You’re As Beautiful As The Day I Lost You.

Superman, if described in one short word, would be called kind. He protected Metropolis with his life, sacrifices himself for the biggest and even the smallest of creatures. That farm-boy from Smallville, Kansas developed such a sense of love for the Earth he wasn’t even from.

People adored him, that golden boy drenched in sun with sparkling dimples in his cheeks. Children dressed as him for Halloween, news reporters fawned over each piece thrown together by journalists, and generally, most admired him—well, all except one.

This other superhero who went by the name of Wolverine, drenched in royal blue, gold, and pure brooding.

He’d first spotted her chasing down a man who’d ripped the bag out of an elderly woman’s hands, mid-flight and ready to serve justice—only for the thief to be brutally tackled and sent to the hospital with a busted nose. Press went insane, speculations arising regarding who this new superhero was and if she’d join Justice Gang.

Clark received stories about her constantly at the Daily Planet, sightings, tons of critique, and equal amounts of support (which included Clark himself). Admittedly, he was fascinated—not by the fact that there was a new superhero but because he had not spoken to her once, not even a quip in passing. She kept to herself, apparently had told Guy Gardner to fuck off after he offered her a place in the Justice Gang—which ended those speculations pretty quickly.

In three weeks, Superman was actively seeking out Wolverine like a lost puppy—though he denied it when Guy would comment on the way he hovered farther and farther from central New Troy into Hob’s Bay.

Hob’s Bay was Wolverine’s most frequented district, the large skyscrapers of New Troy transitioning into rundown apartments and lopsided infrastructure. It wasn’t as glamorous as Hell’s Gate or Queensland Park, but the people who lived there needed help the most.

Hob’s Bay, otherwise known as Suicide Bay, had been infamous for its high crime rate and its low police activity. The mayor turned a blind eye to the people’s suffering, focusing funds on LuthorCorp, which backed majority of the infrastructure projects in the city. If there was one thing the Wolverine despised more than the crappy police department in Hob’s Bay, it was LuthorCorp.

Maybe that’s why on a random Saturday evening, she finally left Hob’s Bay as a giant machine tanks were trampling New Troy. Clark had been caught up with work at the Daily Planet, balancing his secret identity with his work life had grown tough over the past few months with the influx of stories entering and leaving their hands.

Rumbling in the streets were the first thing that alerted him of something being wrong, next was the sound of screams—then an explosion, fiery hot and angry. He’d managed to pass it off as journalism work, slipping out the back of the building as he stripped himself of his work attire into that familiar scheme of red, blue, and gold.

The ground shook with the each rotation of those heavy metal wheels, cracks in the concrete deepening as their engines burst alive and released exhaust. Soon, the tanks stalled—stilling head on at something that was at first blocked by jagged edges and oxidized bulk.

Superman’s cape billowed as he shot up into the sky, air curving around him as he cut clean through until he was finally able to see what was ahead. That familiar royal blue and gold caught his eye immediately, then that sickening red.

Wolverine swayed slightly as a small child, no older than six, stood tucked away behind her. Blood dripped down her left arm, or moreso her lack of arm. The right was burned crisp, caught in crossfire and the flesh was an angry red beneath the cracked skin. Three blades stuck out from between reddened knuckles, breathing ragged within her chest as her teeth were gritted together painfully tight.

Clark had seen violence before, had seen the wounds that formed when LuthorCorp was allowed to push the boundaries of humanity. He’d felt the anger, the sorrow that cuts deep and sits in one’s chest, festering. He could see that same anger within Wolverine’s eyes as she stumbled back for a moment, steadying herself on an ankle too twisted and mangled to be stable.

“Golly, are you okay? You need to get out of here, you’re hurt—.”

“You’re late, Supershit.” Her teeth were remained gritted as she spat out the annoying nickname, not full of hatred but not exactly fond either. Wolverine’s eyes flickered down behind her, taking in the little boy’s shaken state—far too young to truly process the danger he was in. There was a pause in her voice as she coughed, blood dribbling past the corner of her lips before she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. “Get the kid out of here.”

The words were spoken more in a rasp than an actual sentence, but Clark took one look at that little boy and knew. His voice was as gentle as the breeze as he kneeled down, heart tugging and clenching at the shaky hands that quickly grabbed onto his own.

“Let’s get you home, buddy.”

Superman shot off into the sky with that tiny form burrowed between his arms, heart beating double the speed of his own.

A street over, a mother stood in her front lawn—heart hammering within her chest as she searched both ends of the street. Her lips parted in a shout of a name the child in his arm’s immediately recognized, scrambling to touch that familiar freshly mowed grass the moment Clark’s feet grazed the surface.

The mother’s eyes fell upon that little boy and relief flooded her face, feet stumbling over themselves as she scooped her son into her arms. Her mouth spilled out words of appreciation, scolding her son in between each phrase.

Superman remained just long enough to watch them enter the safety of their homes, door swinging shut against its frame before he rose into the sky again. He hovered through the clouds, weightless as he soared—eyes endlessly scanning for the tanks, but the further he flew, the more he was unable to sense them.

Guy Gardner stood in the center of a ring of journalists and paparazzi, a sea of cameras snapping angles to shove into their latest story. Superman hovered for a moment before landing beside him, Guy’s words lost in his ears as he spoke to one of the reporters. “What happened to the tanks?”

Guy didn’t look at Clark as the paparazzi continued to snap photos, simply just tilting his head toward Hobsneck Bridge.

“Why don’t you go ask wolvy over there?”

Charles would’ve scolded you for smoking after a mission, would’ve told you it was a bad habit in some philosophical way that made you question the world. You didn’t give a damn, never did—but ever since moving to Metropolis, you’d begun to miss the way he’d scold you.

Your arms and legs hurt like hell, freshly healed skin stretching thin over aching bones. Your mask clung to the sweaty skin of your face. The sun was too bright, reflecting off the water and directly into your eyes but your ankle was too fucked for you to actually stand—so you sat, legs spread out upon piles of junk metal that were once tanks.

You blinked once, then twice—eyes watering as a cloud that blocked the sun floated out of the way, blinding you once more. After the second blink, you’d given up, opting to lean back against that rather uncomfortable cushion of bars beneath you as your eyes closed shut. Birds chirped as they floated to their nests atop the bridge, waters swaying and splashing against the posts. If you weren’t in so much pain, you might’ve found it relaxing—hell, you’d been in pain so long with this damned mutation that having your arm exploded off was the least of your worries.

A shadow, one far too deliberately placed, suddenly blocked the sun from your eyes. Opening your eyes rather reluctantly, Superman stood in front of you—tall bulking figure working as the perfect reprieve from the sunlight, except now he looked like a damn comic book cover of a superhero. His hair was perfectly curled, dimples etched into his cheeks as a smile was wedged into his lips.

For such a large guy, he seemed weirdly small just standing there—waiting for you to notice him like a puppy needing attention. You snuffed the cigarette onto the pile beneath you, shifting as you released an almost ungodly groan for your age, rolling up to sit straight. As much as you wished you could’ve sounded nicer, which you didn’t, exhaustion had already ate away at your body and you had a shift that started in approximately… half an hour, and you were covered in blood and shit. “What?”

