartment. Or, so she thought.

Limping, having no opportunity to stop her bike on the way here and heal properly, Giselle shoved her keys in the front door. She flung the bloodied goggles off to the side, and made it far enough to lean on the couch. People really put up a fight when faced with death. Some deaths were purposefully drawn out by Fisk, depending on what the person did, and a man who received pancreatic cancer at her will fought until his last breath. She winced after a certain movement, realizing a pocket knife had been stuck in her posterior ribs for the past twelve blocks.

“Son of a bitch,” the knife hit the floor with a clink.

“Nice hair. Grow it yourself?”

Tonight, it went past her waist. She whipped her hair around, letting Dex see her busted lip and sliced brow. Her heart jumped in her ribcage.

He was hidden in a blind spot in her kitchen, head-to-toe wearing his Daredevil costume. An off-putting visual to Giselle, who's never been face-to-face with the actual Daredevil. Most frightening was the frozen ginger-haired corpse sitting upright at her dinner table. 

“Back so soon?” a shiver went down her spine.

“I wasn't sent by Fisk.”

“Oh?” Her tongue licked over the cut on her bottom lip, the sting fading away while her lip mended itself.

A moment of calm, before Dex hurled a billy club at the brick wall behind her.

She braced her hands in front, “Agent Poindexter, don't make me hurt you-”

“How could you kill such an innocent woman?” Giselle ran for a way out, but the other club was flung in that direction. She had no choice but backwards, stumbling into the wall shoulder first. “Do you kill for sport too? Thought Julie would make great target practice?”

Dex closed the space, the devil surrounding her on all sides. Giselle pressed her wrists firmly against his chest, more cautious of what she’d do to him rather than what he’d do to her. She’s never taken a life inside her own apartment, and wasn’t sure if she could continue living here after she did. Maybe that’s what the empty apartment building was for.

“Dex, let me explain. I thought it's what you would've wanted!”

“She was the only good thing in my life, and you took her from me!”

“I'm sorry, Dex. I'm so sorry.” Giselle's mind trailed off, still in pain, wounded from her previous encounter, and sneaking glances at the corpse in the corner, the dead girl so slumped she almost fell out of the chair. Dex didn't let up on her, nudging her face, making her look at him with his thumb and two fingers on her chin so she wouldn't drift away. “She was so sweet to me — she even held the door open before I burst the aneurysm I grew in her head.”

Her words came with shame, not apathy. She spoke the truth as it was, tears flooding down her face and lips quivering no matter how much she tried to control it.

He seethed, huffing like an animal. “I'm gonna kill you.”

“You'll die trying.”

She realized the poetic truth of her words once they left her mouth, but Dex had already wrapped his hands around her throat. Giselle placed her hands over his, head melting to syrupy static, beginning to feel the floorboards leave her reach.

“Dex… Dex. It's a trap…”

“Your life isn't worth hers.” A grin crept onto his face, “but it'll make me feel better.”

“She was never going to accept you for who you are. You've killed, same as I have,” this proved to be the real fight — conversing whilst running out of air. “For the military, for the FBI… for Fisk.”

“Shut up.” He adjusted his grip, astounded that Fisk had installed a tolerance in her so palpable, she didn't even try to fight back. Letting him happen to her. Out of the two of them, Dex had a death wish, and she was still sparing him in a moment like this.

Except, for Giselle, this would be the only time they could share a touch. And after hurting him in the way she did, she figured she deserved the pain.

“You enjoy it. She would’ve never understood that. I do. We've made a living off of doing what we're told. Reaping the benefits. I killed Julie Barnes…” She gasped for air, none reaching her lungs. “Because Fisk… made me do it.”

His hands slipped from her throat, releasing her while his head came forward in defeat. Giselle returned to her feet, ribcage expanding with deep breaths, using Dex's shoulder to support her weak head. Her limbs went limp, propped up by his body beneath her. His hand placed itself on her lower back, the other supporting her head, and gently placed her back on the wall.

“He was right…” Dex mumbled. Giselle assumed Daredevil.

Voice lost and throat rough, she blinked slowly at him. “The innocent ones hurt the most.”

He took a few steps back, the turmoil visible behind the mask.

“I didn't want to — I shouldn't have. But he told me if I did, then… we could be together.” Barely able to say the words, she avoided his eyes in disgust with herself. “My arrangements with Fisk… he brings me a list. I kill them, no questions asked. He never told you that, as leverage.” Giselle gulped, regaining moisture to her mouth. “That way, if you found out about the girl, and came to visit me again, I'd get rid of you too, in self-defense.”

Dex scowled, turning away yet believing every word. His north star betrayed him. Another one gone just like that. Still, he felt guidance. A strange feeling bubbled in his chest, faced with someone that did exactly what he would've done. Eliminating Giselle would be hypocritical. He is Giselle. She understood, and was probably just as ugly as he was. He turned back to Giselle and spoke with his head down, breath hitting her face. “Where is he?”

“No… don't make me do this…”

“Giselle,” his hands came up to brush the hair out of her face, holding the back of her neck as her heart tore apart on what to do: sending Dex in the direction of Fisk, or remaining loyal to the Kingpin. “Tell me where he is.”

She owed it to him. An unknowing accomplice to his decline. The first time she saw him, he stood tall and handsome, headstrong like a soldier. She wanted to grab him by the chin, run her fingers over his teeth, and pet his golden hair, overwhelmed with fascination. Every moment spent at the penthouse was savored in silence. She avoided speaking to him so she could continue to appreciate him from afar. Little did she know, her compliance was undoing him.

Her sight grazed over the red lenses in his mask, the last tear making its way past her lashes. She knew she owed it to him. Unknowingly, he'd remember how the words left her lips for the next ten years.

“He's getting married at the Presidential Hotel.”

act ii.

The world Giselle lived in now was one she recognized all too well. Her faith in humanity certainly crashed and burned, with the confinement of Fisk’s smog shattering and polluting the city of New York as their elected mayor. It's been over a year since she's killed someone — since she’s worked for the Fisks.

After Wilson Fisk returned from prison, initially, Giselle felt discouraged from moving on. She helped Fisk regain his influence, only in it for the paycheck. When Fisk no longer summoned her, it was Vanessa who required her services, but not with nearly enough tenderness. Vanessa would provide the list of names, Giselle would confront them on a cellular level, and there were no more birthday cakes or people coming to kill her in the middle of the night. Which meant the last person who ever tried, was Poindexter.

She heard the news — Franklin Nelson assassinated outside of a bar in Hell's Kitchen. Bullseye, they said it was. It tickled her how the two of them were given nicknames by their peers around the same time. Giselle didn't keep up with Dex, never got around to visiting him, not thinking he would want her to, but word traveled. She wondered if, somehow, he ever heard about the urban legend terrorizing New York. Carcinogen. Probably not.

In the time that it took for him to get out, she's gotten to know a couple of other nurses. Each felt like an opportunity to leave the house, to imitate what normal people did. People lost her attention when she got her hands on a newspaper, saw the tail-end of a news segment at a bar, or heard just the mention of an FBI agent gone mad. In a way, he was around the whole time.

Unfulfilled, she didn't want to live her life for someone else anymore. Fisk had written her a letter of recommendation prior to distancing himself from Vanessa. Giselle used this to sneak her way into an off-the-record cell treatment job, and unofficially treating patients at several infirmaries and making personal visits. She worried a recommendation from Wilson Fisk wasn't credible, given his track record, but apparently he claimed to have hired her for “medical services” and nothing else. Nobody asked questions when a patient was in desperate need of her help. Not of her powers, nor of her true identity behind the white scrubs and surgical face mask.

This she could be grateful for, but the rest of New York City had no reason to put their trust in Mayor Fisk.

The ones doing the real work, saving the city and its people, were vigilantes. Any random schmuck could buy a mask and do some good out there. If it weren't for her history working for Fisk, plaguing her with cowardice, she would've done something sooner. Humility prevented her from calling herself a vigilante — she was barely even a good guy — just withholding the instinct to kill for the time being. She believed her contributions were as subtle as they were before, from treating patients to evaluating the people she walked by on the street.

Once at work, she visited a young girl. At first, Giselle thought she was having deja vu, seeing the girl's face somewhere in her dreams. Taking another glance at the mother, she realized what had happened. Years ago, Giselle was sent by Fisk in the middle of the night to kill her father, peacefully as he slept. She gulped, trembling, healing her of the same disease that took him.

Solace in the new mundane was good medicine for Giselle. The possibility of normality. She had schedules, responsibilities, and predictability. She had a fresh start.

Waking up in a new apartment improved her sleep. She had neighbors, lived across from an older woman with a cat, paid regular bills, owned her own motorcycle, and she had a beautiful view of New York outside her window. When her hair overgrew, she cut it down to the same length every morning to be able to keep up appearances like regular people could. Giselle loved the feeling of waking up to live the same day over and over again. No surprises.

She left her bathroom, hair cut short to her jaw with bangs above her brows how she liked, wearing scrubs and comfortable sneakers, reaching for her medical bag with a pep in her step.

“Nice hair.”

Her hand shot up, aimed at where the sound came from, prepared to burst someone's blood vessels in a way she hadn't in a while, heart racing at the words. The new possibility they posed. Like a ghost, there stood Benjamin Poindexter behind the opening in the kitchen wall. Older. Stronger. Lovely scar across his cheek.

“You wanna put that hand down, or should I brace for impact?”

She lowered her arm, but ran her gaze up and down his person, astonished. She shook her head before the words found her, “how did you find me?”

He shrugged, surveying her new apartment. “It's a skill of mine.”

Her lips formed her next words, anticipating an answer she wasn’t sure she was going to receive, “why did you find me?”

Dex met her eyes. “I didn't want to go anywhere else.”

Giselle fidgeted the whole shift. As it turns out, the previous night Dex was on the run from the AVTF after attempting to assassinate Fisk, in a very public setting. It didn't help that these were things she found out about all at once while catching up on the news.

She rode home as quickly and safely as she could, hoping her apartment hadn't been destroyed in the middle of a raid trying to find him. She found the opposite. The apartment had never looked better. Pristine countertops, shoes organized by the entrance, the bed made, and a yummy smell in the air. Pork sausage. When the hell did she buy pork sausage?

She hung her bag on the coat rack.

“Smithers gifted me a kielbasa. Kind woman.”

Giselle felt her intestines twist. “You left the apartment?”

Dex smiled in a way that made him more ruggedly handsome, and it angered her further. “Someone had to take out the trash.”

She put her hands on her hips, an odd familiarity in the way she prodded him. “When were you planning on telling me about your run in with Fisk? You're a wanted man. You shouldn't be talking to my neighbors…”

“Relax,” he went around the wall, placing two plates of rice with Polish sausage and peas on the table. Clearly he's made himself familiar with the space. And with her neighborhood in general, a stack of clothes from the nearby clothes banks and church donations on the drawer, as well as a second-hand CD player. “I gave her a fake name. Tony.”

“Oh? Tony? And what's Tony's deal?”

His eyes flicked up from his food, grinning at the obvious answer in his head.

“Oh my god,” her lip curled with disgust, trying to conceal the fluttering in her chest. “You told her you were my boyfriend? She's never gonna believe that.”

“Why not?” he chuckled.

Giselle sat down, keeping her hands busy so she wouldn't have to think so much. “Mrs. Smithers has been trying to set me up with her nephew for months now — I've never had a guy over.”

“That explains it. Gave me a standing ovation the minute she saw me in the doorway.”

Blood flooded her face, desperate to switch subjects. “So, you went right to business when you first got out.”

His focus went back to the food. The silence revealed too much, providing all the confirmation she needed.

Giselle knew in her soul that Foggy Nelson died around the time she stopped working for the Fisks. “Vanessa. She wanted Nelson dead, and I wasn't around anymore to do it for her. So she hired… you.”

Dex didn't look up from his plate — which killed her inside because she couldn't tell if he blamed her for everything, or if he somehow left it all in the past. That couldn't be it — why else was he here?

This was all my fault, she thought. “Dex,” her voice went soft. “I'm sorry about Julie.” 

He went stiff at the name. It's been a while since she crossed his mind, prioritizing other people in his conscience. He was never sure what to say at times like these. Especially because, after a certain point, it hasn't been hard. Solitary confinement was hard. The view from his window, far from his reach. No like-minded people. The opposite of what he had now. All he could manage was, “don't mention it.”

Giselle has not had anyone over, ever. She walked awkwardly to the bed in her pajama clothes, heart sunken from the earlier conversation, fluffing her pillow and sneaking a glance at Dex across from her, who did the same thing.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he suggested for the sake of her comfortability.

Her brows furrowed tenderly. “Don't be ridiculous. You haven't slept on a real bed in years.”

His eyes flicked up and down, lost in thought. He simply nodded.

Scratching the side of her face, dragging her finger to her lips, Giselle weighed their options. “We could put a pillow in the middle… or have my feet by your head.”

They laid in bed, the regular way, but facing opposite directions, with their backs to each other. Initially. 

In the middle of the night, as shallow breaths caused Giselle to lightly snore, Dex flipped sides to watch the subtle rise-and-fall of her chest, how she arranged the blanket in a way that allowed her to wrap her legs around it, and the shape of her bangs out of place on her forehead. All the scars sprinkled over her skin from all the times she's died. He just laid there in silence, the ambience of the city interrupting her peace not once. She was truly something special. Dangerous, yet fragile. To die by her hand seemed like the ideal way to go, but he knew she’d never allow it. And the decision was entirely hers, with those newspaper cut-outs shamefully hidden in her closet, and him currently in bed next to her. They were in too deep. He thought about how long it must've taken her to be able to sleep like this. She's clearly bettered herself, although she wouldn’t be able to admit it, and he wanted to do the same.

That's when he asked himself, WWDDD: what would Daredevil do, as Murdock made for a great role model. Daredevil would defend against the AVTF. Daredevil would restore balance to the city. Daredevil would make things right. Now, he'd have to do all those things, but in his own way. 

Dex became very busy. The hospitality from his first day waned over time, and Giselle rarely got to eat meals with him anymore, rarely saw him before work or when she returned home. A problem erupted. His absence irritated her a lot more than she thought she cared: she'd rot in bed surrounded by his smell, she'd find herself staring at him when she could, cherishing the moments they did have like all those years ago. And if she got lucky, he returned wounded somehow and she could heal him.

One night, she lingered by the window, foot tapping the floor with impatience. He wasn't like her. Durable, yes: she noticed the reinforced spine while rummaging through his cells for things to fix, Fisk’s name etched all over it. Something else she could have prevented. Heart pounding in her ears, she hoped he'd return soon, eventually deciding he didn't even have to be in one piece — she could fix that too.

The door creaked open — she kept it unlocked for him on the nights he was out — and Dex stepped through, wearing his Bullseye suit. Her heart weighed so much, she thought it might burn through the floor and end up downstairs. The relief evident on her face, her nose twitched. She could smell the blood.

She played it cool, just happy to help. “You're back.” She gave a gentle smile, sitting at the table, sight glued to his light brows curling under the mask.

His smile was barely hidden underneath, just as excited as she that he was home. “Came back mostly unscathed. ‘Til something nicked me on the way out.”

Nicked was a very nice way of putting it. They sat together, Dex taking his mask, gloves, gun holster, and compression shirt off to prevent them from obstructing the surprise. He displayed his forearm proudly for her, her first name clearly carved into his skin.

“I had to give you something.”

Giselle read the letters over and over again, suddenly unsure if she read it right like it hadn't been the name she's had her whole life. She had a hard time finding her breath. A warmth blossomed around her heart and under her belly.

“You like it, right?”

Her fingertip traced her name in his arm, letters fading away into scars one by one as she healed him. She choked up, keeping a sound from escaping her throat. He leaned in, taking the opportunity to answer the question he's had on his mind since seeing her scars. His finger moved a piece of hair out of her face, and past her temple was the patch of skin healed over her gunshot wound. Beautiful like a birthmark. She turned her head, letting his finger run over the planes of her face to her cheekbone. Speechless.