“Hi,” He seemed to become brutally aware of how eager he sounded right after he spoke, clearing his throat as he tried (and failed) to shift into something more casual. “Uh… Hey. You’re really good.”

“…thanks.”

“No—like shockingly good.” Superman shifted side to side, his words growing less confident by the moment as if you were going to punch him for just breathing wrong—which you might for that comment.

You were quick to raise a brow, a chuckle catching in your throat as you watched his face drop, panic flooding his oversized form. “Surprised I can keep up with you, Superman?”

“No, no—! I’m sorry, I apologize. Uhm, I just…” Superman trailed off, brows furrowing as he thought of what to say—what words would remedy the apparent wrongdoing he’s committed. “I haven’t spoken to you at all since you started patrolling Hob’s Bay.”

“Yeah, you haven’t. Didn’t think that’d be a big deal to you, Wonder Boy.” Your ankle was almost fully healed, pain subsiding into an odd tingle as you crossed one leg over the other—eyes tracing from his boots up to his face, to those eyes as clear as the ocean. Fuck, he was perfect.

“I like to know who I’m workin’ with.”

“We aren’t a team, bub.” You were quick—far too quick to answer. You didn’t like teams—hadn’t liked them since the incident, since… you quickly blinked away the memories that ate at your mind.

The words were grossly sincere leaving his lips, eyes softening far too much. Meeting his gaze with your own, you began to understand just for a flicker of a moment why people loved him so much—why he was the comforting presence that blanketed the city and not someone like Guy Gardner. “I know, but I’d like to think we could be.”

That softness seeped into your bones, tugging your heart in a way that made you nauseous—biting back the feeling with a sharp drawl of air into your lungs. “Yeah… uh, you know, I’m not exactly big on the whole chit chat thing. So… I’m going to leave now.”

You stood, rolling your ankle once before applying your weight onto the limb. It felt fine, a little bit sore but stable enough to carry your ass back home and through your shift at the Ace O’ Clubs.

“Oh,” His posture hunched like he was mentally scolding himself for scaring you away, voice slipping into an almost pathetic pitch. “Okay, well… bye! See you soon!”

“Yeah…” You began, carefully navigating past jagged pipes and slabs of various metals. Hobsneck bridge, though connected to the technical slums of the city, had one of the most gorgeous sunsets you’d ever seen—the glow reflecting across the minimal amount of skin your costume showed. “No thanks.”

As much as Superman seemed nice, you weren’t exactly big on the idea of Big Blue tagging along with you for missions—in fact, you want him to stick to New Troy where he belonged. He was a superhero—you weren’t. You never considered yourself that beautiful beacon of hope, you were just a mutant, someone unfortunately born with powers—someone whose team died because of those powers.

The whole situation at New Troy had set you back twenty minutes for your shift, still stuck at your apartment scrubbing dirt, blood, and whatever the fuck else off your skin before messily throwing on your dingy polo and slacks.

The bar was exceptionally busy each time there was a Superman sighting, the owner himself probably being one of his biggest fans. You had regulars, of course, a couple who was too damn touchy but tipped you too well for you to say anything, a group of women who always left more sober than when they arrived somehow, and Jimmy fucking Olsen.

You don’t know how Jimmy did it, but each weekend he’d show up to the Ace o’ Clubs with a girl on his arm that was an absolute smoke show—so hot it burned and he was just… there. Then he’d come back the next day, have one too many shots of vodka before telling you all about how the last girl was sweet but “too much for him”. It was like clockwork at this point, but at least he tipped decently and genuinely thought of you as friend.

Hell, sometimes he’d even ask you about your own life—as stagnant as it was besides the whole mutant gig.

“Nothing much, just been dealing with work.” You swiped a towel over a freshly cleaned glass, soaking up droplets as Jimmy rested his head into the palm of his hand.

“You say this every damn time.” Jimmy groaned out before taking a long sip of a vodka cranberry you’d made half an hour ago. “Keep your secrets, but you’ve gotta be getting laid at least once in a while.”

“Maybe I don’t stick my dick in everything that moves. Seriously, these chicks are too pretty for you.”

Swinging the towel over your shoulder, you put the glass into its designated spot. Admittedly, working as a bartender wasn’t exactly ideal but there was a flow to it that you appreciated. As you took the order of the next group, Jimmy continued to whine and complain about his romantic life.

“I know—I know, they’re like, goddesses. And they get so attached after like, one date.”

The look that came across your face was nothing short of peeved as you slid the man beside Jimmy his drink. “Holy shit, you’re literally just bragging right now.”

Jimmy hands raised as his shoulders shrugged. “I’m not! Imagine how it feels to have someone obsessed with you after just talking once!”

Embarrassingly, your mind immediately drifted to that familiar Wonder Boy drenched in red, gold, and blue—how his eyes were so keenly focused on you. It wasn’t rocket science to know he was at least minimally fascinated by the Wolverine, but it was just that—a childish fascination with a fantasy ‘hero’.

When you snapped back to reality, and to a rather annoyed Jimmy, you turned on the glamour—fanning your face dramatically as you plopped olives into martini glass. “Oh, my name’s Jimmy, life is so hard having so many women fawn over me.”

“Dude.”

“What? That’s literally how you sound.” You didn’t even try to feign innocence as you served your last order for now, shifting to where your hip was resting against the counter across from Jimmy.

“Whatever.” The Ace O’ Clubs never failed to be busy on a Saturday night, but especially not after Superman’s arrival earlier. You’d be raking in tips till three AM, but for now, it was nice to feel like it was just you and Jimmy—talking like friends, even if he’d never know everything about you. “By the way, I invited a friend along tonight. Try to be nice to him.”

A friend? You were tempted to remark that Jimmy didn’t have friends and this guy surely had to be a hallucination, but there was a certain sincerity in his posture as he spoke—like he was scared you’d tear his friend to shreds like a pack of hyenas.

You scoffed out, turning your back to Jimmy as you got to work once more. “I’m always nice.”

Thirty minutes later, a man came awkwardly pushing through the drunken crowd. Jimmy introduced him to you as Clark Kent, the Smallville farmer’s boy with a heart too big for his body (which was admittedly, also massive).

“And this here, is the worst bartender in Metropolis.” Jimmy chuckled as he downed his second glass, cheeks rosy and flushed in the dim lighting of the Ace o’ Clubs. “But she listens to me, so we tip her well.”

A grunt left your lips as you eyed Jimmy, gaze soon tracing up to meet Clark as he sat down—hands clasped together far too politely for the type of place he was in. You flipped your towel over your shoulder once more, gliding over to the countertop as you jutted your finger out towards the most flowery drink on the menu, something in your gut recognizing that look on his face, that familiar furrow of brows as he thought too hard as his tongue pushed against his cheek.

“Try the Dirty Shirley.”

Three drinks later, Clark was still sober as ever and Jimmy was passed out on the countertop.

“So, you work at the Daily Planet with Jim-boy over here?” Your hip was slotted comfortably against the wooden surface, elbow supporting the weight of your upper body.

“Yep.”

“Is he also a mess at work, or does he just reserve that for me?”

Clark took a moment to think, lips puckering around the bright red straw before releasing—arms coming to rest up on the countertop parallel to yours. “He’s a mess, but maybe less of a mess during day hours. Lois tells him to zip it all the time.”

You snapped your fingers as if you had just solved a mystery. “Damn, so that’s why he tips me so well.”

“You’re also just a good bartender,” Clark chuckled beneath his breath, stirring sweet syrup within his cup. He was weirdly sincere almost all of the time, voice far too soft spoken like he was overly conscious of his existence. “but you listen to his guy-talk, so I guess he’s biased.”

“Bub, I have no problem with bias if it pays my bills.”

The bar had begun to clear out as it got later in the night, the regulars already drunk off their asses and stumbling out the door while the last few remaining customers had gravitated toward plush booth seats rather than the hard wooden bar stools.

Clark took a glance around, blue eyes still somehow extremely striking even with the glare of lights upon his thick rimmed glasses. Something about his mannerisms and his scent was familiar, right on the tip of your tongue but you couldn’t quite place it. “You work here full-time?”

“Yeah, for the last year.” You pushed yourself from the counter, grabbing a glass you’d already cleaned but figured what harm could one more scrub do. “How’s work at the Daily Planet?”

He drank down the last few sips of the Shirley, red liquid disappearing between puckered lips before that familiar empty noise filled the space between. You were quick to hand him a napkin, eyeing the bit of grenadine that had pooled at the bottom of the cup and stuck to his lips like a gloss. Clark wiped his face, gaze following yours with a terrifying accuracy that made you break eye contact almost immediately before clearing his throat.

“Honestly? Stressful, a bunch of deadlines and with all this Wolverine content coming in, it can be difficult to keep up.”

“People are talking about Wolverine?” You stilled, hand tightening around the slick glass in your palm.

“Yeah, all the time! Everyone wants to know who this new superhero is. I mean, she is pretty cool—and strong… and amazing.” Clark spoke with this almost dreamlike cadence, like she was his school crush. You swore you saw his eyes visibly sparkle just at the mention of your hero persona, shoving down the urge to roll your eyes.

“I don’t think she’s that cool.”

His posture straightened, brows furrowing once more as his once starstruck look was replaced by skepticism. “Really? I mean, she took down a bunch of tanks without any help.”

“Someone like her should be helping people who can’t help themselves, it’s not rocket science. It’s not something that needs an audience.” Charles had always emphasized how, as someone with… special abilities, it was your job to help those in need the most—to be the hero people needed. Shit, even six feet in the grave, you still heard his voice telling you about how you needed to stop hiding yourself. In truth, you fucking hated these powers—despised them. Not because they made you different, because you were too damn weak to control them even when your team needed you most.

“Where I’m from, people like her… they’re shunned—mutants. Some of them manage to hide their powers, but the ones like her… they parade around showing off their abilities, and someone always gets hurt as a result.”

Maybe that’s why you’d quit the idea of teams after they’d died. Because you knew deep down that you were scared of what could happen if you let someone get close to you like that again—if you let someone truly know you.

“…wow.” There was a dense silence that settled between the two of you, your hands moving just as quick as your mind—grabbing Clark’s glass and refilling it. “Well, in Metropolis, the people need someone to look up to.”

“They need someone to rely on, whether it’s the Justice Gang, Superman… or Wolverine. Just a single light of hope can really make a difference.” A warm bubbled within your chest at those words, your movements stilling as they wormed into your mind—tugging somewhere deep in your heart that you’d locked away. Unfortunately for Metropolis, feelings had never been your strength—so you shoved down whatever you felt and sent it with a chaser of vodka.

“Holy shit, you really are a journalist—almost inspired me to go change the world there.” You laughed in a way that felt just a bit too pitchy to be real, too strained, but Clark didn’t say anything, even as his eyes narrowed for a moment.

Instead, he chuckled. “Yeah.”

As much as you’d love to say that Clark’s words rolled right off your shoulder, you’d spent the last three days thinking them over—mulling through each syllable like they held the answer to the universe, like they’d explain why your teammates were gone and you were the last one standing like some fucking war hero. Except you never felt like a hero, no matter how much you wished you could.

It didn’t help that Superman also was hovering in Hob’s Bay more often than not, that dopey smile of his etched in sunlight as his shadow cast down from high above. He was really convinced about this idea of teamwork, trying to include you in Metropolis affairs that you truthfully didn’t give a damn about—but it was kind of cute hearing the way he’d stutter over his words, how he’d invite you on his next mission or offer to help you on your patrol.

You’d never admit it out loud, but you started to grow fond of Superman in some sense—a routine forming like clockwork. During the day, you’d go through your patrol with that massive kryptonian form hovering nearby, talking your ear off and for some reason, you’d listen. Then, when the sun finally set and your shift at the Ace O’ Clubs started, then you’d spend your time talking with your newest regular, Clark Kent.

Clark was an oddball, those blue eyes piercing your own and captivating your attention with a ridiculous effortlessness. He spoke in a way that inspired you, and you hated it—hated the way you wanted more for yourself just based on a few words that left his lips, and he always spoke with this sincerity that made your stomach feel heavy and your heart stir after it’d felt cold for so long.

Fuck him, fuck Superman—fuck them both for making you feel needed, for feeling wanted in a world that you didn’t actually belong.

You were following your regular routine, except instead of meeting Superman in Hob’s Bay, you found yourself in the middle of Metropolis Park with a splitting headache and a giant fucking squirrel-demon thing that was attempting to swallow the only decent burger joint in Metropolis. Green Lantern had put a muzzle on the anomaly, only for it to get immediately ten times more irritated as it threw a tree at that very same green beacon of light—effectively wiping out himself and Hawkgirl in one go.

“On your left!” Mr.Terrific cut through the air, filling in for his teammates mildly embarrassing wipeout.

“Watch out for the paws!” Superman soared past you after Mr.Terrific and you mentally cursed both of them for being able to fly as your boots pounded against the concrete, claws extending out of your knuckles, a burning heat soaring through your nerves as a result.

The tree’s trajectory was in line with a group of bystanders, panic filling their eyes as they scrambled to move from its path. Some were quick enough to be just behind the radius of its massive bushy branches, but the few that were incapable would die from the impact—a painful and slow death. You shouted for them to clear out of the area as you sprinted, legs burning as they tensed.

Swinging your body in front of the remaining bystanders, you angled your fists toward the tree and its branches—blades slotting into the woods like a knife holder. Branches and twigs scratched against the material of your suit, tearing at the fabric that you’d just freshly sewn back together. The force of the tree brought you to a knee, bracing against its heavy weight as all your muscles tensed so that you wouldn’t immediately collapse. Your vision was filled with a flurry of green shit and twigs, completely encompassed until the momentum of the tree had finally died out and you were able to swing it safely to the side.

You’d told the pedestrians to clear out, to get away—you expected all attention to be focused on Superman as he landed a well placed punch onto the demon-squirrel. But as you shook the remnants of wood from your blades, one clap filled the air, then another, and another after that until the people you’d just saved were cheering and screaming for you.

“We love you, Wolverine!”

It was weird—being celebrated like this, left your chest feeling tight.

The sun peaked out from the clouds, casting warm rays down on your face that for once didn’t feel blinding—they felt like they were meant for you. For the first time, in a long time, you’d felt like a hero. The wave you gave to them was meek, far too unconfident for someone who had literal blades for hands, but it was yours—swinging around on your heel as you began to sprint back into the battleground.