“I've sat in a room, alone with my thoughts, for almost a decade, and you're still cautious. When you know full well that every inch of me is under your control once I walk through that door.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she teared up, arousal bubbling in her blood. Dex barely let her finish, lunging forward to lift her thighs out of her chair and move her onto his. He forced her hands around his neck, whispering, “tight, tight, like that.”

Giselle gasped, vision going blurry. He kept his voice down between the two of them. “I'm at your mercy. You said you understand. Show me.”

“You don't know what you're doing.” She could count on one hand the people that didn't cower in fear of her abilities: her late sister, the Fisks, and Dex. But Dex seemed to embrace it like no one ever has.

“You said killing the innocent hurts you the most. Fisk did that to you.”

“I let it happen,” she woefully retorted. 

Dex refused to let go, keeping her hands firmly placed over his esophagus. “You're the strongest person I have ever met. You could rule the world. You could own me. You just need to stand up for yourself. Get your payback. Now we both have the opportunity for redemption. Don't you see that, G? One last thing before nothing else matters.”

She was afraid of his total acceptance of her. Not once has she mattered to someone in this way, so it felt dangerous to indulge. Her eyes dragged across his pleasured face, drawn to his scar and handsome wrinkles. She's been stuck here so long, in a constant state of willingness to return to what felt like delusion.

“Take the bait,” he prodded.

With the underside of her thighs prickling, and a heat between her legs, Giselle had no idea how she willed the courage to get up and walk away.

Dex sighed, utterly repressed. “The only one getting in your way is yourself.”

Naturally, that night, Giselle couldn’t sleep, haunted by what happened just a few hours ago. She burned holes in his back as he laid on his side, neither attempting to rest.

“Dex?”

“Mm?”

“Who was the first person you killed?”

“My baseball coach,” he rasped. “My parents died, so I went to an orphanage. Joined the baseball team. That guy was a dick. What about you?”

“My sister.”

He stretched, expanding his bare chest to lay flat on his back. Giselle never thought she’d be able to see his face like this, attentive to her in the midnight blue, head on her pillows. Something of her dreams.

“Georgiana. I grew up in foster care with her. I didn’t understand my powers for so long — don’t even know when I got them. By the time we were too old to be kids anymore, her cells were out of control. Sticking by me literally killed her. I couldn’t take the cancer back, I didn’t know how. My damage was done.”

“But look at you now.” He reached out to hold her head, where the bullet would have exited. “How many people get to live another day from all your snooping around. You're kick-ass, G.”

His praise landed strangely for her. He appreciated her efforts in ways she hadn't.

“Can I ask you something now?” he looked at her through the bridge of his nose.

“Go ahead.”

“If doing what you do now doesn't feel enough, when will it be?”

The question awakened a hidden part of her. “When my presence has an effect on people all over the world. Fear in the bad, relief in the good. People get what they deserve.”

Dex nodded softly. “You just gotta give it to them.”

Giselle felt at ease again. She needed to establish the full picture. For him to know her, for her to know him, and for no one to back down, as equally scarred. With that last weight lifted off her chest, Giselle nuzzled into his palm. His words could finally be of comfort, “offer still stands.”

“You're a joke.” 

“C'mon. You can't just let somebody break into your home and strangle you like that.”

Giselle was starting to turn away, giggling, covering shoulders and tucking the shared sheets under her chin. “That was like ten years ago, Dex. I'm over it,” she lied through her teeth. The memory of how Dex held her that night went to bed with her often.

“Giselle, will you come up here? Please?”

She tore the sheets from her body, lifting herself from bed and crawling towards his body lying flat. Her hips straddled his torso, eyes prickling at the sight of his large chest, short curls catching in the moonlight. Giselle cleared her throat and bent forward, gradually applying pressure to his neck with both hands.

Dex's soft sigh fell louder at night. His nails bit into his own palm, adam's apple bobbing, feeling the shift in bodyweight when her back arched. “Can I… can I touch you?”

Breathing heavy through her nostrils, she nodded her head. He first held onto her knees, trailing upwards to paw at her thighs.

His pulse echoed in his head, throbbing veins accounting for the lack of air. Dex smiled wickedly. This was much better than being drugged out of his mind at the institute, or sitting on the cold prison floor, with no possessions except his imagination. His lashes fluttered, head tilting back to see her face while she did it. To see her arms, flexing, doing this to him. She could feel his suffering as if it happened to her, intensely focused on the movement of his blood. His breathing finally strained, no new air being delivered. Giselle closed the space, ghosting her lips over his breathless mouth. Dex almost didn't want to tap her hip, but knew that Giselle would chide him for letting her choke him out. He gave her a reluctant submission.

Heart pumping with adrenaline, he moaned with the release of pressure. Giselle nearly collapsed, curling into his side, nudging her nose into his bruising neck. She did that to him.

“That’s more like it,” Dex laughed into her hair.

act iii.

Richmond Geels almost entered his car when he noticed a lonely lady all by herself. He crossed the street and took a seat at the bus stop next to her, wincing and placing a hand to his abdomen.

“Feeling alright, sir?” The bright eyed woman, with adorably short hair, a nurse cape over white scrubs, and her hands in her lap, inquired beside him. His grandma wore a cape just like that when he was a kid, so the familiar uniform both comforted and confused him. This nurse couldn't have been a day over thirty something, wearing such vintage clothing.

“Yeah, just a lump in my gut. I'm sure it'll go down soon.”

“I can take a look.”

“Sure.” Why the hell not.

Rich lifted up the side of his shirt with a grunt, and the bright eyed nurse analyzed him with slim white gloves that ended at her knuckles.

“Sir, I regret to inform you that it's a hernia. You should get treated for that soon.”

“Damn, my wife was right. Probably would've done something about it sooner if it didn't go to her head. Y'know, I work a side gig — I'm a cop — and the shrew herself said that was dangerous too.”

“Why so?”

“Well, she said I'd meet unsavory characters on the street. The city’s littered with psychos,” he paused to grunt again, a sharp pain shooting through the hernia, “running around in masks. But as it just so happens, I also get to meet nice girls like you.”

“Boy, you're a charmer. You're really gonna need medical help now, sir.”

“Why's that?”

“Because the hernia is preventing blood flow to your organs. You have internal gangrene now, Richmond.”

“What the hell…” he could barely get up, wanting to threaten the woman for all her strange talk. “How do you know?”

“Because I did it to you.”

He reached for his gun, but the muscles in his arm thinned out until they snapped, losing all its strength. “Crazy bitch!”

“What was that side gig again, Mr. Geels?”

“My buddies are gonna have fun putting you down.”

She slid off her cape, letting it drag down the cut-out of her back, “I don't think they will- Mr. Geels?”

The cop squealed through the pain to pull himself onto his feet, stumbling away.

“Wait no, come back!”

Giselle motioned her hand towards him, and in the heat of the moment, exploded the cells out of his brain, getting blood all over the bus stop and the surrounding area, including herself. Drenched, she heard as his headless body toppled onto the floor. Parts of his cerebral tissue rolled down the bus stop advertisements, joining the rest of him.

Giselle put her hand down, technically succeeding in murdering the AVTF member. “That's one way to relapse.”

If killing was an addiction, then Dex was her dealer. Sounding all too reasonable, he explained that taking out Anti-Vigilante Task Force officers was another way to do good, making Officer Geels her first victim in almost two years.

This just brought them closer, discussing things from plans of attack to Giselle's costume the next morning. Working through a plate of scrambled eggs, she had a couple of his sketches laid out in front of her. “Is the back cut-out really necessary?”

“I think it's cool.” Dex said, monitoring the waffle maker, wishing they had one at Riker's Island.

“I'm sure a sexy nurse is just what New York needs.”

“Speaking of, come get your waffle.”

Giselle rose from her seat at the table with her plate, comfortable enough to lounge in a shirt and underwear with Dex around. Plus, she kept losing her shorts, and got the feeling that he kept hiding them.

She set the plate down and pried the waffle out with a fork. While pouring syrup, Dex snuck his hands underneath her shirt, hugging her waist. “You could grow an extra arm on your back and flip off whoever's behind you.”

“I've never thought of that.”

He let go to pour oil into a pan.

“Who is that for?” Giselle asked, watching him crack an egg into the middle.

“The cat across the hall.”

“Kiss ass.”

“What can I say, he adores me.”

Setting the egg to the side once it was ready, he came over to kiss her temple, over the bullet scar. “Gotta go. Busy day.”

“Stay safe, Tony.”

“Yes ma'am.” He gave a firm goodbye-pat on her butt.

“Dex!”

When he finally got home, Giselle was at the tail-end of a shower. She stepped out, wrapping a towel around her body. While wringing out her hair, she froze, hearing commotion just outside the bathroom door. Dex didn't come home alone.

Suddenly, she felt back like before, body quivering while she stood by the door, listening. Past sounds of fists landing and furniture flipping over, she heard Dex, and she heard him. Daredevil.

Another set of cells came into the scene: a yelping Mrs. Smithers.

She could only clearly make out Dex's desperation. One good deed! he pleaded with the devil.

They went back and forth, Giselle rummaged through Dex's body to assess the damage. But she couldn't heal him, or else she would give herself away. Who was she kidding — Daredevil already knew of her presence.

She wanted this nightmare scenario to be over, but she feared what would happen when it ended. This could be the night Dex dies. Not murdered by Daredevil, but caught in his own destruction. His rampage darted in Fisk’s direction.

But almost ten years later, she couldn’t be the one to stop him.

Daredevil stumbled backward, a thick stream of blood flowing down the bottom half of his face. He wiped his nose, “stand down!”

Giselle creaked open the bathroom door. She sauntered out, a hand in the air like a cowboy pointing a revolver. “What's he doing here, Dex?”

Daredevil should've guessed the woman hiding in the bathroom wouldn't be happy to see him. “This is your roommate?”

“My wife,” Dex answered, with Mrs. Smithers struggling awkwardly in his hold. He didn't want Matt asking too many questions about Giselle.

“Everybody stay calm-”

“I am calm.”

A sudden panic settled in Matt, the room going dark as if he wasn't already blind. Giselle cut him from the inside, filling his ear canal with blood. He ripped his helmet off and thrashed his head, hyperventilating.

Dex took the opportunity to throw the elderly woman at him, catching Daredevil off guard. His cells were quickly out of reach.

“He's gonna get himself killed!”

“I know.”

Giselle healed his ears standing across from him, sweeping the blood out of the area.

“Keep him safe.”

Matt slid his helmet on the moment he got his hearing back, and dashed out of the building. 

Her apartment was trashed, littered with makeshift weapons and Dex's blood splattered across her wall. The last she had of him.

A whimper came from the elderly woman having a hard time getting up from the floor.

“Sorry, Mrs. Smithers.”

Giselle couldn’t get a lick of sleep that night. She laid in bed, staring at the blood on her wall. It went cold, rendered useless since she couldn't duplicate it unless it were fresh. Before dawn emerged, she drove her motorcycle around Hell's Kitchen, a madwoman searching for a sign of Dex. His cells were nowhere to be found apart from Fogwell's Gym, slipped through her fingers.

Questions flooded her mind — what about now? Where would he be after killing Fisk? Was he even still alive?

The next morning she slouched over a sad bowl of cereal. One thought occupied her mind, the possible location of Dex's corpse. And that very same night, while she slept, Dex silently broke in through the fire escape. She still doesn't lock it after all these years.

The smell of old blood hit his nose, and couldn’t help but smirk when he found the source. She might be stranger than him. 

He approached the bed carefully, heavy boots thumping close. There she was. His girl. Asleep in her tower like a princess, hair overgrown to her lower back, too stressed to keep it contained. And he, in blue and black gear, the knight in shining armor.

He stood at the foot of the bed, mask off after coming back from saving the life of Governor McCaffrey, yet his breathing dragged, a strain in his pants.

Dex started by sliding off his gloves, tossing them behind him, both conveniently landing on the table. He bent forward, stealing the sheets from her body. His hands wrapped around her ankles, and carefully pulled her down to his level.

“Dex, are you home?” she mumbled drowsily.

He splayed her from her side to her front, lining her hips with his.

“I've got a job tomorrow, I need to sleep.” She could sense the blood rushing throughout his body. “Oh.”

“Get some rest, baby. This shouldn't disturb you too much.”

She could hear the smile in his voice, feel the touch of his hands pulling her underwear by the waist and taking a blade to them one by one. The seams ripped, and he slid the cloth into the pocket of his tactical pants before they could slip onto the floor. Her exposed skin prickled with goosebumps upon meeting the cold air, warm to her core. Giselle spoke over her shoulder, finding the willpower to protest, “no, you left.”

“Aw, I'm sorry baby,” he kissed up her spine and across to her shoulder, trying to reach her lips. His stiff erection nudged at her tailbone.

She dodged him, hiding her face in the mattress. Her words amplified. “You keep living like you have nothing to live for.”

He licked his lips, becoming defeated. “People like us aren’t promised tomorrow. You should be happy I'm still alive.”

“No, you're just fucking lucky he finds use in you.” Giselle turned around, shoving him back harshly. “I thought we were doing so well.”

Dex took a few steps back, swinging the gun holster off his torso. He set it on the floor, “it's always been about Fisk, G. If you weren't gonna come to the gym, you should've made sure Vanessa died at least.”

Giselle rose to her knees, facing Dex as he took his shirt off. “We're too involved to discard each other like that — are you telling me I was supposed to mourn you this whole time? Like we're dead men walking?” Her eyes went to the bandage on his abdomen, disappointed he got hurt and she only found out about it now. “There's more to life than revenge, Dex. We could be normal.”

“It was never going to happen!” He shook his head, undoing his pants. “Isn't that why you killed Julie? Because that was never going to happen? We were never going to be normal. Not when Fisk is still alive, and not even after he's dead.”

Her brows curled to meet in the middle, the truth leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. He was right. Fisk’s effect on their lives did irreversible damage — damage done to two people practically made to kill from the start. But her sins weren’t done in a vacuum. “You know full well that if you were in my shoes you would’ve done the same thing. We’re stuck in a fucking loop with each other, and we still can’t break the cycle. Why does it matter if Fisk dies?”

“Because he ruined our fucking lives, G. And the lives of every other New Yorker.” He recalled how close Karen was to killing him earlier to avenge Foggy. “Besides, don’t you want the Fisks dead for what they did to you?”

“I moved on. It doesn't matter because we'll still be here. You said it yourself, we’ll still be messed up after Fisk dies. Next thing I know, you’ll be gone and I’ll be stuck here mourning you.”

“He doesn’t get to evade the consequences because you’re too afraid to do something yourself. He needs to be put down, and for what it’s worth, so do I. You’ve got your life, you’ve got normal. I have to atone for my mistakes.”

“Why the fuck are you here then?” Giselle felt her face burn with anger, shoving him again. “In my apartment. Gotta drag me down with you, huh? Or you wanted a warm bed before you got yourself killed?” Another shove.

“That’s how you wanna do it? Alright baby, I can take it.”

“Why are you even here? Do you even like me? Or you needed one last lay, too? Because I promise you, any girl working the corner could blow your mind. Then you wouldn't have to do this to me.”

Dex scoffed, so smug, smiling at the reaction he got out of her. “Your name in my arm wasn’t proof enough?”

“What next, you’ll write a heartfelt message in the clouds? Dex, where have you been?”

“Getting shit done, unlike you, moping around-”

Giselle cut him off, slapping him across his face.

He turned slowly, savoring the sear on his face. “That’s it. Take it out on me, baby.”

“You’re careless.”

“You’re a coward.”

She slapped him again, and he groaned, shutting his eyes. Dex came forward, fist grounding him with the metal bedframe. Giselle’s heart beat drummed in her ears. There was no coming back from this tonight.

He opened his eyes, face to face with his girl, a half lidded gaze. Every time she hurt him, he twitched for more.

“Can I fuck you?”

“Apologize.”

Dex huffed, head coming forward to rest on her chest. He played it up, already drunk off of her that it didn’t matter what she did to him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby, I never meant to break your heart. Sometimes daddy gets a little busy-”

She tugged his head back by the hair. Discipline. “Don’t get cocky, asshole.”