You felt lighter, but definitely not light enough to not feel the metal wall of a fucking bus hitting you.

“Shit.”

The first sensation that greeted you was the cold, chilling through you to your adamantium bones. Then hands, ones that didn’t exactly feel soft like a humans, prodding your abdomen and side—and a feminine robotic voice that followed.

“She is gaining consciousness.”

The blue fluorescent lights were blinding as you jerked your eyes open, squinting at your surroundings. You felt more like you were in a weird ass winter wonderland with the way crystals protruded from the floor and coated the ceiling, snow piled up in the corners of the fortress. A groan left your lips as pain flooded your body, whatever was broken slowly mending itself again.

Then, teal and silver colored robot leaned over you with the engraving twenty six on its chest.

“What the FUCK.” You jolted, claws slotting themselves into what you could only describe as the robot’s stomach.

“No, wait! Don’t—!”

Superman rushed out from around one of the crystal structures, but it was too late as you’d already flipped the robot over you—slamming it down into the table as it released a loud metal clang. You must’ve looked insane with the way Superman put his hands up in the air, eyeing you like a feral animal as you hopped down from the examination table.

“Where the fuck am I?” You didn’t retract your claws as you approached him, his feet tracking backwards until he was pressed against the edge of a large panel that’s technology was far too advanced to be from Earth. “What the hell were your little freak robots doing?”

“Woah—woah, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down—Jesus, that’s literally the last thing you tell someone who’s freaked out. Where the fuck am I, Supershit?” The blades drew closer to his neck, Superman’s head tilting back to avoid getting nicked. Your fingers found purchase in the cloth across his chest, balling the fabric tight.

A small pout pulled at the corners of his lips, unable to be bitten back as he huffed out. “I don’t exactly appreciate that name.”

“I don’t appreciate being kidnapped.”

“Jesus, you weren’t kidnapped!” That’s when he said it—said your name, not the persona but your true identity. You bristled, blades drawing even closer as Superman’s hands scrambled for something behind him.

“Where did you hear that name?” The words were hissed out, warning bells screeching in your wind as everything in your body told you to attack. Turns out being a mutant who grew up in a world that hated you will do that to you.

Superman’s hand swing from behind him and you visibly flinched, eyes closing shut tightly as you braced for impact.

“Look at me.”

You didn’t open your eyes immediately, instead slowly squinting them open.

“…Clark?”

Superman—or well, Clark—was leaned back, thick-rimmed glasses hanging low on his nose as his curls were messily strewn across his forehead. God, you knew something was familiar about him, the scent, the way he fumbled with his hands. It all screamed in your face and you were too blinded to see it.

“Surprise?” The words were delivered with a shrug, those familiar blue eyes flitting behind you for a moment—causing you to turn your head. A ring of robots had formed around the two of you, staring—waiting and watching for your next move. Your fist slowly withdrew while your blades retracted, taking one large step back before raising your hands in surrender.

“Take me home. Now.”

Yeah, you were pissed.

The Ace O’ Clubs was extremely busy tonight, like somehow double the amount of business it’d typically get. Jimmy had gotten food poisoning and texted you mid-vomit that he wouldn’t be making it tonight, which soured your mood even more than it’d already been.

You were engaged in a dull conversation with your regular couple, hands draped in placed you did not care to see or think about as you poured their drinks. They didn’t make you laugh the way Jimmy did—the way Clark had, but you still gave that signature costumer service smile and the occasional giggle.

Your sense of smell was blinded by layers of perfume, ears boxed in by the sound of chatter all around. Wiping up the back counter, you’d begun to drown out all the noise around you—mind wandering to a different place, a different time.

“Could I have a Dirty Shirley, please?” That voice—his voice, always managed to draw your attention.

The glare you sent his way felt intended to kill even if you were throwing together one of the sweetest drinks on the menu, practically candy in a cup. You added too much grenadine this time, watching it pool at the bottom before topping it with lime and ginger ale.

You slid the cup toward Clark. “Here’s your order, sir.”

He took one sip from that vibrant red straw, brows furrowing as his lips drew tight together. “That’s… that’s good.”

Clark was just trying to be polite—trying to put you in a good mood after you’d really considered killing him, or at least trying to, earlier. He continued to sip the drink in silence until it was down to the last drop, syrup sucked through the straw and all. When he ordered another one instead of leaving, that’s when you finally snapped at him—placing your rag upon the counter with more force than needed.

“What the hell do you want?” You hissed out, leaning forward onto your forearms.

Clark’s hands rested on the counter beside your arms as he whispered. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have taken off your mask, but you were hurt—.”

“I’ve been hurt plenty of other times. I was fine—.”

“Yes, but I was there this time.” The words were scoffed out, Clark’s thick brows drawing together as his eyes began to swirl with an emotion too familiar and too painful for you to delve into. “I wasn’t going to just—just leave you there!”

“Why? Why is it so important to you if I’m injured—!” You shot back, fire filling your veins.

“Because you’re a good person, and a good hero. You’re one of the things I swore to protect.” Clark’s voice was more resigned now, spoken like a definitive truth rather than a claim. He’d taken on this duty to protect all living creatures on Earth, and that included you.

You wanted to believe it was less about you personally, but with the way his fingertips shifted—grazing your arm so gently under the lamplight of the bar, you knew he’d felt more than just duty toward you. In the past month, you’d wanted to despise Superman—wanted to turn him away and shut him out just like you had to the rest of the world. But now, with your face’s so close, and his fingers tracing patterns along your elbow, you were unsure if you could.

“God, I need a fucking drink.”

One too many drinks sent you stumbling into Clark Kent’s apartment, palms braced onto the broad plane of his shoulders as your lips sucked on his neck ravenously. He fumbled with the door as your hands began to wander along his biceps, squeezing the firm muscle as it encircled your waist.

Maybe it was the tequila, but you’d gone from wanting to tear Clark’s head off to wanting to rip his pants off with your teeth—and in your defense, Jimmy did say you needed to get laid.

“Take your clothes off.” The words were hot leaving your lips, body pressed flush against Clark’s as he guided you deeper into his apartment.

“Jesus,” Clark sighed out as your tongue slipped along his jaw, nipping at his ear. Your hands left his arms, moving to his belt only for him to swat them away quickly. “let me get you to the bed first.”

Instead, your hands went to your own clothes, pulling your polo over your head and tossing it into some obscure spot where you’d struggle to find it later. Clark had taken off his glasses, big blue eyes soaking in the sight of your cleavage and bra. His hand slipped from your waist, finger tips lifting to trace along your collarbone up to your cheek—and you hated the way your breath hitched at how gentle he was as he cupped your jaw.

Clark leaned down to seal the space between you in a kiss, light as a feather against your lips. Your fingers wound tight within his hair, mouth meeting his in a more heated embrace—nipping at his bottom lip and matching his groan with one of your own. “You like that, Big Blue?”

“Maybe.” Your suspicion was confirmed by the throb of his bulge within his trousers. His unoccupied hand went to your bottom, scooping your legs up before wrapping them around his hips comfortably.

Clark hobbled into the bedroom, kicking the door closed with his heel before swaying toward the bed. He put you down carefully, eyes fluttering downward to check that your feet had actually made contact with the ground before letting go. His back turned to you as he pulled the string to a small standing lamp, casting the room in a golden glow.

The walls of his room were a dark shade of blue, his bed shoved in the corner with a neatly tucked plaid duvet cover. There was a desk with a computer on top, plus a bookshelf full of comic books and some obscure critique pieces. Overall, a pretty basic room for a guy who practically saved the world every other weekend.

“Wow… you’ve got it nice, Superman.” You whistled as you began to wander around the room, fingers tracing along the bookshelf mindlessly—gaze flicking backwards to look at Clark as he watched you move, watched you fill the space of his room like you belonged.

“Clark.”

“Yeah, my bad. Clark.” You corrected yourself, crossing your arms over your chest as you pivoted on your heel to face him. “So… are you gonna make me ask for you to fuck me?”

“Oh—oh, yeah. Sorry.” Clark sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, foot falls creaking against the wooden planks below as he approached. His hands slid comfortably along your waist like they’d belonged there, pinkies thumbing your belt as if he couldn’t decide to take it off or not. A small smile cracked your too-cool facade, your hands finding your belt as you undid the buckle and tossed it to the ground haphazardly.

Your hands found his soon after, fingers gently wrapped around Clark’s massive wrists in a way that felt too gentle for your violent nature—guiding him to zipper on your pants. He fumbled with the tab for a moment, eyes continuing to shift between your own and the zipper beneath his fingertips. A small nod of your head urged him to continue, a confirmation that you weren’t glass—that you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

The minute your pants had been unzipped, you shimmied out of them—kicking them along with your belt across the room. You stood in your bra and underwear, a dark spot having formed in the center of the fabric.

“Golly…” God, Clark was so cute with the way he took you in like a masterpiece—pupils dilating as they found traced along your body. “You look amazing.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, bub.” Your hips swayed as you approached Clark, a hand finding his belt in a teasing glide while the other moved to his jaw. Your fingers traced along the cool metal of the belt buckle, watching the way his hips jerked to meet the lightest graze along that hulking mass within his pants.

His belt hit the floor with a loud clang, your foot immediately kicking it away as you slowly lowered yourself to the ground. The wood dug into your knees, but it was nothing compared to the way your mouth watered—begging to be wrapped around Clark’s cock and stretched wide. Clark’s breath hitched as he looked down at you, watched you slowly unzip his pants inch by inch until they were loose around his hips and easy pulled down. “You don’t have to do that—“

“I want to,”The eagerness in your voice seemed to calm a bit of Clark’s nerves as your fingers dipped beneath his waistband. “Unless you don’t, I’ll stop.”

“No, I do—god, I do.” The tips of your fingers ghostsd over his tip, his hips jerking toward you frantically to meet the touch. A small breathy laugh left your lips, gaze shifting from his bulge up toward his face, watching the way Clark’s cheeks were flushed and his ears were painted in pink. “You’re so pretty and sweet, god…”

Your thighs ground together involuntarily at the compliment, that wet patch between thickening with need. Sliding his boxers down, your eyes widened at the sheer size of Clark—the way he was hung like a beast in human clothing. Heat flared inside your belly, dripping down to your pussy as it clenched around nothing.

You gripped Clark gently, handling him as his member twitched and bobbed eagerly. Your tongue darted from your lips, flicking along the tip like you were taste testing a popsicle—only to hum out in agreement before opening your mouth wider to take even more. You kissed and sucked on the tip of his cock, worshipping it between lips already stretched thin.

“God dang—oh, Jesus…” Clark gasped out desperately, stomach flexing underneath his undershirt as his hands found purchase in your hair—hips mindlessly pushing forward before he stopped himself. “Your mouth feels—oh!”

One hand remained steady on the base of his cock, shifting to fondle his heavy full balls while the other dipped between your thighs. Shoving your panties aside, the wetness that had formed around your slit made it easy for two fingers to slip inside—caressing and curling in a way that made your spine tingle and a groan vibrate within your throat.

Clark’s hand tightened in your hair, hips pushing forward, causing you to gag around him. His grip immediately loosened as he panicked. “Shoot—sorry. I’m sorry.”

A chuckle left your throat, the vibration alone sending Clark into a spiral as his head tilted back to reveal the long column of his throat. You opened your mouth a bit wider, hollowing out your cheeks as you took his cock deeper into your throat—swirling your tongue and sucking loudly. Your hips had begun to buck along your hand, swollen clit needing gliding along the heel of your palm.

The hand on Clark’s balls quickly grabbed his within your hair, helping him find a rhythm he was comfortable with as his fingers tightened once again—flexing and curling. The more confident he grew, the deeper you took him—pubic hairs tickling against the tip of your nose as you gagged around him again. Clark immediately let go once more, whispering out another apology.

You pulled your mouth away from his cock suddenly, the loss of contact and the sudden cool air causing a shiver to run down his spine. “Stop apologizing. I want you to fuck my face, is that direct enough for you?”

If he wasn’t already red enough, he was matching his suit now.

“Okay—okay… just tell me if I’m hurting you, yeah?” Even as your lips wrapped around Clark’s cock once more and he groaned out, there was a hint of concern in his gaze—watching how your throat expanded around his twitching member as you sucked him off like your life depending on it. The hand in your hair began to guide you, slow at first as his hips slowly moved to meet the pace set—then quicker, your nose meeting Clark’s pubic bone as he released shaky moans past chapped lips.

“You’re so good—Jesus…. So, so pretty. Mmm—oh god!”

Your thumb began to circle your clit in a pace that matched his, hips shifting and grinding into the friction as your throat expanded and contracted eagerly. Your hand left his as it moved back down to those heavy balls, grasping the skin and massaging along them—taking in the way they contracted and tightened momentarily.

“Oh—oh, god! I can’t—ngh!”

There wasn’t much of a warning when Clark came, shooting his load down your throat beyond a startled cry leaving his lips—hips pushing forward as your nose was shoved against his pelvis. You gagged around the load, salty hot sperm seeping down your tongue and into the pit of your stomach. Your lips left his cock with a loud pop, still pulsing with life as tiny ropes of cum dribbled from the tip onto your tits—Clark’s head lulled off to the side beneath his arm as he caught his breath.

There was a moment where it was just the combined sound of your breath and his, hot and steady.

“You okay, Clark?” Your hand finally left your slit, covered in slick and need.

Clark’s nose flared at the scent of your arousal as he moved his hand from his face finally, blue eyes darkened and dilated like a ravenous animal. “Mmm… yes, really good.”

When you rose onto your feet, Clark’s hands were on you immediately—grabbing your ass, your waist, everything as his mouth latched onto yours. He could taste himself on your tongue, the salty tang left behind as his mouth enveloped yours. Clark’s fingers found the wet patch of your panties, a low groan leaving his lips as his index finger hooked beneath the fabric—pulling it down in one quick swipe.

“Let me make it up to you—let me make you feel so good, please.” He whispered against your lips, thumb finding your clit with surprising precision. A mixture of a moan and groan forced past your lips, drawing tight as your arms quickly grabbed onto Clark’s shoulders—pushing him away as he released a pathetic whimper at the loss of contact.

“As much as I’d love that, Clark,” You tilted your head toward his bed, eyeing the way it was a little bit too… perfect, too clean right now. “I really want you inside me.”