“I meant the first half,” he peered at her with his dark eyes, “I am sorry. I didn't mean what I said. Was just trying to rile you up. You're better than me.”

A beat. They stood half-naked across from each other, letting their words marinate in the silence. Giselle sighed. “It just feels like the next time I close my eyes, I'm never gonna see you again.”

Dex felt a pang in his heart. He took her head in his hands, always so gentle with her now. “Just live in the moment. The moment is all we can keep for ourselves. It’s all I can give you.”

A lot of people wanted him gone, just as much as Fisk. But Dex felt like an extension of herself. If New York knew of what she’s done, they’d add her to the list. Her hands lightly grazed the hair on his chest, a swell of pain building in her throat. She didn't want to cry. Not with this possibly being the last time they see each other. She nuzzled into his palms, but this time, planted her lips on his.

He kissed her back, fingers brushing through her scalp down her grown out hair. She pulled away for just a moment to remove her shirt, instantly receptive to his kisses when her body returned.

“You don’t even want normal. You think you do, but you don’t.” He spoke past puckered lips, getting that sensitive spot under her ear on the first try. “Otherwise you’d be married by now, canoodling with some dork that reminds you of me.”

Her face felt hot, his words so specific that he absolutely must’ve thought of that scenario before. She held the back of his neck with one hand, body shuffling to lay down. Dex hovered over her, his kisses trailing over her collarbones and down to her sternum. His large, rough hands cupped her curves at every chance he got. She spilled into his palms in ways a pillow at the institute couldn’t even compare. He slid off his last layer, keeping a hand on her at all times.   

“You wanna know why I keep coming back? So I can take one last look at you every day.”

“You're never going to die. I won't let it happen. You're gonna stay like this forever.”

“Yeah, like this?”

“Mhm.”

“Yeah…” 

Their breaths hitched in sync, chests rising. Dex feverishly kissed over any scars in sight. He pulled back to see her. Perfect. His eyes would zip all around, and then still, disbelieving he was actually with her in this way.

His hands trailed down her sides and placed a firm grip on her hips, pining her down to the mattress. His thumbs left bruises, which Giselle could hear develop. She took her bottom lip between her teeth, smiling.

“Slap me,” the corner of his lip pulled up. Giselle swung again, the burn returning to his face. “Again,” then another one.

He whined, leaning down to shove his face in her neck. She wrapped her arms around his neck and threatened her fingernails over his back. He begged for her to hurt him again, taking a bite of her shoulder so she would dig her nails into his skin. Ear to ear, they huffed, minds buzzing and scents mixing until they were indistinguishable. The way she said his name soothed him like a lullaby.

“You're so good,” Dex mumbled into her throat, completely out of it. Fucking her actually made him feel high. “You're so good to me. And I'm so scared, baby. You could own me — you should find a way to keep me dumb so I won't run away anymore. I can stay carefree and yours, G…”

“Dex, my god,” tears built up in her eyes, feeling the best she's ever felt. She wiped her face, “sorry.”

“No, no, I love it, baby, I love it when you cry. See, like this?”

He stopped, dangling the climax in front of her without letting her get too close. Giselle sobbed. Dex whined again, brows drawing close. If he closed his eyes, he easily could remember a night in prison just like this, hearing Giselle in his head.

“Turn around.”

Giselle grasped at the bedsheets for life, preventing a sudden movement from having her teetering over the edge. Dex gave her no space to breathe, scooting upward to completely cage her underneath him. He gathered her hair in one hand how he's always wanted, the other on her spine above the hip, and kept his mouth by her ear. He went slow, building up the pleasure in their stomachs again. “I'm so scared. Of what you do to me. You overwhelm me. Take over my senses. Maybe that's why I keep leaving — won't be able to think about anything else otherwise. You'd be stuck here too. Let me be selfish. I want to be selfish. I want somebody to look at you so I can lay them at your feet like a dog. I'm your dog, G.”

Their signature sound repeated in the air, shaking the bed so the bedframe would hit the wall from time to time. Their heartbeats set the tempo, and soon they'd erupt as one.

Dex swiped a hand over her face, brushing the hair back to kiss the scar on her temple. She smiled again, “you're my dog.”

“Yes, I am. Yes I am, Yes I am, Yes I…” he kept at it until he whimpered into her shoulder, finally snapping like a twig, causing her to do the same. Dex flipped her once more to lay his head on her chest, mutually exhausted.

He sleepily spoke, “you know I love you.”

“I know.”

“You love me, right?”

“So much that it hurts.”

“I know. It hurts me too.”

“I know.”

Dex chuckled, feeling fuzzy. “We should make babies.”

“Go to sleep, Dex.”

For the third time in her life, Giselle and Dex were apart. Worst of all, she couldn't even join him. Didn't know where he was. On the bright side, they both had pagers, where they could send cryptic messages in the form of numbers from wherever they were. 143, I love you. 607, I miss you. And, 505 for whenever Dex was actively in trouble. Totally didn't stress Giselle out.

The last ten years had been so complicated.

If not at home, she worked. She healed and hurt the city, dictating who lived and who died — a responsibility she hadn't had previously. But through all her efforts, she couldn't face Fisk. All her terror transferred from Daredevil to a man she once considered her father-figure.

In a city freed of Fisk, Giselle couldn’t even appreciate it.

She got less sleep these days, months after she last saw Dex. For someone who lived by herself in an apartment for most of her life, rooms always felt empty now. Her neighbor Mrs. Smithers refused to speak to her, betrayed by who she thought was her “Tony”. Nobody wanted to speak to Giselle anymore anyway. The moment her apartment door opened, it released the musky smell of dried blood into the hallway. She still hadn't cleaned Dex's blood off of the wall. Like keeping a framed photo of him for decoration.

All of a sudden, she got mail.

An envelope marked priority with a wax seal of a very patriotic bird. “Central Intelligence Agency? I'm so fucked.”

To her surprise, the letter came with physical evidence — a picture taken the night she blew Richmond Geels’ mind at that bus stop, and a few of her outside of her old apartment back when she worked for Fisk. Ultra fucked.

The letter contained paragraphs of fluff concerning national security and the insistence that the exchange remain a private matter, elsewise Giselle would be sent to prison for the murder of Officer Geels and assisting crime boss Wilson Fisk for most of her life.

The CIA wanted her help, and suggested she was positively regarded by someone working closely with them. Then, a knock.

She checked the deserted hallway, and there sat a black box on her welcome mat. Giselle set the letter aside and dragged the box into her apartment, pulling with her back and kicking the door closed. She pressed numbers into a keypad with the code provided in the letter.

Placed neatly into slots, Giselle was gifted a brand new suit. She felt joy enhancing her cheeks for the first time in a long while. The white leather-and-spandex jumpsuit unfolded in front of her, buttons down the middle from the high collar to the abdomen, pockets on the pants for cargo, cap sleeves, cropped gloves, a utility belt, and new white boots.

“Sick.”

Small vials and a syringe complete with its own syringe holster on the belt had to be her new favorite part. Bioterrorism.

Giselle went to her mirror, holding the suit in front of her to see what it would look like, when she noticed the back cut-out. She had a feeling she should finish the letter.

Returning to the paper, her eyes skimmed down the rest of the fluff until she read:

I hope you'll consider the invitation.

For your safety and ours, do not reply to this letter via mail or any other means. Further instructions will be provided upon your arrival.

This communication is classified as Confidential and is intended solely for your use.

Sincerely,

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine

She held the envelope it came in open, and shook a plane ticket out. The CIA really wanted her help. This way, Giselle could get the recognition she's always wanted. To make a clear statement, no longer rummaging through the dark. To make a bigger impact.

Glancing around her apartment, Giselle felt comfortable taking a detour for a bit after healing most anyone in the neighborhood who needed it. The last thing she could do remotely in Fisk’s footsteps could be to leave New York. Sever the ties to her past life. It left a bittersweet feeling in her heart, and a growing lump in her throat, but Giselle didn't fail to pack her things.

In the end, the heaviest piece of luggage was the box her new gear came in. Hopefully the CIA would pay for the extra carry-ons.

She touched her bullet scar on her way out, wishing that wherever he was, Dex traced the letters he engraved into his arm like a tattoo. These were the scars that kept them together, even while apart. Though truly, they'd never be apart for too long.

Beep beep. 342, see you later.

Your knees buckled when you first received your invitation in the mail — that wax seal stamp could've only meant one thing. Inside, a letter announcing you'll be receiving this year's “Pushing the Envelope” Writing Award. Apparently publishing too much information about your love life and personal revelations in sexual health paid off.

But deep down, you knew it did, even without the award. Many “thank you” messages have made their way to your work email from readers who took your cautionary tales and reminders to check up on their body seriously, and many times have you read the words “you saved my life”. A little went a long way. That was enough of a prize.

But this? This was a little intimidating. You could be so vulnerable in your writing from behind a screen or read through the column in the newspaper. This meant walking up, taking that award in your hands, and giving a speech — because of course you needed a speech — to a room full of powerful, influential people.

And, the cherry on top, the event took place on Valentine's Day. Perhaps worst of all, you knew Clark would insist you go. Was spending Valentine's with your boyfriend too much to ask for? When you had an award to accept, maybe it was. But choosing one over the other made you feel guilty.

So naturally, you hid the letter in a random drawer in the kitchen, hoping it would help you forget about it. And a few days later, just short of the ceremony, while making dinner, Clark searched for the whisk and was greeted with the discarded letter instead.

Valentine's Day propaganda had sunk its teeth in him and laced him with romantic ideas. He bought you chocolates on the first of the month, and not the cheap kind with random fillings. He bought you your favorite. He handed you a single flower each day for two weeks leading up to the fourteenth, like the 12 days of fucking Christmas, but with cherubs instead of baby Jesus. On day eleven, he found the invitation, and seemed more excited about it than you were.

With a gleeful smile permanently stuck to his face, he asked, “well, you're going, right?” If he had a tail, it'd be wagging uncontrollably.

“I don't know…” You looked off to the side, biting your thumb nail in thought, sitting on your couch with your knees bent up to your chest.

“What? Why not? The city should know how amazing you are, just as much as I do.”

Your eyes slowly gained their fire back, head rising from its slump. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, think about it. You're a hero.”

Coming from a guy aptly named Superman, it meant a lot. Corny, but sweet. Like the opposite side of Kansas from where the Kents lived. You couldn't wait to meet his parents, which would happen soon enough, but before you could do that, you had an award to receive.

The press outside the event nearly made you turn around and walk right back home, but a friendly tap on your shoulder eased your nerves when Lois appeared by your side.

“It's like standing in the middle of a thunderstorm, huh?” She was being recognized as the Most Diligent Mouthpiece for her journalism at Daily Planet.

“Thank you,” you muttered behind stiff teeth.

“For what?” she chuckled, sliding her hand behind your back to join you for pictures.

“For saving me.”

“Could've sworn we had a guy for that. And where's Clark? I thought he'd be with you.”

You've gotten pretty good at lying about his location. “Sick at home, probably hugging the TV screen.”

“That guy should stand in the sun once in a while. He's got the immune system of a fruit fly.”

Cackling, you allowed her to lead you inside and into the event.

You didn't know what you were expecting. Obviously an intergalactic being with a sensitivity to bright lights and loud sounds would wander into the urban city of Metropolis in the middle of the gala.

You were outside when it happened, right before the awards were about to be handed out, catching your breath while everyone mingled. Just your luck, droplets of rain hit your arms and stained your dress. Your eyes went to the floor, watching the rain water collect. The wet marble balcony reflected your blurry image, and a shiny light coming from behind. You turned to see an elderly woman with her back to you, sporting some unnaturally shiny rainbow hair. Only when she began to shake in fear did you realize she was covered in goo, and that the mingling being done inside transformed into urgent evacuation. When you raised your head to the skyline, there it was. A gooey, sparkly, rainbow organism — resembling a pipe cleaner.

Leaving you no time to think, it shot a cannon of goo onto the balcony, and when the intergalactic fluid proved to be too heavy, the balcony broke off with you and the older woman falling towards the street below.

You heard screams from inside the gala, and could barely register what your eyes were showing you. The curb was approaching quickly — so fast you couldn't even catch your breath in time, and would likely die from the impact with no air in your lungs. Your body raced to the bottom, competing against the rain. Feebly, you stuck your arms out, your life completely out of your hands. You could only manage to whisper to yourself, “save me”, knowing in your heart exactly who that message was meant for.

When his familiar smell hit your nostrils, your body felt weightless, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you closer towards him. It took a moment for you to recognize the shriek cry of a hawk swooping in to save the elderly woman as you held him tight, nails digging into his blue suit, cape up against your nose. Your entire body shook, heart still expecting you to hit the ground. His levitating frame slowed the whole world, taking his time to come to a stop in mid air.

You sobbed a breath into his shoulder, glad to be in his embrace. He cupped your cheek, tilting your head so you could look at him. Behind him, green strobes trapped the alien in arrest.

“Look at me, hey,” the superhero spoke kindly. The rain poured a bit heavier, trickling down his nose and lips. “You're gonna be okay. You're okay.”

Your hands trailed up his body, finding his face. You never paid attention to Superman. You thought he was meant for the rest of Metropolis, so only you could have Clark. But right now, in his arms and his in yours, Superman belonged to you.

Lost in his eyes, you barely heard him say, “let's get you on solid ground.”

“Home,” you mumbled.

“You wanna go home? Okay, let's go home.”

You still hadn't fixed the lock on your balcony's sliding door since Clark broke it all those months ago. After it constantly slipped from your mind, you gave up on it. You figured you could give him an easier entrance for when he came home after a long day of work. The last thing he needed to deal with was carrying keys in his suit.

Upon entering the living room, he pushed the door closed behind you. Even when your feet hit the floor, he kept an arm around you to always remind you he was close by.

When you stumbled towards your couch, his large hands on your waist guiding you where to sit. Body still shivering from all the adrenaline pumping through your heart, he knelt down, undoing the buckles on your heels and sliding them off your feet. His immediate reaction was to message the tenderness out of them.

You gulped, taking a look around your apartment. The gloomy sky made it difficult to see, and knowing the kitchen lights would worsen the headache, you let your eyes adapt to the darkness instead, and began to make out rose petals sprinkled from the front door onwards. Your final flower was meant to be a romantic surprise once you came home from the gala. Clark didn't think to mope after the surprise was ruined, his focus entirely on helping you get settled.

Your stomach finally relaxed back in its place, and you no longer had to swallow the motion sickness down.

“Hey,” apparently he had been calling for your attention.

“Sorry,” you stressed, covering your face in your hands.

“You're safe, honey. I've got you.”

You reached for his cheek, your skin equally as damp from the rain water that kept dripping from both your heads. Your voice was small, quiet. “You saved me…”

He nodded, rubbing his face into your palm. “I know. I love you.”

You bent down, making a sound in the couch, snorting air through your nose as you went to kiss him. He met you before you could even reach halfway, hand in your hair and guiding you to lay back. Lips melting like sweet chocolate, you let him climb over you, feeling the faint swipe of his cape out of the way. My hero.

“Thank you,” you slipped onto his tongue. “You saved me,” your nails scratched his scalp. “I love you,” you traveled from his dimples to his jaw.

Sensing you were into the idea, he let out a soft laugh. “You're welcome. Anytime."

You pulled back, looking over his features. Makeup ran down your face, wet hair sticking in odd places, and your cold dress shifting uncomfortably underneath the weight of his heroic figure.

“I could have died.”

His brows furrowed. He didn't want you to think about those things. “You know I would never let that happen.”

“Do you know why?”

He knew why, but you were under a trance. He needed to answer with whatever answer you had in mind. His thumb caressed the corner of your mouth. “Why?”

“Because you're Superman.”

Immediately, he had to laugh. To him, it wasn't that big of a deal. It was his obligation. He had to be Superman, he had to protect his home.

Which he guessed in turn, meant he had to protect you.

“Say it,” you dared him. “Say it to me, out loud.”