“You’re so direct—it’s embarrassing…” He groaned out as his hand dragged across his face, but that didn’t stop him from plopping down onto the edge of the bed with that signature overly eager expression. Your legs were spread onto other side of his own, back pressed against his chest as your hand dipped between the two of you. Fingers grasped his cock, fisting once, then twice as Clark released a gentle sigh.

He was big—you were aware of that, but god, that didn’t stop you from wanting him hot and burning inside you.

His tip glided along the slick of your pussy, dripping down onto the head until it was shimmery and coated in it. The stretch was immediate as you sunk downward, tip splitting past that first ring of muscle. A choked noise caught within your chest, eyelashes fluttering shut as all you could do was feel.

“Holy—you’re so tight… oh my—god..” Clark’s head fell into your shoulder, heat pants of breath beading across your skin.

Each inch felt like you were experiencing a new degree of heaven, walls stretching wide just to accommodate Clark’s size. He was nudged up against your cervix in mere minutes, a few inches still waiting to be taken but you were so snuggly tight that it felt impossible. Clark’s hands grasped your waist, kneading the skin as you just breathed him in—took in the way he stretched you more and more with each tiny roll of your hips.

“Fuck—you’re big, like… super big.”

You gave an experimental roll of your hips, Clark’s mouth opening in a wet gasp as his own hips stuttered. One roll turned into another, your thighs stretching and aching as you adjusted your position—feet planting themselves onto the edge of the mattress. Your hands found purchase on Clark’s knees, hips rising until just his tip was snug inside before slamming down with a ferocity that knocked the wind from both yours and Clark’s lungs.

You began to ride him, ass slamming against his pelvis as your pussy clenched and strained around his cock—member twitching within your walls every few pulses. Clark’s fingers tightened their grip on your waist, digging into the flesh as his hips lifted to meet your own movements. The bed beneath you both rocked, wet gasps and groans filling the air along with the scent of sex and sweat.

One of the hands on his knees found its way to Clark’s hair, gently tugging at the curly locks—a whine leaving Clark’s lips as your pussy swallowed him up so eagerly.

“You like this—mmph… like the way this pussy fucks you?” Your ass jiggled with each bounce, grinding deeper and deeper onto his length as your clit throbbed needing for attention.

“Yes—yes, oh…mph…” Clark’s mouth latched onto the flesh of your shoulder, tracing kisses up your neckline until he reached raised bump near the back of your ear—that’s when he smelled something, pheromones seeping from the skin. His tongue traced along the spot and your mind blanked for a moment, hips stuttering as you clenched around him hard.

“Fuck—that felt good… what the hell.” One of Clark’s hands shifted in front of you, applying pressure onto your tummy as his thumb swiped languid circles against your clit. The other, found a place on your jawline—tilting your head as his mouth latched onto that precious little spot.

He sucked, and for the first time, you whined—genuinely whined out pathetically. Your pace grew sloppy as his tongue darted across the raised bump, pussy sucking him in to the hilt as your body shuddered and spasmed with each wave of newfound pleasure. Clark gutturally moaned into your neck, teeth grazing along the skin before nipping in a way that caused your back to arch as your legs were rendered into jello.

“Oh—you like that, sweetheart?” Clark mirrored your own words, his hands shifting to your hips as he took over your pacing—lifting your body before slamming it right back down onto his throbbing cock.

“Mmph—oh, fuck.” He managed to hit all those sweet spots inside you and outside as he alternated between sucked on your skin and nipping at your ear—legs shaking with incessant heat the longer he bounced you like a ragdoll. As much as you wouldn’t admit it to him, you were getting increasingly wet just because of the way he was manhandling you so sweetly—hips bursting with force up into yours as his hands slammed you down once again.

A heat began to form within the pit of your stomach, but it was different this time—building too damn fast and way more intense than you were used to. Your hands began to clamber for anything to hold onto, anything to ground yourself as Clark’s languid thrusts turned into quick ruts as his balls began to draw tight. Heady gasps left your lips along with the whines, swollen clit twitching and throbbing as your fingers began to draw fat mean circles across the sensitive nub. “Yes, yes, please… I’m gonna—!”

“Come with me—please, oh god—I’m…” You both crested at the same time, walls tightening and pulsing to life as your orgasm swept over you. Clark’s hips bucked mean thrusts into you as he spilled his seed deep inside the warm expanse of your pussy, costing you from the inside out.

You’d blanked as you came, a scream tearing itself from your throat as your back arched and your fists strangled his duvet sheets, a tingling sensation forming in your knuckles. A sudden wetness coated your thighs and his, your mind taking a moment to truly register what had happened. When you were finally able to think past the pulsing of your pussy, you had realized you’d squirted all across Clark’s bed and thighs, coating them in clear fluid and cum. On top of that, the fists you’d burrowed into the sheets had daggers protruding out of them.

The Clark Kent had not only made you orgasm so hard you squirted, but also had managed to make you stab his bed.

His hands smoothed along your sides as you breathed, body going slack against his chest as sweat beaded and dripped down your bodies. Even though you couldn’t see Clark, you could feel his smile pressed against the crown of your head—arms sneaking around your form as his cock stayed nuzzled inside your walls. Your chest rose and fell with his, sweaty bodies clung together like a set rather than two individuals.

Part of you wanted to stay like this, in his arms, safe and warm—but the louder sort of you, the part that had seen cruelty and shown it yourself, told you that this was just sex, that it was only going to be just sex. So, you pushed away from Clark—cleaning yourself up in the bathroom before slipping on one of his shirts and your discarded (and clammy) underwear.

But as you walked down the hallway toward his bedroom, your chest felt tighter than it had in years of being Wolverine. Clark had already made you a cup of tea in a mug that had Green Lantern’s face plastered all across it, a mixture of a scoff and a laugh bubbling in your chest as he handed you the cup with this ridiculously beautiful smile etched on his face. You sometimes didn’t think this man was real with how perfect he is.

“It was the last mug they had.” Clark’s voice was soft as he answered the question held your expression, hand slotting itself on your lower back to guide you toward the bed. Somehow, he’d managed to change the (ruined) bedsheets, clean the duvet, and clean himself up while you were in the bathroom which admittedly really made you question how long you were in there—but those thoughts melted from your brain as Clark’s fingers curled around your waist, guiding you onto the plush mattress.

It felt impossible for a bed to be this snug and comfortable as you laid down beside Clark, sheets pulled snuggly over your barely dressed bodies. The tea was hot within your hands, steam curling in the air as you took a long sip. The warmth soothed the ache of your throat, which was still definitely going to be sore tomorrow—but for now, tea was a good remedy.

Your side was wedged against Clark’s, his arm draped behind you in a half-hold like he was nervous even in your post-sex haze that you’d try to rip his head off. The tug in your heart wasn’t helped by the fact you’d curled into him, head slotting itself onto his shoulder as you simply just got the chance to be.

Your legs were shaky, but it wasn’t from pain. Your lungs ached, but it wasn’t from being Wolverine. Your mind was hazy, but it wasn’t from drinking yourself into a coma. You felt alive, and for once, it wasn’t because of the pain your mutation caused or because of your past.