He met your eyes, your dilated pupils, and stared into your soul. When that wasn't enough, he spoke to your eye in your skull socket, delivering his words past layers of skin and muscle. “I'm Superman.”

Wiping your upper cheek, smoothing out smudges of mascara, he couldn't help himself from the smirk that pulled at his lips. Never had he indulged himself in the power trip of saving someone like you. Someone breathless, blood pumping with fear and excitement so loud his own heart synced with it. And yet here you were, sensitive, vulnerable, and thankful.

You just so happened to be the love of his life on top of all that.

Both his and your hands moved surgically to remove the dress you wore to the gala. He took a moment to considerately place it on the dining room table, before returning to your body, limp and flushed. The positioning of your skeleton, relaxed with a hip out, drove him crazy. Clark gazed over your undergarments, fingers trailing your panty hose and peeling them down from your waist, over your panties, and the meat of your thighs. He felt your skin, trailed over the follicles underneath, and gave a final tug at your ankle bones. You were so beautifully human. Fragile and intricate. Discarding the panty hose like snake skin, he nearly rushed to your bra. The weight of your breasts and the stretch scars that followed — his breath hitched.

Even watching the tendons in your hands maneuver the bra off to the side onto the floor, along with the sun and the sea, you were the most beautiful thing he had the honor of revisiting.

"You're my favorite person," he muttered earnestly. "You deserve to be proud of yourself."

Desperate, he gasped against your mouth, prying your underwear down and inching his body closer towards yours. His suit was a bit of a hassle to remove, no matter how much experience you had with it. Clark shared that sentiment, opting to grind his bulge against your center from behind his suit. It hugged his skin tightly, strangling his cock that so terribly wanted to be inside you. He rutted against you, needing relief, wanting you fuck you, feel you, love you. He deserved it. So did you.

Maybe this was all he could spare. Perhaps you grabbing his face, squishing his sly expression by the cheeks, and grinding yourself on his briefs was all Superman could receive from an appreciative civilian such as yourself. His moral obligation and metahuman responsibility quite literally stood in the way of this scenario ever happening. But you weren't just any other woman he could've saved from falling to her death. It was his favorite mug stored in your cabinet. The pen you let him borrow his first day on the job still in his suitcase. The ring he bought the second week you started dating. Reality was much better than any fantasy he could've imagined.

His suit would probably smell like you after this. He wanted you with him always. He could save you wherever you went. He could follow you around like a dog, except, he already did that at work. He lingered at your desk, not having to stand close in order to smell your hair. So maybe he could follow you around outside of work too. He'd protect you like he'd protect everyone else, for a much more selfish reason.

Clark groaned, stepping back to pick you up like a bride. Your laugh tickled his ears, your arms wrapping around his neck so he could take you wherever he wanted.

Your sight lingered over the shower tiles, allowing Clark the privilege of taking care of you. You stood in place while he tested the water, controlling the pressure just right so it fell soft on your skin like rain droplets. Silently admitting to yourself that it reminded you of before, being rescued in the rain, you felt no bone in your body protesting. You were a very guarded woman — and Clark knew this. It took months to finally let your walls down and confess your love to him. To welcome him into your home and fall asleep beside him in bed, with the promise of waking up to the same scene in the morning. That commitment meant a lot, and even with your talents, you found the nerve to doubt yourself.

What was worth protecting if you found no significance in it? You pushed him out because you thought you didn't deserve him, whilst writing about knowing your worth.

All in all, Clark thought accepting an award was the least you could do. You deserved the world.

He touched you like you deserved every drop of water that ran down your skin. Still in his supersuit, he scrubbed your hip carefully, fingers trailing your curves like the petals to a flower. The colors reflected off the tiles just the same, but instead of the threat of a looming rainbow creature in the sky, it was Superman standing with you in the shower.

Your breath hitched. Your hands found the wall, needing something to hold onto as the desire built up in between your legs. He caught the squirming your thighs gave, and went straight to the source, slipping his hand between your legs.

You groaned onto the back of your hand, head tilted in a way that you could see his body behind you in your peripheral. His fingers circled, finding the bud and toying with it in an effort to serve his planet. Ensuring your happiness was certainly upon his list of heroic duties. Taking your bottom lip between your teeth, you hesitated shifting your stance.

“Open your legs,” he ordered into your ear, offering his other hand to help by grasping your thigh and prying it apart from the other.

When you arched your back, you could feel the front of his rigid form graze your mound. A single desperate “Clark” left your throat.

His fingers rubbed the water along your folds, feeling the arousal that began to collect there. One finger stuck itself inside you, and you shivered.

“C'mon, you can take more than that.”

His absolute certainty with those words sent a twitch around the second entry of fingers. Your knees shook, body making so much lubrication on its own it began to squelch. Two thick fingers, pumping inside you not to open, but to rub on your walls so deliciously. It gave you a serious spoiler for what was to come in a moment, his gestures imitating what his cock usually does.

“Clark… so good,” your body followed the rhythm as he played the maestro.

“I'm glad, baby.” He sounded genuinely proud of you. “You deserve the best.”

His fingers sped up, rubbing that spot inside of you that made you whine. The rest of his palm teased and bumped into you. You cursed into your lip, mind growing hazier by the second. You feared the pleasure dumbed you down. You'd do whatever he wanted, when so often it was the other way around.

Your fingers grasped helplessly at the wall. “Gonna…cum.”

He pulled out, hand coming to rub the water between your legs and delivering a big splash. You leaned back against him, pressing into his hidden, throbbing cock. Clark hissed, maneuvering his suit in a way you didn't understand. After guiding folds of fabric, shifting his legs, and a deep sigh, he held himself by the base and rolled the head over your entrance. Leaving you anticipating, his free hand collected your hair and turned your head around so he could speak to your cheek.

“Deep breaths baby,” — stretch — “oh yeah. That's a good girl. Squeeze my cock, baby. Feel me right there.”

He held your hand and placed it over your lower belly, pressing over the bulge to make you both groan.

“We'll move slow. Let me earn it from you.”

Drunk off every word and the glide of his hips, all you could do was nod. His thumbs pressed into your hips, doing most of the work himself. And not pridefully. His eyes roamed all over you, switching from regular eyesight to x-ray vision like a light switch, unsure of which was the best way to watch his cock disappear inside you. He whimpered behind you, into the shell of your ear or hiding his face in your hair. He fucked you like it hurt him, making little noises through the bliss.

One special thrust made a smacking sound from your butt meeting his suit. The plush skin folded and bounced depending on how he did it, and he thrusted harder just to watch it happen again.

As for you, water droplets slid down your chest and you contemplated if some of it was drool. Bracing your hands against the shower wall, you rested your face on one to rest while experiencing the humps through your core. Deep, long moans pumped from your diaphragm, echoing from the bathroom acoustics.

“You deserve it. You deserve it baby — say it.”

“I deserve it…mnh, I deserve it.”

Your voice gave out, muscles spasming around his cock and making your eyes roll back. Clark laughed, he could see that too.

“Please, honey…choke me. Make me cum.”

Please, please, he begged for you to grant him sweet release. You reached back, elbow up, grasping his neck upside down. He huffed into the vapor, abdomen contracting and snapping his spill into your warmth. Slowing his thrusts with quiet whines, the build-up leaked down your legs.

You caught your breath with a smile, the aftermath giving your face a satisfied glow. Clark was immediately there to kiss below your ear, into your collarbone, arms wrapping around your waist. Your hands joined him there.

“When you get that award in the mail, we're keeping it next to my suit in that special spot at the back of the closet.”

Hidden enough as to not disrupt your day, but an equal reminder of your dual responsibilities.

“You always know just what to say.”

And for the column: What It Means To Be A Power Couple. How To Celebrate Accomplishments On Your Terms. And, Rainy Days Are Just An Excuse To Kiss In The Rain (Or At Home, In The Shower).

The issue began at the Daily Planet, which was covered in festive decorations for the holidays. Everyone had on themed outfits, from simple broaches and Cat's Mrs. Claus dress to the matching ugly sweaters you and Clark wore. Clark followed behind you almost the entire day like you held his leash in your hands. This behavior from him wasn't out of the ordinary, but it got to a point where you almost bumped into the wall that was his figure when turning around. But you said nothing.

When he playfully sharpened your pencils, finding ways to stay by your side, you said nothing. When he refilled your cup of hot cocoa, insisting on sprinkling some marshmallows into your mug, you said nothing. When you felt him tie your hair up after he saw you brush a strand a few times too many, you said nothing. When he snapped you out of your writing trance, correcting your grammar with a finger intruding your line of sight, you said nothing.

But when Clark snuck a kiss to the back of your neck with plenty of people in the office to witness, you snapped.

“Clark. Get back to work.”

You said it behind thin lips, with such strict delivery that the pout he offered to change your mind went unnoticed. Then, Clark was gone.

Tonight, when you met for dinner at your apartment and Clark brought it up, a one-off comment from you sat with him the wrong way. I didn't know Superman could be so clingy.

That's how you both fell head first, hands held tight, down a rabbit hole.

“But the glasses!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, swearing that if he brought up the same excuse one more time, you'd officially lose it.

“Yes, but no one at work should know that we're dating either way — why not eliminate all suspicion? There's no reason why you should be kissing me at work.”

“Does ‘I miss you’ not count as a valid reason?” The offense he took made him jerk his head back, mouth in a frown.

“Not if we woke up and arrived together, no.”

“Right, but who's really paying attention to that?”

“Everyone will, if you keep kissing me, Clark!”

“We're wearing matching sweaters for Pete's sake! Why does it matter?” He stood up abruptly from his spot at the dinner table, going through a range of emotions — hands flexing.

A sigh went through you. You adjusted in your seat, bringing one knee up to your chest and tucking your arms around it. “What even are we, to each other?”

Clark walked around your apartment, arms crossed as he assessed the situation. “Coworkers, friends… romantic interests.”

“Yeah?” You quirked a brow, “do you see me as something serious, or something more laid back? What kind of relationship would benefit your ‘superhero lifestyle’? Do you ever think that being with me would get in the way of your work?” These were things you had to know, that've been eating away at you.

He spun around, brows furrowed in confusion but his eyes twinkling in interest. “Are you interviewing me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No, not really.” After all, conducting interviews was a common part of your jobs. You both had done it so often, you more than him, over the course of your time at the Daily Planet. But when Clark sat back in his seat and scooted himself closer to yours, you knew he had an idea. “But we can make it interesting.”

“You sure I shouldn't be naked for this?”

Clark remained in one of your dining room chairs, hands kept behind his back with only his willpower as you didn't want the hero breaking any more of your restraints. His hips adjusted, a cute grin on his face.

“For once, not yet.” You lifted a finger upon remembering the finishing touch. “Oh, just one more thing.”

Returning from your trip to the bedroom, you set up a video recorder on its stand. The little red light came on with a short beep. Questions flooded his mind, but you shut it down. “Nah-ah, I'm the one asking questions tonight, and you're the one answering them. This is just for our eyes only to reference back to in case I want to rub it in your face. Got that?”

He looked hesitant, staring up at you from the chair. You stepped closer, squeezing his cheeks with your thumb and forefinger. “Answer me with either a yes or no until I'm satisfied.”

One more glance at the lens, and Clark looked back at you, already a little breathless. “Yes.”

“Good.” You returned to your spot behind the camera. The interview began. “First I'll ask you a series of questions meant for Clark Kent, then the next set of questions are for Superman. Do you understand: yes or no?”

“Yes.” Suddenly he was becoming all too aware of his predicament. One lie and surely his detector would set the record straight. Even with his work clothes on, he felt exposed in the hot seat. And he loved hearing you talk to him in this way. He'd give you the answer to every question you could ever ask, fessing it all up just for you.

“Let's start strong: do you consider me your girlfriend?”

He seemed to chew his lip a bit, but showed little hesitance. “Yes.”

“Do you think I consider you my boyfriend?”

It looked like he didn't want to offend you, but still went with “no.”

“Why is that?”

“I'm sorry — I thought I was only supposed to answer with ‘yes’ or 'no'? Can't really answer ‘yes' or ‘no’ to that one.”

“Don't get smart with me — elaborate, why do you think so?”

“I believe you don't want to label our relationship, but I'm not gonna hold that against you. You've had a lot of bad experiences, so if you want to take things slow with me, I'd slow down the whole world for you. But for me, there's no doubt in my mind.”

You wondered if he could see your heart jump and melt and manage all at the same time. With a cough to clear your throat from nothing, you kept your composure the best you could. “No distractions, please.” He laughed and glanced down at his muscular lap.

“Clark Kent, would you let me meet your parents?”

His head came up real quick. “Uh… yes.”

“Why the hesitation there?” You played up the suspicion, trying to intimidate him with crossed arms and a raised brow.

“I'm sure they'd love you — my mom thinks you're a hoot.”

“You've told her about me?”

“Yes, on the phone.”

This interview was really starting to derail. You went from fuming at him to wanting to paint his face with your kisses.

In an attempt to regain control of the situation, you switched topics. “Have you ever read my spread in the newspaper?”

“Yes.”

Such a good boy. “Go on.”

“I had to catch up a bit, but I've kept up with it since I got the job.”

You wanted to fuck him so badly in that chair. Somehow, through trials and tribulations, you managed to bag the most kind-hearted, considerate guy in Metropolis, and it's better than you thought it was. You realized that you weren't the only winner here — he was too. He adored you in every way he could, and he couldn't contain all that admiration inside that big body of his.

Maybe you'd allow a couple of secret workplace kisses after all.

“Alright — questions for Superman!” You were losing it, and Clark across from you received the surge of confidence you lost since pressing record. “If we went public,” which you were really beginning to warm up to, “what relationship would people be aware of: mine with Clark or mine with Superman?”

“Can't they both have you?”

“Stop it.” You were beginning to seriously sweat too, and barely heard him say "these have also not been ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions” from the effect his words had on you.

He crossed his arms and your knees went weak. With the way his sleeves were rolled up in that ugly sweater, which you never thought could look so sexy, the muscles in his forearm were clearly outlined. And worst of all, it made your mind wander to how his ass must look in those slacks. You prepared to pounce like a lioness, staring down an over 200 pound slab of meat.

“Clark would date you publicly, since the people at work probably assumed so already, but I can't imagine Superman not wanting to save you every once in a while. When duty calls.”

Your balcony outside was calling your name, begging you to jump from it and be saved by the man of steel. “Nicely done. Well, I think those are all the questions I have for you today…"

“What? C'mon, Superman only got one question.”

“Unzip your pants and take your cock out.”

He couldn't hide his faux-clueless smile, though your eagerness did catch him by surprise. “Pardon, what was that?”

“Do it, Clark,” you pleaded. You were already shoving your pant legs halfway down. As with all of your requests, Clark was obedient. He held it in his lap, feeling the weight of it.

Slithering out of your bottoms, completely bare from the hemline of your Christmas sweater down to the socks hugging your ankles, you stepped over to him. Your hands dove down, tugging his pants further along his strong thighs. 

You could finally kiss him, relieving yourself of one urge at a time. He sighed like he sat at the sauna, head falling back on his shoulders, mistaking your grip at his thighs for a massage, soothed by your mouth on his, and letting your warmth relax him to the bone. Down his neck, kissing muscle, arteries, and the faint bobbing at the center of his throat. Powered by the sun, crafted from another world, somehow Superman sat here, quivering because of your kiss. Metahuman or not, this man, who saw the inherent good in all humanity, chose to follow your trail because he had no doubt in his mind he wanted to wake up, arrive at work, and come home to you.

In this moment you couldn't be more similar. You both huffed, groaned, lingered with each other's touch. You both existed as two magnets, pulling towards each other until the final snap when you can no longer pull away.

He was yours.

You sank down searching for him, wrapping your lips around the head and soaking him in velvet down to the base. He winced, unwilling to hide his pleasure. His shoes curled with the shape of his foot against the apartment floor.