You don’t know when you had fallen asleep in Clark’s arms, but when you awoke, it was still dark outside and unbearably quiet within his apartment. The air was cold on your legs as you crept from the bed, shocking you into a state of awareness. You winced as your feet fell upon creaky wooden planks, casting a gaze over your shoulder only to find Clark Kent in a deep sleep, curls strewn across his face.

A cigarette was wedged between your lips as you wrenched open one of the apartment windows, taking in a deep suck of nicotine before releasing a puff of hot smoke from your mouth. The sting was a familiar comfort to you in times where your heart felt too real for your chest, throbbing in tandem with that sleeping man’s breath in one room over.

The window sill was cold against your arm as you rested your elbow, moonlight streaming past the blinds eagerly, coating your face in its fluorescent glow. Metropolis felt quiet for once, the world having finally fallen into a peaceful slumber—no late night missions tonight.

You smelled and heard Clark before he’d even entered the room, vibrations of his feet padding against the floor in your direction. The heat that radiated from his body was tempting as he stood behind you, arms slinking around your waist as his hands squeezed your hips affectionately.

“Hey.”

Shit, you weren’t already starting to feel sore, his sleep-ridden voice would’ve made you want to go another round. Clark buried his nose into the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair—of you.

“Hey, Wonder Boy.” You took a long drag of the cigarette between your fingers, puffing smoke from your lips. Clark’s nose scrunched at the scent, lips planting a gentle kiss against your temple.

He pulled your form a bit tighter against his, body going slack in a way that made you feel weirdly domestic—like this could be your life if you allowed it, like you could actually find acceptance. Bullshit. “Those things’ll kill you.”

“No shit.”

Clark’s movements were too quick for you to react as he plucked the cigarette from your mouth, snuffing the lit bud in between his fingers before tossing them into the nearby trash can.

“Seriously, Clark?” Brows furrowing as your arms pulled across your chest, expression shifting into one of obvious annoyance. He hummed out, mimicking your body language with his own—biceps flexing before he crossed them over his chest. Your eyes rolled so hard they were tempted to roll out of your head. “Whatever.”

You’d begun to quickly gather your clothes, each item strewn across his apartment in different directions. Clark followed you, hovering from behind like he always did on patrols—but there was this energy about him, a nervousness that crackled beneath the surface.

“Are you… are you going to leave?”

You paused in your track, hands stilling upon your belt. The question was resigned, like he already knew the answer but was holding out a bit of hope for you—for this to work. Things never worked out for you, though.

You cleared your throat, tossing the belt into the crevice of your arm. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, to see those gentle blue eyes begging you to stay—to admit that you felt something for him that wasn’t just a fleeting touch. “Clark, you know this is just sex, right? This isn’t supposed to be like—something meaningful or anything. We had our fun, now we go our separate ways.”

“But—what if I don’t want to go separate ways?” His body moved to block yours, his hands hovering like he wanted to touch you but was unsure.

You hated the way your voice came out sharp, hurt registering within his eyes at the sudden harshness. “Then that’s real tough, bub.”

Clark’s brows furrowed as you weaseled around him, slipping your pants back up your legs in miniature jumps.

“Tough? That’s really all you have to say?” There was a thinly veiled danger beneath each syllable, like he was holding himself back from finally snapping at you and tearing into you. He was peeved and it was evident with the way he began to approach you, always remaining in your line of sight no matter what you did to avoid looking at him.

“What the hell am I supposed to say? I thought we were on the same page—.”

“Same page isn’t having sex with someone after they pour their heart out to you, then leaving like it’s nothing.”

You jerked your head upwards, finally meeting his gaze with your own—and you regretted it immediately. Clark looked hurt, not in the way that someone gets injured on the battlefield, but in that love struck way when you realize you never had a chance. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ blame me. I told you before, I don’t do the whole teamwork thing.”

“Why?” You turned on your heel only for Clark to weave around you, blocking you from approaching his apartment door. That pissed you off—bad. A grunt left your lips as you attempted to push past him, his bulking mass remaining rooted in the ground like a tree. “What’s stopping you from just staying—from connecting with people?”

“That’s none of your business, Supershit—!” A hiss left your lips as you stopped attempting to run, finally facing him head-on with your own rage boiling in your veins.

“Jesus, I told you not to call me that! What’s your problem?” Clark waved his hands, emphasizing his point so vividly with each word that was spat out—your hands growing cold and clammy while your face heated in embarrassment. “You’ve been so hot and cold since we’ve met, I don’t even know which part of it is you anymore. One second you’re threatening to punch my face in, the next, you’re ripping my damn pants off—!”

You interrupted, shoving your finger into his chest in a way that made Clark’s nose flare. You were so caught up in the moment that you hadn’t even noticed the tears brimming in your waterline, stinging as they threatened to spill. Your voice began to raise in decibels quickly. “You want to know what my problem is? Do you really want to know, Clark?”

“Yes, god, maybe then I could understand what’s wrong with you!”

“My teammates died because of me—because I was too damn weak to finish a job I should’ve years ago! I let them get close to me, and I couldn’t fucking protect them. There, does that make you happy?”

There was a pause of silence as those tears finally began to spill over, dripping down your cheeks in a steady warm stream. Clark’s expression shifted, anger melting away into something softer, sympathetic—but the damage was already done.

“I—… I’m sorry—.”

“Don’t you think I know I’m an asshole—that I’m fucked up? I’ve lived my entire life being a mutant fuck-up.” Your fist made contact with the hard plane of his chest, pushing hard before dropping to your side weakly. “My parents died and I wasn’t able to stop it, my body is constantly on fire because of this fucking adamantium, and I’m being lectured by the perfect superhero dipshit of Metropolis!”

You gestured wildly toward the window—to the city that adored Superman, to the city that you wished you’d never come to.

A short, strained breath filled your lungs as you quickly wiped away the tears from your face, determined to regain that calm facade you’d kept on for so long. A small sniffle left your lips, and you mentally scolded yourself for looking so pathetic—for feeling so small in a world so big.

“So,” Another sniff followed. “do you have any other questions or statements before I get the fuck out of here?”

Clark’s mouth was formed into silent words as he stood there, no longer making a conscious effort to block you. Your shoulder collided with his harshly, not enough to knock him over but enough to sting as you moved toward the door. The palm of your hand came into contact with the cool brass of the doorknob, twisting and squeezing tightly.

“I love you.”

The words were a whisper in the darkness as the door hinges creaked, barely carrying over the loud noise. Your heart jumped into your throat, because he’d just confirmed everything you feared. The palm of your hand traced along the wood grain of the door, unable to bring yourself to look into Clark’s eyes as you stabbed his weeping heart in two words.

“I know.”

The sound of the door closing behind you was more akin to a death knell.

Life without Superman was weird. You did your patrols, but there was no figure hovering nearby to ask about your day or to talk about how he’d had the best hot cocoa of his life. Clark stopped showing up to the bar. Jimmy said it was because he was swamped with work, but even Jimmy delivered the words with a certain skepticism.

There was a pit nestled into your stomach, an unease that you couldn’t shake with booze and cigarette smoke. You continued your work as Wolverine, but the weight remained, suffocating you from the inside out. It wasn’t like you had always been around Clark, getting lost in those expressive eyes and shining dimples, you’d been alone before. You could do it again, at least that’s what you’d like to believe.