His cock traversed the inside of your mouth. You took more and more until you could hum around him and feel your saliva coat his findings. He bit his lip, barely handling the sight of you — nevertheless the way you felt. You've defeated him, claimed his heart as your own, and kept him a willing prisoner at your mercy. Clark needed to be by your side.

His gratitude quietly slipped past his lips, pleading with you: yes, yes, please, thank you.

Clark breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, wanting so desperately to be able to stop himself. His lap squirmed forward and back, pushing himself deeper into your mouth but pulling away to hold on just a little bit longer.

You decided to end his sweet suffering, slick hitting your thighs and wanting to hold him close like you've been denying him and yourself from doing. Once you were in his lap, Clark wouldn't let go of you. He settled you with hands at your hips, let you slide him inside, and almost clawed at your ass for you to stay there. With him. You refrained from needing to bounce, as Clark ground his hips upwards into your heat, chest rising to meet yours each time. The misery showed on his face, distorted from every sensitive movement. He's flown around the world and seen the surrounding universe, but nowhere has had him weak like right here, surrounded by your limbs. You dug your fingers in his black curls as he managed to coax a long train of moans from your body. You sang a pleasurable duet, feeling his cock pumping inside and his nails scratch you underneath your stupid sweater.

He could cry. He almost did, voice breaking with both lust and sorrow when he murmured into your soft shoulder, “I love you so much…”

The chair legs squeaked with each drag on the apartment floor, a message punctuated with thrusts. He loved you. When you laid in bed at night, to him, you were another planet resting among the stars. Your hair flowed like a river while you bathed. He felt safe in this warm sanctuary inside you, reminiscent of his snowbound fortress, away from everyone else where he could just exist.

He couldn't deny himself to you any longer.

And in his arms, you finally felt like you deserved it.

“I love you, too!” A shiver ran down your spine, allowing your muscles to spasm around him and force you both to retire. You and Clark sat on this dinner chair, skin dewy with sweat and mutual release, stretching your sore muscles back to look each other in the eyes. A few curls had stuck to his forehead, which you were happy to brush back. It only seemed to make his smile bigger.

Beep. The video recorder ran out of battery. It took you both a moment to remember the camera even being there.

If it only now turned off, that meant it captured the entire interview, the heated progression, and the moment you and Clark first said that you loved each other. 

You sat straight, eyeing the lens pointed directly at you and him. “...Did we just make a sex tape?”

“It would appear so.” Clark, who was thankful it was getting late because after that session, he needed to bask in the morning sun as soon as possible, gave the whole setup a glance before pressing a peck to your jaw. “You love me?”

You locked eyes, gentle in your response. “You know I do.”

“It's just nice to hear you say it.”

“I'll say it again if you clean up here while I put the camera to charge so we can make another video.”

“Yes ma'am.” He smiled again and kissed your lips.

Her foot slid into her ink black flats with a frustrated sigh, her body positioned at the edge of the bed, when she heard the rumbling purr of Cyclops’ stolen motored beast. Fitting. She took it that the douche arriving outside would prefer motorbikes. So pretentious. Like a duet, his return was paired with a rather cheerful announcement. Logan! Rogue's happy footsteps followed suit.

Since Rogue's official enrollment to the mutant school, Mirage had gotten so close to her. The teen expressed concerns over a lack of self-control, which Mirage could relate to. Somewhat telepathic mutations always took a heavy toll on the mind. For example, Mirage knew Jean spoke to Scott recently about the growing amount of paranoia in her gut, and as for herself, Mirage heard bumps in the night she just had to ignore, for the sake of her sanity.

Mirage was always someone Rogue could confide in, but after four weeks of unofficially mentoring the young mutant, she was replaced within a single morning. It was the same feeling a single mother felt, she assumed, when a father comes to take their child for the weekend, and the kid gladly rushes into his arms. What was so torturous about your stay? But she couldn't blame the girl for picking favorites. After all, he did save her life. She supposed.

There was also an urge to look presentable. Something like a revenge dress to show off, except in this case, it was her thinly strapped top and full length floral skirt. Faulty comparison aside, after one final look in the mirror, she made her way down the hall to the source of the ruckus.

When her eyes fell upon the slightest follicle of his hair swirling up into two points, Mirage regretted not warming-up beforehand. Her knees went weak and she hoped her voice wouldn't tremble as it left her throat.

But he beat her to it. Prying his eyes from Jean's backside, holding Scott's keys, the very man she loathed, spoke.

“Ah, so you do come out to socialize.”

From there, an excitement ignited — the spark tickling her senses. Mirage went to speak too quickly for her mind to catch up and reconsider. The world's most petty game of improv.

“When my nose picked up on a wild animal, I thought I'd get to see something cool. Sad it's just you, kitty.”

Mirage was satisfied with his look of defeat, successfully earning a scoff and a given up glance at the hardwood from him. “Welcome back, Logan.”

Reasons to dislike Logan were in an abundance.

Realistically, Logan had done nothing to upset her personally, but his mere attendance felt like enough. First off, as Mirage would rant to Ororo, he didn’t take the X-Men seriously. His critiques got in the way of her patriotism. He only stuck around for his own selfish wants: having the Professor read his mind (because the guy had some sort of amnesia), visiting Rogue, and interjecting himself into Scott and Jean's relationship. As someone who cared for Jean like a sister, and treated the leader of the X-Men with nothing but respect, that final reason really irritated her. Which was fine with Mirage, by the way. She didn't have to like him, or even look in his direction. She just wished he wasn't so foundational.

Mirage flinched awake from the usual bad dream, at that perfect time of night when all the students were already asleep. Heading to the kitchen for a glass of water, she felt as though something was missing. Or rather, something was out of place.

“Hey, Mirage,” he nodded at her from the couch, his own glass of water on the coffee table. The TV was off, perhaps he was just about to leave?

“Come, sit with me if you want.”

No, she wouldn't be sitting with him. What would she look like, lounging with the enemy.

“Nice jammies.”

They were nice. A silk black robe to cover her nightie, of which was in a shade of blue lighter than her hair. Though, to be honest, any shade of blue was lighter than her hair. She adjusted the knot tighter around her waist, thinking he did not deserve to see her pretty sleepwear.

“How come you're up?” Her words were delivered more merciful here than they were in her mind.

“Don't remember most of my life, Miri. Bound to have a couple of nightmares. And you?”

“Same. Nightmares.”

Mirage wondered how frequent his nightmares were. She knew for sure she didn't cause his nightmare tonight, otherwise she would have shared it with him. The idea intrigued her. Maybe she could tell him what she saw, and he'd finally leave the professor alone.

She hadn't realized her feet were leading her towards the couch the entire time. Mirage sat down leaving a reasonable distance, making a sound in the chocolate-colored leather. A part of her forgot what she was going to do in the first place, if not to join beside Logan.

Logan, who had taken his vintage biker jacket from earlier off. His chest was so large — she hadn't noticed that before. With long limbs that hung from his torso, and hairs littering his skin like his own personal fur. She couldn't pry her eyes off that belt, the buckle depicting the head of a Native chief wearing a large feather headdress. Sat on his lower abdomen, its size made Mirage think the eyes were meant to avert down there.

His voice interrupted her thoughts. “You alright?”

“I don't like you.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Logan, if you can't be respectful to Scott and Jean about their relationship, then I don't think you should stay here any longer.”

A short pause, as Logan admired her nonchalant delivery. Many people have told Logan they didn't care for him. Usually it was fed-up bartenders, but Mirage delivered her words almost from a script. “Did ‘Slim’ send you to tell me that?”

“What? No, I mean it, Logan. You should stay away from Jean. I don't want her getting hurt.”

The man pushed his brows together, angling his expression to the side with a cock of his head. “You don't think you're being a little controlling? Jean's a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.”

Mirage shook her head, shifting on the cushion. She was careful not to show anything when her knees pressed closer to her chest, pulling the nightie over to accommodate. “Jean is too kind for her own good, and I don't think you should be using that to your advantage.”

Logan was starting to catch on, squinting at her bold claims. The gears were turning in his head, working her over, and Mirage wasn't sure what there was to think about so intensely. He seemed to be consciously holding back the smirk forming at his lips. “Have you told Jean you felt this way?”

To that, Mirage's mouth shut quicker than when it opened. She didn't like this anymore. Now, she was under his assertive gaze, which shrunk her body down to the size of a meek bug.

“Would you look at that?” His face went smug. She wanted to wipe it off his skin. “No, you haven't.”

Mirage moved on from the valid point he made. “Will you just back off and give her some space?”

“Fine, but if she comes to me first, don't expect me to do anything about it.” Logan put his shoes up on the coffee table, crossing one heel over the other, satisfied with his win.

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Why do you think?”

Her guess was simple, but misguided. She lacked self-control, unable to even support her fellow X-Men on missions per the professor's orders. Storm was essentially a divine figure living amongst the humans, and Jean possessed an extraordinary power that could rival Xavier's one day. Then we have Mirage, who couldn't even maintain eye contact with Logan for too long without catching a temper. Someone like that was bound to be a target, bound to earn his tease. “Because I'm weak.”

For the first time, albeit unintentionally, she made him laugh. “Why the hell would I care about that? Don't be that way, Miri, that's not why. I just don't think you realize how red you get when you talk to me.”

Mirage felt the warmth in her cheeks, and understood it probably painted her skin a typical rosy color, but she was never under the assumption she was blushing. Instead she considered it intense infuriation. He spoke up again, leaning forward with his shoulders in opposition to Mirage's sunken posture. “You're always calculating the right response, like you're afraid you'll fail. What's really going on inside that pretty head of yours?”

Was that an invitation? Her head turned towards him, interest piqued. “Do you want to see?”

“Yes.” The response came quickly. He caught a glimpse once, when he first arrived at the school. Her bedroom door was open, and when he peeked through, she looked like she was just about having a seizure. Suddenly, she was up and shutting her door like nothing. He didn’t even see her stand up. It certainly didn't help that he was unsure of where he was, completely disoriented and hearing things. He wasn't too familiar with her abilities. He's never experienced them.

“Think of somewhere you want to go, and tell me.”

“I’d appreciate a stronger drink.” Logan's choice reminded her of how overtly masculine he was. She nearly rolled her eyes at it. Well, she was about to in a moment. Mirage decided to elevate his answer. “With music.”

Right when Logan was about to protest that he didn’t like to dance, her eyes shut, and after a pause, shot open. They rolled far back, displaying to a frightened Logan her white sclera and miniature blood vessels. The sight was nothing short from a horror movie, but also conflictingly beautiful. Logan got closer for a better look.

Instead he was met with a blue stage light shining onto his face from across the room. His eyes flicked around, not recognizing a single person on the dance floor. Their faces all seemed to blur, with no features that stood out. He cupped a hand beside his mouth, trying to get the words out over the loud volume. “Miri!”

“Logan.” She spun herself around from her seat at the bar. Her outfit was a striking difference from before. Gone were the silk jammies, replaced by a black dress with lines of sequence sewn into an asymmetrical hem for the light to catch. Her legs, previously barefoot on the couch, were hugged by the leather of her black boots. His eyes drank in her image, even opting for a refreshing second glance.

“Order up. Anything you have here will feel real. The effects carry over outside of the illusion, but I hear you can handle it.”

His metallic weight plopped down onto the small revolving seat beside her. Logan had the smile of a kid in a candy store. “Can't believe you didn't invite me sooner.”

He tapped two digits on the bar counter, ordering himself a glass of single malt scotch. The speakers switched to a different song. Mirage rose from her seat as if on cue. “Knock yourself out. I'm gonna dance.”

The liquor burned down his throat, a familiar feeling that felt all too real. “You kiddin’ me? No way I'm missing that.”

Mirage glanced away, hiding her growing smile. Then she was gone — her body transported to another location in the room. The possibilities of her mind were endless. Here, she could do anything her imagination conjured up.

On his fifth serving, fingers pressing firmly around the rim of the glass, Logan searched around the dance floor without making a spill. When his eyes fell on the slightest follicle of her midnight hair accentuating her movements, he knew he couldn't possibly look away. For all he was concerned, the room was empty except for her, hallucination or not. The song dictated how she moved, like a woman possessed. His thoughts were greedy and focused, flooding and fogging up his mind with steamy vapor. And because this was merely a figment, he could only smell her scent. Logan didn't know Mirage this way. Confident in her dancing, where no one could judge. She kept her stubborn distance, even now leaving him to his drink so she could dance. He wanted closer, his lace-up boots maneuvering past the soulless partygoers.

Logan went for her hand first, almost smothering himself between bodies just to reach her. He entangled their fingers, their skin continuing to meet up the arms with Mirage whipping her hair around to give Logan her full attention. Their eyes met next, a stare in one and a gaze in the other. Logan pressed their chests together, not having to pry his hazel away from her burnt umber to appreciate the plush of her chest against his front. What a dream she was.

“You kept yourself busy. Enjoying yourself?” Mirage undid their fingers and placed both hands on her hips. Not uncomfortably, more so playfully bothered.

“I am…” He said before realizing she was referring to the hallucination. The symptoms of alcohol didn't stand a chance against his regenerative abilities. Besides, he was far more interested in this. Logan saved himself by clearing his throat and glancing off to the side, bringing the glass to his mouth for a sip. “It's alright. What's with all the extras?”

“To fill up the space. Make it feel real.”

“Maybe a bit too real. On my way to you, some prick elbowed me out of the way to get to a chick.” Logan conveniently left out the part where he did the same. “I didn't know you could dance. You don't strike me as the clubbing type, princess.”

Mirage shrugged, “Just played a song I like. To be honest, I haven't been anywhere like this before.”

That proved to be quite the revelation. This really was all in her imagination. An interpretation based on coming-of-age movies and the lyrics of her favorite songs. Logan half-smiled, knowing that she must've felt like she was missing out on a lot.

“Play it again. Your song.”

When her eyes opened, Mirage awoke frozen in uncertainty, with her vision locking on the ridges of Logan's tank top. The clubby illusion faded away, returning the two to the mansion’s dimly lit living room. The warmth of his grasp burned into her hips, the shape of his smile branded into her memory. None of it tangible, the mesh fabric being too thin to rub between her fingertips. But it stained her skin. They shared a fantasy, having no proof of it but knowing that it happened, and that for a moment, they were alone. She hadn't known her curse could birth a moment so special.

His lips met her shoulder, delivering a gentle peck. She shuddered in response, caged between his arms. Logan spoke in hushed words, trying not to scare her away.

“You feel trapped, Miri… but it doesn't have to be that way.”

Another invitation? When did she get so lucky?

As it grew difficult to differentiate their breaths, a boy nudged a rough thumb into his eye to rub the sleep out. “Miss M?” The younger children couldn't pronounce Mirage correctly, so she opted for something more accessible. “Can you help me find the bathroom?” The poor boy couldn't navigate through the Xavier mansion by himself.

Mirage shifted on the couch, his nasally voice dragging her back to reality for the second time. Logan did the same, allowing some space in the most nonchalant way he could.

“Of course,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, keeping her composure. Once she stood, the boy took her hand, leaving the conversation at that. Mirage couldn't help but feel a little bummed, anticlimactically ditching the man on the couch because duty called. She glanced back at Logan, prepared to rub salt in her wound by expecting him not to turn around, but pleasantly surprised to see he had done the same.

What’s really going on inside that pretty head of yours? His voice echoed as she directed the mutant child through the mansion's corridors. As it turns out, a lot more than she had previously thought.

Mirage had woken up that morning a black-hearted monster; pure evil that tainted precious slumber with just intention. She went to bed in a far better mood.

Once a week, your job was to treat the people of Metropolis to confections: digestible samplings of how to maneuver relationships, healthy ways to handle a breakup, and how to live comfortably single. Your experience made you a self-proclaimed relationship expert, dating a wide variety of people and facing nearly every hurdle. Cheated on? Been there. Proposed to? Done that. Somehow, nothing stuck, but at least your knowledge contributed to the column.

Though, you've never dated an alien before? You'd have to come back to that idea for a later installment.

Whatever the case, it made for good journalism. When on break, several members of the team would come over and sneak a peak at what you wrote, making for great conversation over coffee. Clark Kent included. You were sure that in his mind, “break from work” and “talk to you” were interchangeable. Luckily, his thinly veiled crush on you didn't bother you at all. In fact, you found him to be quite adorable.

The only reason you hadn't dated him yet was your fear of reducing him to just another publication. You thought maybe you entered relationships for the sole purpose of writing about them — self-sabotage. You barely had time to miss anyone anymore. Clark was too special to become that.

Today was no different than any other, Clark leaning in over your shoulder to skim what you had typed so far. “‘New year, new you: sixteen ways to spice it up in the bedroom’ — you're a genius, how do you come up with these titles…”

The sarcasm tickled your insides, made you giggle. “They're prophesied to me in my dreams.”

“This one I don't understand.” Clark pressed a finger to the screen, arm reaching over your shoulder, tracing over number four on your list. “‘Handcuffs’. Wouldn't that get in the way? Can't get physical with restraints.”

You held in a laugh with the way Clark described having sex as getting physical. “That's the point. People enjoy temporarily losing their abilities. The dynamic switches from the powerful to the powerless.”

You watched in real time as Clark's ears grew red, the blood traveling to his cheeks for what you assumed was the reaction to him envisioning himself actively using them. Knowing Clark, they were pink and fuzzy. About to ask him if he was okay, you found yourself caught in conversation with Jimmy Olsen. Something about the lunch he bought from a new sandwich place down the street. The light topic completely distracted you, unsure of when Clark disappeared from your side.

You spent the next few minutes hunched over your desk, coffee mug gifted from Clark in-hand, editing away before pausing for a pee break. You rolled your chair back into place, shoes clacking their way to the bathroom. Standing at the sink was Clark, splashing his face with water, glasses set aside. You were sure this was the women's bathroom, but Clark's hands dropped from his face before you could ask.

Your eyes widened, suddenly standing a few feet away from the man of steel. Clark was the spitting-image of Superman. With those glasses gone, what might've been a lookalike became absolutely certainty. You shouldn't be here. You wondered if you could sneak away, taking a single step back. Hearing your very light footstep, Clark caught you in the mirror's reflection. He flinched.

You put a hand up, “I didn't see anything.”

Scrambling for his glasses, “I, uh… I thought I locked the door.”

You glanced behind, the lock completely broken off like somebody couldn't control their super strength in a nervous fit.

You turned back, “isn't this the lady's room?”

Clark went silent, a hand flying to cover his face. “Oh, crap…”

“Don't worry about it. I'll tell Perry that the door gave out on me.”

“I- okay… Okay. Your heartbeat’s in your ears. Mine, too.”

Your chest rose with breath, a hand behind your back patting around for the doorknob. Once you found it, you slipped out the bathroom and returned to your desk. You and Clark didn't speak for the rest of the day.

Clark watched the sun go down from up in the air. He had spent all day on edge, hoping that no one found out you knew about his identity. He doubted that you told, but he'd hate to find out about it in the paper. A whisper over lunch, gossip by the water fountain, and boom: Clark Kent is Superman. Any saving he did today felt unfocused, mind somewhere else. It drove him mad. He aimlessly flew around the city until he found himself on your apartment balcony. Hands on his hips, he tapped his foot as if he rang the door bell and was waiting for you to answer. Unless you were beside the sliding door, how could you know he was there? And he had to speak to you now, the anxiety becoming too much.

For the second time today, Clark broke a door lock.

Carefully sliding the door back into place, Clark was now in your apartment. He decided x-ray vision wasn't appropriate to find you, and opted for listening intently to your movements. Drowned-out music clashed with sounds of fabric, so he closed his eyes and focused on one thing.

Down the hall, to the right.

The large man felt out of place in your space, cape behind him and all. He never thought he'd be in this situation. Last time he stepped foot in your apartment was for a Christmas party the year prior.

Clark hesitantly hit his knuckles on your bedroom door. The music went on, and after a huff, realizing you probably couldn't hear him, he made the risky decision to come in anyway.

And risky it was, with you standing in the middle of the bedroom, back to him, headphones on, damp body fresh out of the shower adorned with only a white pair of underwear and socks, slipping a shirt over your head. Eyes following the lace hem of your bottoms, he sort of just stood there, the situation lost on him.

“Shoot!” He hid behind the door when you realized you weren't alone, cursing and throwing your headphones to the side.

“Did you just break into my apartment?”

“I'm sorry, I… had to speak with you.” Clark's voice was booming, speaking the way you expected Superman to sound, but shielding his face from the sight of your half-naked figure.

Your arms crossed over your chest, “and you thought you'd have this conversation in my bedroom?”

“I didn't know you'd be changing.”

“Don't you have x-ray vision?”

“And what, see through your apartment like some sort of pervert?”

“Right, because that would make you a pervert.”

“I'm sorry, alright? I haven't been in the best mindset today… that slip up in the bathroom could've ended really badly if someone else had walked in on me. I shouldn't have been so careless.”

You reached the bedroom door, moving it open so Clark couldn't hide behind it anymore. “Then just be glad it was me, and not somebody else.”

He sighed, eyes fondly resting on your face.

“Pretty please, promise me you won't tell anyone.”

“Wouldn't dream of it. Your secret is safe with me, big blue.”

You playfully punched the logo on his chest. His soft lips pulled into a smile, dimples on full display.

There was something so endearing about how the metahuman in the room carried himself more awkwardly than you. Like the way he maintained direct eye contact as to not disrespect you in your underwear. You couldn't help but smirk, leaning against the doorway with sweet eyes staring up at him. You knew he would ask.

“Can I kiss you?”

You bit your bottom lip, going up onto your tippy-toes. “What took you so long?”

Surprise-surprise, Superman was a fantastic kisser. His mouth would open and close, luring you back into more and more kisses while his arms wrapped around your waist. The pressure of performance lifted off his shoulders, and now Clark could just be himself. Leaning down to match your height, his mouth trailed off to the plains of your face, muttering something in between pecks. “I wanted to try something.”

The hero formally known as Superman sat on your bed in just his underwear, wrists handcuffed in his lap.

The sight felt ripped out of a fantasy, the warm lighting from a nearby lamp making it look all too real. “Oh, my god.”

“What?”

“I just can't believe I've got Superman handcuffed in my bed.”

“Well, don't think about it like that. I'm just… your co-worker, Clark.”

“Yeah, that's still crazy.”

You peeled your shirt off, Clark already hardening at you in front of him already, not to mention when your panties shuffled down those beautiful legs to reveal something irresistible. “Good golly…”

You crawled into his lap, proximity shortening as you both leaned in. Noses nudging, you and Clark kissed again, when the conflict became clear. His wrists strained against the steel frames. A groan left his throat.

“You see the appeal now?”

“I think so. Get up.”

“Hm?”

Clark laid flat on the bed, hands resting at his abdomen. “Get up here.”

You made your way up his body, giddy tingling from your sternum to your fingertips. Thighs at either side of his head, Clark laid gentle kisses to your skin. He appreciated the intricacies — the details that made you, you. His tongue met your slick, a slow, long swipe that arched your hips. Your fingers went down, brushing through his black curls. He had you humming already, rolling your body in waves.

You fluttered in and out of vision, meeting with Clark's eyes at one point. Confidence surged through him, even as the helpless hero who grinded his underwear in search of relief. Even so, he never whined about the handcuffs. They were like a collar for a beast who wished to be tamed.

He blew cool air on your clit for staring at him so long.

“Clark!”

Clark continued his lapping, taking breaks in between for you to just use his tongue the way you wanted. He adored you from below, admiring the stunning sight above him. He used his tongue from the bottom to the top, engulfing your slit with saliva and heat. His mouth focused on your clit, sucking and teasing until the sounds and sensations were too much for you, cumming over his mouth. He eased your arrival, slowing his licks to aid your pulsing. Coming down from your high, you swung a leg over to get off of him.

Clark licked his lips, cleaning your flavor off his mouth. “Mmph. You taste really good.”

Slightly dazed, you chuckled. “You're a hoot, farm boy.” You reached for his cuffs, “ready to take these off?”

Clark moved his wrists away, furrowing at you. “C'mon, let me keep them.”

“As you wish. Just make sure you can handle the rest.” Not wanting to unlock and lock the handcuffs again, you grabbed him by the chain and shoved a pillow in between his arms, keeping the restraints above his head. His chest looked so pretty like this.

The print of Clark's cock straining against his boxers left little to the imagination. For one, he was big. Proportionately big. You had wondered before. You couldn't help it, with his bulky build and tall height feeling so out of place in the office. The piece had weight to it, laying at his lower torso. Pulling down his boxers felt like opening a present. Big, and pretty, too? He was Superman for sure.

Clark blushed the more exposed he felt. He hissed when the air hit his dick, already leaking a bit at the tip.

“You're so handsome, Clark…”

You straddled him for the second time, reaching for him between your legs. Hand wrapped around the girth, just lining him up to you made you whimper. Your walls stretched to accommodate his foundation. Mesmerized by your mouth hanging open, Clark nuzzled into your shoulder. “You've got this, baby. Take a second.”

Damn Clark Kent. Damn him for being so considerate, for secretly being your city's saving grace, and for keeping this dick from you.

The pressure, the movement inside, made your mind fuzzy. Sweet, gummy, addictive. Your diaphragm pushed moans from your chest, and below you was one Clark, who angled his hips upwards and whimpered. He felt so good, heels kicking into the mattress.

As your pace steadily grew, his wrists strained more and more against the handcuffs, until they came undone with a loud pop. Pieces flew across the room, too strong to be contained.

Your lungs filled with gasp, Clark's hands flying to grip onto your ass and thighs, denting the flesh like an impressive marble sculpture. Regaining some control, Clark had the freedom to thrust into you the way his body craved. Even in the moment, the height of both your volumes peaked unexpectedly. The neighbors were sure to complain. He had you impaled at ungodly hours of the night.

Clark, surprisingly, held himself together, what with the enhanced senses such as hearing making it difficult for him. He stared an almost literal hole into your vagina, watching his cock pump in and out of the cavity with his damn x-ray vision. You couldn't see what he saw, but knowing of his voyeuristic mind turned you on almost as much.

“Clark! Clark, I'm gonna…”

“Hold me down, hold me down-”

You two worked well as a team — you interlocking fingers with him to pin him down to your mattress, and him fucking you the way your body liked. That rubber-band-like tension snapped for the both of you — his hot cum spilling into you, groaning like it hurt, and your hips freezing in place, climax crashing over you.

Your knees and arms gave out, growing too tired to hold yourself up. And right when you needed a hero, there he was. Clark swept you up in his strong arms, wrapping them around your torso and laying you on your back. His body weight could lull you to sleep, resting his head on your chest and keeping you close any way he could. The broad expanse of his back covered you like a blanket. When he reached over to turn the bedside lamp off, you weren't one to complain.

Instead, your mind thought up of titles in case you decided to write about tonight for your column. No mentions of his identity, of course.

Out-of-This-World Sex. Why You Should Take A Chance On Your Workplace Hottie. And lastly, Cuffs: Get Yourself a Guy Who Wants To Be Tied Down.

My fingers are running through a bucket of maize. I'm sat beside the doorway to the chicken coop inside my mother's shack, staring at the morning sky like it was commissioned for me. I spend most mornings like this now, alone, working on the farm. My mother is off with her lover on a trip east — half business venture and half leisure. I don't blame her, and the quiet of our secluded home in Silverton isn't lonely at all. It kept my mind at ease, besides the howling animals at night and our rooster who never failed to wake me up at the crack of dawn.

My father isn't here. If he were, I wouldn't recognize him. Plenty of people in the states are moreno.

The house is on the outskirts of town by the mountains, making it a good walk to and from. My mother made that walk at least every other Sunday. She says church is good for the soul. It saves people, she says. Ma says a lot of things. If she were here, she would've reminded me to pluck in between my eyebrows too.

Spending early mornings alone is better for the soul, that's what I would tell her if she were here. Still, I'm not against wearing one of her rosaries just in case. A prideful man doesn't accept help. A strategic man weighs his options.

I take a deep breath, allowing the smell of farm and fresh air to ground me. But right when my shoulders relax, my precious solitude is stolen from me by the screams of a lunatic.

My head whips over my shoulder. I stood from the hay bale beneath me and reached over to the shotgun leaning on the wall. Sometimes coyotes got a little too curious about the chicken coop. This was different.

“That's one pale-ass coyote…”

He banged at the front door, twisting the doorknob like he had the key to it already inserted in. I slipped in through the backdoor, carrying the heavy weapon close to my body. When I opened the front, he fell to his knees like it was the door to a chorus of angels.

The man was a pleading mess, but before I could even hear the desperation in his voice, the stink of burnt flesh hit my nostrils with little restraint. My hand flew to cover my nose, my eyes scanning over his lively corpse.

“...Please, you gotta help me, ah- I beg. I need somewhere to stay, I won't be a bother to none, please just let me…”

His skin was fileted, peeling and blistering at the seams. A faint sizzle accompanied the smoke following his every movement. His shirt was torn, exposing the expanse of his chest where the sweat and seared skin continued; I snuck a glance. Must've been the phantom will of god keeping this man together, and not much else. He kept turning to watch the sun, as if he couldn't let it get too close or he'd be caught in the worst game of hide-and-seek. The light didn't seem close enough for all this ruckus.

I completely forgot about the gun in my grasp. Something odd about the man's energy — maybe his smell — made it impossible not to gawk. Like this interaction would stay with me forever. “What is your name, señor?”

His breathing was frantic, hands feeling the floorboards of the porch he kneeled on for balance. Had the sun taken upon itself to beat this poor man nearly to death? He could barely keep his eyes open, and when he did, they landed on the silver rosary draped over my neck. I could see his thoughts multiplying in real time. He scrambled until he found a way to convince me.

“Name's Remmick — ma'am please consider granting me shelter. I'd be eternally grateful, good woman. Have mercy on my soul, grant me salvation…”

He skipped past his name like that was the unimportant part. All that religious nonsense drowned in my ears. I gestured to the yard where the morning began for me. “Go ‘round the house, you can stay in my shack.” There was no way I'd allow that smell inside my home.

The burnt man nodded, rising to his feet only to stumble around the corner. I turned back around, sliding through the backdoor again to make my way up the hill, towards the shack.

The chicken clucks grew louder, until they were entirely spooked by the man's appearance. His humanity remained unrecognizable, so I couldn't blame them for thinking a predator was nearby.

That being said, I raised my gun with one eye closed for accuracy. Didn't really need it with him standing a few feet away, but it emphasized my point. The burnt man flinched and surrendered, hands in the air up by his head.

“Ho- Hold on now…”

“Who's after you and what the hell did you do to deserve it?”

“I didn’ do nothin’, I swear, ah… Was them Indians. They did this to me.”

He laced the word with venom, seemingly having several run-ins with them.

“And they probably had every right to.”

“Nah, they a ruthless people.”

“Well, my gradaddy's Indian, on my ma's side, so what does that make me, hm?”

The burnt man froze like he had just waltzed into a minefield. I knew what he was thinking: if I knew the Indians, could I let them finish what they started? Truth was, I wasn't well acquainted with that side of the family. He just fell for my bluff. Only part of it was genuine.

“Pardon me, then. Desperate times call for desperate measures, but see — you're not like them. They hunt in groups. You've got no one nearby for miles. Civilization's that-a-way,” he pointed off to somewhere distant with a jab of his thumb, “and I don't see no ring, meaning that you really do live alone. These some dangerous parts, lady.”

“You're telling me?” I said, still holding the shotgun aimed at his head.

He fell down to his knees again, crumbled up like tears were about to spill. I had never seen a man so destroyed. It made my heart flutter. Eyes widden. “Please, lady, I beg of you, I didn’ mean to cause no harm! Word spreads like wildfire and now all of a sudden I've got a tribe on my ass in every state. I never done nothin’ to no Ute, I swear.”

Contemplating, I sighed, lowering my weapon. It would be a waste of bullets anyway. A push could kill this guy after all he's been through. My boots crunched the dirt below, pushing through the door and setting my gun down on the table to search through the chicken supplies. Whenever it got cold in Silverton, I covered the metal coop cage with blankets to help insulate it.

The wool blanket fell comfortably onto the wooden paneling floor of the shack, yet Remmick remained outside. He sat on the grass, I'm guessing he never stood up after dropping to his knees, and watched me arrange things for him inside from the doorway. He stared maybe in disbelief, eyes tracing the interior slowly. His presence was magnetic.

“Adelante, señor, ‘fore I change my mind and strangle you with this here wool.”

He chuckled at that, but it didn't sound like he found it funny. His chuckle was dark, glad.

Remmick savored each step inside. “A good woman you are, indeed. May God grant you with the same generosity you've shown me today — amen.”

I adjusted his makeshift bed, patting down the sheet for a space all to himself. I figured it didn't have to be too comfortable. He wouldn't stay for too long, I'd make sure of it. “You're gonna need a lot more than prayer to nurse you back to health, sir.”

“You think so? A believer, with no faith in your God?”

“He's not my God.”

Remmick stood away from the door, lingering in a corner where no sunlight could hit him. I accommodated, closing the blinds so the warm rays weren't so harsh on his exposed flesh. “Mine neither. But my, is that a lovely chaplet.”

“It's my mother's.” My chest rose with sharp breath, something still on my mind. “What kind of a name is ‘Remmick’ anyway?”

He was at my side before I could turn around, hand hovering over the space in my chest where the cross lay. His restraint slipped far enough to stand next to me, but not enough to touch the silver. His eyes — they were dazed with his mouth agape. I spoke again, softer this time. “Where are you from?”

“Far. Real far.”

Remmick tilted his head, a bit of drool spilling past the corner of his mouth. My eyes caught it glimmering in the light.

“You must be starvin’.”

“Famished. You got something for me?”

His words were throaty. Suggestive. I did have something, I just couldn't give it to him.

Hurricanes were mostly foreign to this side of the country, but one raged inside the shack. The warm air rose, humidity prickling my skin and making me sweat. His dark curls stuck to his forehead, shirt worn out and plastered onto his fair skin. All that, and yet the temperature radiating around his fingertips was no warmer than ice itself. I could thaw his soul with my palms alone. Hot breath to melt him down to a heat that made sense. Or he could close the space and find an equilibrium between our bodies.

His head retracts. He chuckled dismissively through his nose, half of his lip pulling up to flash me a canine. “Not like that.”

“I wasn't-”

“You're too kind.”

I huffed. He's a complete stranger and he's already under my skin. I bent down for the bucket of feed, nothing else to see here.

“Hide. Heal. Leave. I don't give a damn, but I've got no pittance for you. I want you gone by sunup. ¿Entiendes?”

I didn't glance back when I brushed past the burnt man. Theoretically: out of sight, out of mind. The only downside to that saying was it didn't account for the sound of the hens begging me not to leave his stank with them.

I hated feeling paranoid. For the first time in weeks, a pair of eyes accompanied me during my daily-tasks. He ate with me at breakfast, treaded the wet floors with caution as I mopped, sorted my mail, washed my hair, tucked me into bed, all without moving a muscle. The burnt man didn't step foot outside the shack the entire time — maybe sitting back to watch me look over my shoulder all day, expecting him to be there. Even in the dead of night, when we both should've been asleep, I jumped out of my skin, sitting up with an obsessive compulsion to check if Remmick was still there.

Watching me.

The next morning, I woke up out of habit. Never had it been so eerily quiet. A sickly sweet feeling settled in my loins — not a school-girl sensation like butterflies, but instead the urge to give Remmick something to eat. The bones in my hands tingled in anticipation.

I convinced myself to sink down at the vanity and get to plucking, redirecting that energy towards the skin between my brows. Ma would be proud. A man and a makeover before the day even began.

Usually the hens never had to wait this long for me to feed them. It took picking the right outfit to drag me out of the house: an old blue frock from my mother's wardrobe, brown-leather oxfords, my hair tied low, adorned with a matching blue ribbon, and panty hose that were a pain to slip on. That only meant they'd be a joy to take off.

The tin bucket of maize crashed onto the floor the moment my eyes met the mangled rooster corpse waiting for me at the doorstep. I froze in place, throat threatening to scream but my tears flying first. The past six years of mornings spent together came to a sudden stop, now that he lay there lifeless in front of me. Apart from the green shimmer in his feathers, what remained wasn't too recognizable; a feast for the flies. A coyote couldn't have done this. His body was deliberately set there to rest for me to stumble upon.

It was the burnt man.

I worked out a motive as I buried the rooster's body in the yard, away from the hens’ line of sight. They were trying to warn me of what man could accomplish once he felt hungry, placed on this Earth merely to consume. And it was all my fault.

For the rest of the day, I tried so hard not to think about him that it ended up being the only thought in my mind. How infuriating it was. Apart from selling eggs and buying from the market, I had no reason to linger in town, so, to my mother's displeasure, I was never meeting people. Meeting boys, now men. Any man I had met was quick on his feet, blindly searching for things within the clutter and leaving once they found what they were looking for; they couldn't be bothered to stay behind and help me clean the mess. I thought Remmick would be the same, and it didn't bother me this time because it would be on my own accord, but he seemingly came across the rooster first and guiltily returned its body here.

He was less like them, and more like me. Starving in silence.

That's why when I heard one of the hens squeal in the middle of the night, I ran out of the house immediately. No time for a jacket or slippers, even if that meant wandering the woods in just my sleepwear like a maniac. We'd meet tonight. I'd make sure of it.

The dry forest floor could have been kinder to my bare feet, but it barely ever rained in June. In addition, I wasn't in any position to complain. I made my way through the vignette, glittery stars above me offering no help. Branches reached for the sky, hiding la luna blanca, prying her gaze away from the infidels roaming the night. Brittle bones made for little warmth. Truly every sign possible yet I refused to go back inside.

Not until twigs began to snap in my direction. And suddenly my breath was not the only sign of vitality. Nor my eyes, as two red dots stood across from me. An ache struck my temple — the evolutionary reflex to start running for my life.

Within minutes, my lungs ran out of air enough to make breathing hurt. Leaves revealed my exact location no matter where I ran, and even the trees betrayed me, protruding their roots to trip me until eventually I fell, whipping a stick to my knee on the way down. By the sound of it, the lace hem of my sleepwear ripped too. Layers of earth didn't offer much cushioning, my hands and chin hitting the ground hard.

I panted into the blades of grass, awaiting his approach. My body tensed while weakly flipping to lay on its side, my breasts tall like hills and valleys.

Remmick stepped in no rush, keeping the image of me dirtied and torn intact in his memory. His eyes shined like rubies trained on my existence. Most strikingly so were his teeth, too large for his mouth but so beautifully framed by his lips. A shiver went down my spine, face to face with something human only from a distant memory.

“Hello, lass. We meet again.”

I smiled, pushing my hands onto the ground to lift myself but hissing when I felt the cut at my knee. Nothing too deep, just one of those annoying scrapes. Same went for my chin. Remmick paused, expression falling and replaced with unease. There he goes contemplating again. Flickering from my face, to my knee, and back, before rapidly blinking out of it. Whatever the dilemma, he had made up his mind. Remmick hushed me, pressing a crooked finger to his lips.

“Shh, I've got you now, sweet girl. Don’ pout.”

He bent down, helping me up, then hooking his arms below my limbs to lift me. The whole way back, I curled into his hold, a lingering metallic smell from his clothes hitting my nostrils. He didn't consider bringing me inside the house, heading straight towards the shack.

He set me down at the edge of the table, my gun from earlier leaning against the wall. I hoped to meet his eyes again, but he was more concerned with my wounds.

Remmick gently traced his nails over the meat of my thighs, not at all trying to inflict pain despite their previously sharp nature. He pressed his lips to my cheekbone and pecked down the side of my face until he met my chin. Hands, long and large, grabbed my jaw and held it in place as he sighed over the scrape.

“S'just a scratch.”

He groaned. “I'll make it better.”

I sat still while Remmick swiped his tongue over the scrape. For a moment it stung, a hiss escaping past my teeth, but he eased the pain with a kiss to my chin.

His nose pressed against my jugular when I asked, “What are you?”

No answer, until, “Take a gander?”

“We have a word — anticristo.”

“Antichrist? Well, personally that's not fair. I ain't against anybody.”

“You murdered my rooster.”

Remmick sighed at my collarbone, dragging his mouth the whole way there, breath hitching and brows curling as the rosary burned his lips. “And he was tasty, darlin’.”

“What do you want wit'me? Gonna kill me too?” I teased.

“I want the same thing you want. To satiate you. Or am to I misunderstand your runnin' about? And here I was, tryna be a gentleman.” His snout traced the shape of my breast and laid a kiss to my ribs, encouraging me to rest with a hand sliding towards my back. He slipped his mouth to the inside of my other breast ahead of his words. “Next time I'll just take you there on the forest floor instead.”

Words clogged my throat, forbidding myself from interjecting. If I had just let him inside my home, gave him something to warm eat, that rooster's blood wouldn't have been on my hands. But something told me this was no longer in my control, or that from the moment he appeared at my front door, I no longer had any control at all. One last nip at my hip bone and he was gone, sneaking onto his knees.

“Been a while, ain't it? I could tell… been eatin’ me with your eyes since the moment we met.”

His fingertips peaked underneath my gown, searching for my underwear. Peeling the silk layer down, the air made me jump, mingling with the conflicting temperatures of Remmick. The cold tip of his nose, juxtaposed by his hot tongue. Flat and everywhere, so engulfed in his warmth I couldn't keep still.

My head fell back, leaning on the wall, finding it hard to keep my mouth shut as he invaded the space between my legs. Fangs teased my lips, Remmick not wanting to cut me but the hunger at the front of his mind. His hands held my thighs down so the wet onslaught could continue. Only when my fingers awkwardly fidgeted in my lap did he let go, placing them at his head. I looked down, grabbing at his brunette locks when our gaze finally met. The view of him below me was simply erotic — nuzzled in my hair too stubborn to pull away, eyes glazed over and swiping his tongue inside me with an unrelenting desire. He favored the button to see my reaction. My bashful thoughts had become reality, pervertedly hoping for this since he stood nearly dead at my doorstep. The real thing was somehow even better. Remmick craved it just as much as I did.

He knew when I was about to come before I did, listening to the flow of blood swelling the area. He drew back and spat at me. Each second we spent apart made the pleasure pulse away, causing me to groan. Remmick stood, licking my taste off his lips, words by my ear and fingers at the focus of my stimulation. “Pretty pussy, ain't she? I'd roam the desert for a drop of her. Drives me crazy…”

His other hand splayed over my tummy, applying pressure over the digits wriggling inside. Remmick coaxed a reaction out of me, massaging my walls, my heels nearly lifting onto the tabletop as I cried out fragments of his name. Obscenities bounced off the wooden shack walls to his satisfaction, my own juices mingling with his saliva from a moment ago.

“Oh, ceòl àlainn (beautiful music)!”

Remmick and I panted like wild dogs, the rhythm making me croon and making him match the pace with his hips, mindlessly humping at my unscathed knee, leaking a wet spot in his slacks. I released him from the tightened seams to wrap my gown around his length and pump him over the cotton. His jaw dropped, knees threatening to give out as a pathetic sound left his throat. I held him close by the back of the neck, pleading for my life while my nails dented his skin. I spoke in grunts before the words could find me. “Remmick, please.”

He chuckled at me, resting his forehead over mine. His thumb rolled my clit like a pearl between his fingers. I spasmed and cried, Remmick mimicking my face when he dripped cum onto my thighs, staining the fabric where the cloth met his tip. His heavy fingers slid out and into his mouth with little hesitation. Meanwhile, I sat there, brain buzzing and catching my breath.

The transition from the table to the wool blanket on the shack floor had the same amount of care Remmick put into everything else tonight. I laid my head on his torso, and he set his hand on the side of my hip. We both could get used to this level of domesticity, I could tell because of the conversation we had after.

“Earlier, you said something. What language was that?”

He smirked, sitting up on his elbows. “My tongue, y’mean? Gaelic, from the motherland. Éire.”

I blinked in confusion, having enough gripes with English and Spanish alone. “Er-ruh?”

“Eh-ra. Eh-ra — yeah, you've got it.” Remmick cupped my face with a hand, directing my mouth the way he wanted. “Éire.”

“Éire.”

He patted the side of my face, “Ah. Gorgeous, hm. Anyhoo — a lost language — that's what it is. The light s’dimming with no sticks to keep the fire alive. My people… we've lost so much. What about you? You, and your Romantic tongue?”

“Stop it. I'm not fluent. My ma raised me with English and Spanish, but the more I live in America, with American peoples, the less I find myself using it. Ma says I shouldn't stop trying, else I'll lose myself.”

“Thas’ good. Never lose yourself.”

“Hey, maybe we can learn each other's languages.”

“I could make that happen. We can have each other's memories. Show you all of Éire from here right in our shack. Make you like me. And all you have to do is feel jus’ a pinch. You'd want that?”

Hmph. “I'll have to think about it.”

Sleep captured me well, Remmick's cool, dead body below me acting as the best pillow imaginable. He was gone when I woke up, getting a head start on rising up before the sun did.

Our next encounter happened about a week later, at sundown. I had come back from a day at the market, catching a figure with a makeshift bouquet of flowers in his hold. We wore matching colors, his mustard shirt and my light yellow dress. Thin material for the heat, and easy on the eyes.

“Missed you,” he muttered, nodding my way. I kissed him with a lifelong intimacy, delivering a hum from my mouth to his. Even so, he still refused to follow me inside. “We have to be invited in first.”

The decision seemed like an easy one, but it held weight. A moment ago I wasn't aware he couldn't waltz in a room all willy-nilly, but now granting him access to my home meant irreversible entry for the rest of time. That usually wasn't something you could control. Well, at this moment, I wanted Remmick inside my home, and he would have to respect my boundaries otherwise like any regular human-being.

“Come in.”

He sat across from me at the dinner table, watching me eat with a kind, stupid smile as, though the corned beef and rice satiated his belly too.

“Why chickens?” Most of our conversations were question-based. That's what a relationship is like, I suppose. Getting to know the ins and outs of a person. Within these discussions was where I learned the stipulations of his vampirism; and how much my silver rosary seduced him.

“I don’ like goats.”

Remmick raised his thin brows, already amused. “Well, go on then.”

“We had just moved here. Ma was looking for business, and it was between a couple o’goats or a coop with chickens. I begged her not to take the goats. Not with that billy starin’ at me like that. Black coat and horns curling in on themselves. Mm-mm. Looked like the devil incarnate. I grew up hearin’ stories about a monster that would eat livestock in the dead of night. Sounded like it was just doin’ us a favor.”

He stared at the table and smiled, taking my story as a compliment. “Oh, I have another one. Tell me about your family. The day we met, you said your grandfather's an Indian?”

“Yeah, my ma's father. He fell in love with a woman outside of the tribe. He got shunned, as they couldn't accept his wife into the family. Things got complicated. My mother made things even worse, getting knocked up by a cattle rancher, who got on his horse and rode away before I was born. When the time came, my mother assimilated for a lump sum of money from the government. We moved to this house when I was six, giving up any ‘Indian-ness’ for a full-fledged American lifestyle.”

“Wow.” Remmick shook his head in sympathy. “Labels often get in the way of fellowship.”

I wiped my mouth with the tablecloth, shrugging. I never asked Remmick about his past familial-life. Whenever I mentioned mine, he never offered his experience. Almost like he never had one to begin with, and I never felt the urge to mention it. My turn, “You like music?”

“Oh, I love music.” He put a hand to his chest, “music brings people together. Universal language of life.”

The topic ignited a fire in his eyes. I felt glad to have brought it up. “I'd love to dance with you, Remmy. Wait here.”

I rose from the table, leaving Remmick patiently waiting while I made my way down the hall and to my mother's bedroom. Discarded for almost a month now, the room smelled distinctly of her scent. Her signature perfume and favorite candles stayed behind, leaving the room a frozen frame in her memory. I dug through her things until I found what I came for. The tambourine in my grasp jingled when I flinched, not seeing Remmick at the doorway until now. He stood quietly, staring past me and at the room. The scent brought him here, evident in the way Remmick's nostrils twitched. I shook the instrument purposely this time, rising to my feet. “Found it.” He motioned an arm towards the living room, and I happily followed, a smile forming on my face from how much louder the house became already. With him here, I didn't have to get used to the silence.

On deciding what song to dance to, muscle memory kicked in and I hit the tambourine to a tune my mother used to play for me. For the life of me I couldn't remember the words. I just played in a circle, my skirt swishing around me, until Remmick wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and joined in.

"It's been the ruin of many a poor girl... and God, I know I'm one..."

The song had been one we heard on the radio in town. A nearby shop had it loud enough you could hear the music down the street. Something about it brought us loving joy, the earworm staying with us until this day.

Remmick and I partied like children on a sugar-rush, working up a sweat before giving our feet a rest by laying on the cool tile, limbs spread out. We had flown through songs, Remmick pairing the sway of my hips with sporadic kicks. I attempted to teach him one of those Latino ballroom dances, apologizing every time I nearly stepped on his feet. His solution was to make me laugh, picking me up and spinning me in the air. He taught me to waltz, Remmick holding one hand up to guide me and the other on my back to keep me close. He alluded to his childhood being much farther from mine, but dancing with me made him feel like a kid again. His cheeks plumpened with a genuine smile, so sweet it stuck to your teeth. He was happy here, no longer on the run from people trying to hunt him. Could they really blame his will to survive? We all have to eat, anyway.

I awoke in bed. Remmick couldn't help putting me to rest before making me wait even longer for his second return: two whole weeks, afraid he might get comfortable. This deeply saddened me. He cannot continue to isolate, not when I was at home waiting to love him.

I spent more time in town to snuff out my boredom, stuck in a rocking chair listening to the other women gossip. One woman, who I knew since living here, had gotten married recently. Sitting in a chair, anxiously playing with her gold wedding band, she went on and on about her husband, ranting about how he seemed so perfect, but mysteriously disappeared the night before. She was convinced he was off with another woman.

I never had any stories to tell, until she caught me smiling to myself. “What's got you so giddy?”

Everyone averted their gaze in my direction. I kept my head down so I wouldn't have to make eye contact. “I met someone.”

The women chattered in unison, shocked and bombarding me with questions:

“You met someone? Cooped up in those mountains like you do?”

“What does he look like? Is he handsome?”

“Is he any good? Y'know…?”

All I had to do was nod once, and the chattering doubled. I felt like I was back at home, sitting in my shack beside the chicken coop, waiting for Remmick to return.

One fateful night, while preparing to run out into the woods again to force another confrontation, I caught him lingering outside in my backyard. He dug his shoes in the dirt, hands in his pockets, lost in his thoughts. I threw the bedsheets over, angrily stomping uphill towards him within seconds. In the distance, a thunderclap.

“How long you been standin’ out here?”

“‘Bout ten minutes.”

“Why do you keep avoiding me?”

“Darlin’, we can't keep doing this.”

A flash of lightning, followed by more rumbling thunder. I froze. It wasn't going to end like this. My silence meant he could continue, “it's in my nature to want to kill you. Every touch reminds me that my teeth were carved to puncture your skin. When you fall asleep in my arms, it's in my instinct to make sure you never wake up. Your life is my forbidden fruit, and I cannot keep putting you in danger. Why'd I even…”

I could see him deconstruct our relationship, regret creeping into his expression, and I couldn't accept it. “No, Remmy, be honest with yourself. You love me. And I love-”

“Darlin’, please don't-”

“I love you, too!”

My vision went white, the lightning getting too close. In a desperate attempt to scare me away, Remmick hissed, lunging at my throat with nails threatening to cut me. He had bared his teeth, top and bottom row elongated within seconds, prepared to tear into muscle. His eyes were inhumanely red and blank, like a mindless animal who only knew how to hunt. This had been the monster he warned me of. I only flinched at the sudden lightning strike, I swore.

He cradled my head, one hand large enough to wrap around my entire neck, staring down at me like I was supposed to accept death. I reached for his face and kissed him. Heavy rain poured from the night sky.

Surprisingly our first kiss, our lips crashed and our eyes closed, melting into each other to finally find that equilibrium. One of his arms traveled down to my waist, fondly holding me close. Remmick bit my bottom lip, drawing less blood than he would have if he hadn't given up on intimidating me. I spoke over his mouth in hushed words, “don't leave me, too…”

He grumbled to himself, leading me backward before using the slightest decline of the hill to pull me into his arms, carrying me back down and kicking the back door open. Upon reaching my bedroom, Remmick laid me down and returned to my mouth. I felt him everywhere, our hands shedding damp layers until all that remained was hair and skin, my rosary banished to the bedside table. He found sanctuary between my legs, grinding himself and hardening with my arousal. The golden chain draped over his neck swung to the movement. Our bodies rocked together, matching hurried breaths as my fingers scratched at his nape, lacing through his soaked brunette locks.

Remmick whined, met with brutal realization he belonged here. He no longer had to hide, leaking precum down the center. “Oh, baby, you makin’ a mess out of me,” he whispered, allowing the loudest sound in the room to be our bodies. The tip paused at my entrance, squeezing him tighter the farther he pushed. His hold forced my hips down by the bone. He kept at it until he sobbed. Watching his eyebrows curl to meet in the center, he filled my cavity to the brim. I arched my back from the sensation, removing the space between our naked chests, when Remmick spoke soothingly at my jaw: “I was made for you… a millennium came and went, and I finally found my destiny, here.”

His weight drew in and out, sloppily sliding out before clicking back in like a magnet. A low moan forced itself from my diaphragm, the repetitive motion utterly euphoric. “Fuck.”

Remmick entertained the idea of speeding up. Our skin slapped upon contact, only adding to the pervasive noises. Skin began to bounce, alluring Remmick to bite the delicate tissue of my breasts, imprinting his teeth. Each thrust drove me into the mattress, squeaking my bedframe, and earned whimpers from Remmick. He simply took it upon himself to tell me how good he felt. When my hands clawing at his lower back became too much to handle, he flipped us over.

Remmick's thumbs pressed into my hips, gripping them tight enough to leave the skin pink underneath. I gifted him his own set of pink marks, scratching lines down his pale chest. He kept mumbling to himself, evolving into loud groans of pleasure. “The heaven they speak of… It surrounds me — and now I believe.”

Remmick pulled my body down to lay on his, splaying a hand over my lower back to control the pace. His pistoning hips electrified me from the inside-out. “Grind yourself, milis (sweet),” he said in my ear, “use me.”

Bodies stuttering in sync as we braced for impact, the orgasm hit us at the same time. Remmick and I were one in the same. Two exhausted bodies; tangled limbs, drooling in a blurred haze, bounded in a contract signed with sweat. He bared his teeth, teasing over my shoulder so carefully that only one tooth pierced the flesh and drew blood.

The thunderstorm outside hadn't quit. I don't think it would've mattered anyway, as our lover's quarrel happened an hour before dawn. We remained in bed, staring out the window behind the safety of drapes, wasting the day away. Our scents mingled until they unified. I belonged in his arms, transitioning in and out of sex and sleep. I wasn't even ashamed of it. Remmick belonged with me. Tracing shapes onto my side, he promised he'd do anything to keep us together.

I understood the appeal of having a man waiting for you at home. I returned to my chores, greeted by chickens who were less than happy to see me, and spent my days inside with Remmick's company. At night, he would leave to get his fill, then come back bloodied when it was time to start all over again. I adjusted my schedule to this new lifestyle, selling eggs late in the afternoons. Every morning he'd join me in the bath, letting me scrub the copper smell off his body and replace it with romantic lavender suds.

Another month came and went; Remmick and I were inseparable. He soothed me through a menstrual cycle. I was taken aback at first, noting that time truly flies by when you're having fun, but Remmick was the medication I didn't know I needed. He'd leech onto me, draining me of my blood, pain, and sorrows. Everything seemed so much more tolerable with him around. He was my life partner.

And evidently he felt the same way, cooking me dinner one night and asking me to get “dolled up” for him. The nicer dresses were kept in my mother's closet.

Entering her room again after all this time felt melancholic. Webs formed amidst her things. She abandoned me. My mother deserved the life she always wanted, but to leave me here expecting her, with no real intention of coming back, soured our last goodbye. But if she could move on, so could I. I went for the vibrant red dress hung at the back of her closet. Frilly and lively — even if I wouldn't be.

Remmick helped me prepare for the night, bathing me and crafting me in his image. His dinner was unlike anything I had ever seen. One serving, clearly meant for me: golden brown rabbit chunks, surrounded by all sorts of vegetables and garnishes, with a beige stew to tie it all together. This included an off-white beverage poured in a glass to the side, which he motioned toward me, proud his hard work came to fruition. “Buttermilk,” he said with a toothy grin. “Homemade. Thas’ a lavish color on you. We chose well.”

“What's all this for?”

“For your last night human, I thought you'd appreciate a hearty supper. Afterwards, a surprise. Come, sit.”

He monitored every bite, making sure I appreciated the sacred meal, as it would be my last. When the sun fully set, we migrated outside to join the rest of nature. Hand in hand, me and my beloved navigated through the forest, albeit aimlessly. I laughed to myself, nudging his arm. “Are we lost?”

“Couldn't possibly. It'd be hard to miss.”

Right when I was about to ask what he meant, the path abruptly stopped. A gaping hole in the ground, large enough for a person to fit inside, awaited us, about six feet deep. My heart rate spiked, the imagery making all of it feel a bit too real. I gulped.

Remmick dove in first, holding a hand out for me to join. Sensing my hesitation, he thought a smile would ease my nerves. “I've got you, love.”

I accepted his offer, awkwardly sliding down the dirt and planting my feet in the soil.

Palms clasped, I watched as Remmick closed his eyes and began the reception. “Dearly beloved,” he spoke to the wilderness, “we are gathered here tonight, without a soul or almighty being to witness, binding in eternal matrimony, as betrothed. Repeat these vows, as I bestow the bands.

You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone.”

For a moment, my voice never rose to the surface, stuck in my throat and afraid to participate. “You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone.”

Though sealed, Remmick's lips strained against his teeth, which steadily sheathed. My beloved slid a golden ring over my left finger, a single jewel in the middle. “I give you my body, that we might be one.”

My brows furrowed at it, sensing its familiarity. “I give you my body, that we might be one.”

His salivating proved to be too much for his mouth to handle, spilling down the sides. “I give you my spirit, until our life is done.”

Tears prickled in my eyes, unbearably happy. I never dreamt of death. I fantasized about forever. Perhaps I understood why my mother left for love. My turn arrived, sliding a similar ring onto him.“I give you my spirit, until our life is done.” My voice trembled.

He sighed, calmly dropping his shoulders. His predatory red gaze caught in the moonlight. I didn't care for heaven and hell, but if this was the devil across from me, I knew nothing but my love for him. And his, for me.

Remmick led me down in the grave to lay on my back, knelt over me once I was. We were one with Earth and sky, my death-bed of dirt below me with the stars overcast him. He brought the left hand to his face, pressing a kiss to my ring finger and leading his lips to my wrist. My skin crunched, his teeth piercing through as though he were eating an apple. I couldn't hide the pain from my face, and I don't think he expected me to. He didn't flinch at the sound of my shriek. In fact, it seemed to cheer him on — Remmick biting farther to my forearm, switching to my other arm, then my neck — littering me with bites. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by my own blood, the thirsty soil soaking up anything he hadn't. There was when I lost consciousness, going in and out of reality until I eventually became too tired to stay alive.

“There's my sunshine. Took your time, didn'cha? Sorry ‘bout that. Went a little overboard…”

My gums were obnoxiously sore. Vertigo and nausea hit me the moment I sat up in my grave. Still night outside, I must've been gone for no more than ten minutes. Remmick awaited me at the foot of the hole, offering the same hand to help me up. Every movement, no matter how sudden or expected, made the sickness swell in my throat. Visions flooded my eyesight, reaching out to hold Remmick for balance. Fields of green, oceanside cliffs, foggy mountains, Éire; memories that weren't mine. Blood, centuries of insatiable hunger, and inexplicably, my mother.

Her screams, begging for mercy as Remmick's perspective tore into her jugular and ripped apart layers of muscle and skin to drink straight from the source. She cried, calling out to her lover, who was off to the side, slumped into the ground face first, lifeless. She called out to her savior, praying for the pain to cease, but was ultimately met with silence. Lastly, she called for me. Whimpering my name, clawing the space over her heart. She fell back, dead, in my beloved's arms.

My palms and knees met the ground first, despair taking over me and releasing a wail into the previously silent night. Of all his memories, the one of my mother's death looped in my mind. Remmick rubbed my sides, trying to soothe my misery. A comfort to no one, he knew exactly what had me so distraught. “Let it out, darlin’... she didn't suffer long.”

My sobs were so powerful, I must've cracked a rib. I clawed at the ground, nails digging in the dirt to drag my corpse away from the vampire. So overcome with disgust, in myself, in him, I regurgitated the ridiculous amount of saliva collecting in my mouth. “You knew?”

“And how it pains me for you to find out this way. Honey, come back here, let me explain-”

“No! You betrayed me. You abused my trust — you used me like shelter for a parasite!”

“Come on, you don't mean that.”

“You murdered my… my… ma? Ma, estaremos juntos de nuevo (we'll be together again)!”

I crawled until I made it to my feet, stumbling through the forest like a headless-chicken, with Remmick issuing a warning from behind me, “Don't make me have to control your thoughts, milis. I wanted to give you the chance to understand first, ‘fore I make you.”

Remmick stalked after me, relentlessly following now that I've become unobliging. A crazed killer in the woods, with no weapons of his own other than the fact he was the weapon, luring me here to claim me entirely. Strip me of my freewill. Make me like him. Twigs snapped under his strides, until it went completely silent. I glanced behind at the moon, and saw him hovering above, leaping into the sky. I would not escape, which is why he remained in no hurry. I saw my home in the distance, safety within reach when I caught Remmick in my peripheral. He managed to reach my shack, shotgun in both his hands, snapping it down the center over his knee. I wasn't allowed to take the coward's way out. Once inside, I shut the backdoor behind me, hurriedly sliding the locks into place.

“That won't work for you no more, darlin’. I've been invited in!”

Remmick, confident in his delivery, was convinced he knew how this would end. My feet found their way to my mother's bedroom one last time, in search of matches. Then, in the kitchen, for booze. No time for hesitation. The vampire met the backdoor with violent kicks, busting it down until he found a way inside. Finally, it gave out, pieces flying out of place. Remmick shook his head at my naivety. “I didn't think you'd be this bothered — quite fond of my company you were. I don’ mind a little challenge here and there, but this? All your runnin' about? No worries, I'll make it better. I always do…”

His footsteps hurried when he realized the smell of alcohol was too strong to be coming from a single glass. The flames grew quicker than even I expected, sitting in the center of a ring of fire that would soon engulf the entire home. I would burn among my mother's things — hand held high as her silver rosary burned into my flesh. My last decision would be to save myself, after all the danger I had put myself through. Danger mistaken for safety, and unconditional love.

Stubbornness got the best of him. He tip-toed, looking for a way out, trying to steal me from my own salvation, but in the end, he couldn't die for me. Not when he had other goals to achieve. “You and I will meet again, my sweet. Everything will return to the way it was, and then, we'll truly be happy. You'll see. Until then, comhpháirtí saoil (life partner).”

Remmick lingered around until the sun rose, watching the house burn all night long until my screams reduced to ashes along with it. My death proved to be another tragedy to fan his own flames. Another person he lost. Now, just another person he wanted back. Remmick wouldn't stop until he could get a hold of those gifts, unity through music like the filídh could. He would no longer allow the possibility of normalcy to distract him any further.

He'd make this right.

He'd save me.

He'd make it better. He always did.