But as days stretched into a week, then another, the feeling began to eat you from the inside out—tossing and turning in your bed as you began to mourn someone who was still alive and well. You thought more sex would fix the problem, but it turns out that meaningless sex was just that, meaningless.

Superman remained the poster boy of Metropolis, working double as hard to defend the city from ruin. He was practically unstoppable—until he wasn’t.

Turns out Wonder Boy was immune to many things, but magic wasn’t one of them as he was sent flying from New Troy into Hob’s Bay. The sheer vibration alone alerted you that something was wrong, weaving through alleyways to find the source. A blur of red, gold, and blue shot past you just as your boots came into contact with the sidewalk—bursting from the darkness.

“What the—.” You traced the path to the source, a figure floating in the sky in the sky with a black suit and an obviously extraterrestrial appearance.

The men landed on the ground, boots so heavy that the vibration was felt from all around. Sucking in a deep breath, pain shot through your wrists as your claws slowly extended past the layers of your skin. Your walk quickly transitioned into a sprint as you bolted into battle, only to have a hand grasp the back of your neck like a dog.

A startled yelp escaped your mouth before it could be stopped, legs swinging beneath you as the ground you had become to comfortably familiar with was growing further away in distance. Looking up, Clark was holding you steady—grip firm as he swung you down onto a nearby rooftop. “Stay here.”

“What? Why—?” The words were quick as they left your mouth, legs wobbly beneath your body for a moment as you reestablished your footing on solid concrete.

“You’ll just get in the way.” The words were bitten out in a way that betrayed any facade Clark was putting on.

“You need help.”

“Not from you.”

“Well, I don’t see Green Lantern or Hawkgirl anywhere nearby. So, I think I’m all you’ve got.” You began to move toward the fire escape of the building, only for Clark to pull you backwards quickly—your boots catching on themselves as you stumbled backwards. His hand moved to your back, stabilizing you as he spoke softer now, far too soft for the circumstance.

“Can you just—can you listen to me for once? This guy will hurt you, if he doesn’t find a way to kill you.”

“I can heal.”

“But I can’t let you get hurt.”

There was a pause in your argument as you met Clark’s eyes, took in the way he looked stronger now—set in his resolve and unwilling to let you into the battle. Your hand cupped over his own with a gentleness that was shocking, a spark shooting through your fingertips. Your other hand mindlessly moved toward Clark’s face, cupping his jawline with that same gentleness as your expression shifted to something unreadable, the depths of your eyes swirling with conflicting emotions.

“I can’t watch you get hurt either, Clark.”

Your words were soft, eyes tracing along his face tentatively before finally meeting those big blues sculpted from in aquamarine and love. Clark’s resolve crumbled a bit as you pulled away, hand slipping around your waist as he shot straight into the air. Silently, you both agreed on one thing: that you’d do this together, as a team.

The figure stood in the middle of the street, crushed and destroyed chunks of concrete floating in the air around—cutting through the air as they soared in your direction. Clark’s hand moved to brace against your head, drawing you tight into his chest as he took the brunt of the blows. Your landing was a bit rough, but you managed to catch your balance quickly.

“You go left, I’ll go right.” You spoke, slipping back into that commanding position you’d once taken in the X-Men. God, you missed this.

Clark nodded, turning to look at you one more time. “Stay safe, please.”

“I will. You better stay safe too, Wonder Boy.” The familiar nickname caused his dimples to etch deeper into his face, a chuckle bubbling up past his lips.

The way you both moved was more of a whole rather than two individuals, bodies synced as you fought. Superman would land a punch and you’d follow with a stab of your own. When he would be knocked away, you would cover him in your own way—and when you’d be kicked down, Clark would defend you with his life.

The sun shined the brightest it ever had as you both worked together. It wasn’t long before the figure was sent flying back into the atmosphere thanks to Clark’s inhumane strength.

You were sitting on the curbside, knees pulled up to your chest as sweat dripped beneath your costume. Your eyes fluttered shut as you breathed out hot pants of air, sun shining bright upon your eyelids. Just as you were about to move into the shade, a bulking figure stood in front of you—a shadow casting down upon your face.

“Turns out we make a good team.” The cheesy comment made a smile slither its way onto your face, scoffing out a laugh as your eyes opened to see a messy-haired Clark. His hand was extended towards your own, and you accepted it graciously.

“I guess we do.” He tugged you from your spot on the curb, legs protesting in exhaustion as you stood.

There was a silence that formed between the two of you as Clark shifted to stand beside you, both of your eyes set upon the sunset over Metropolis. It wasn’t an angry silence, it was one full of unspoken words that were waiting to be spat out.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” You were first to break the silence, eyes remaining on the warm yellow hues of the sun.

Clark didn’t say anything, just slipping his arm over your shoulders before giving your arm a firm squeeze.

The words came up like word vomit as you finally broke your lifelong stare with the sun, instead choosing to watch the way the yellow and orange hues reflected in Clark’s eyes and illuminated his skin.

“I love you, too.”

Your words were punctuated with the weaving of your fingers through Clark’s, holding firm and steady. Mentally, you promised to never let go—to hold onto him forever and let him hold you in turn. Clark wasn’t in love with the perfection, he was in love with the mess and the pain, he saw it all and loved you in spite of it.

His smile deepened, his own eyes breaking from the sun to look down at you—and god, somehow he always made you feel like the prettiest person in the world.

“I’m sorry. And I love you too—mmph!”

Clark wasn’t able to finish his sentence as you practically jumped into his lips, fingers weaving through his curls so sweetly as his arms enclosed around your waist. Your noses were messily smooshed together, but it was nothing compared to the warm fuzziness that bubbled in your lungs and chest, filling your heart with joy. Your feet had lifted from the ground as your lips imprinted on one another, bodies swaying in the air as Clark conveyed his own thoughts in a less verbal way.

And the longer he held you, the more you were sure he’d never let you go.

SUPERMAN AND WOLVERINE: SUPER SECRET RELATIONSHIP GONE PUBLIC.

Headlines were crazy for a month and Clark was bombarded with articles to read and annotate, filling the margins with critiques and compliments that were probably too personal to be simply a journalist’s take. But Clark didn’t care, not when he’d been coming home to you in his apartment everyday.

“Do you think they know each other’s identities? I mean, it wouldn’t make sense if they didn’t.” Lois was leaned against Clark’s desk, speculating aloud as Clark scribbled into his notepad.

“I think they would, Lois.” Clark mumbled beneath his breath, ink smearing beneath his fingers every few words. “A relationship is about trust, and I just can’t see how they wouldn’t trust each other.”

“Hey, Clark! That bartender from the Ace o’ Clubs just dropped by, she asked me to give this to you?” Jimmy walked in with a white paper cup and a note neatly taped to the side of it, covered in your handwriting. Clark’s hand encompassed the cup before he popped off the lid, his senses immediately being assaulted by the smell of too much cocoa and just the right amount of milk—just how he liked his hot chocolate.

He peeled off the note on the side as Jimmy plopped into his chair, wheels creeping as he wheeled himself closer to Clark nosily. The smile that Clark had tried to hide originally became obvious the longer he read the note, dimples etching into his cheeks in this cheesy grin.

“Ran a few errands and thought you’d like a cocoa. Tell Jimmy I said hi and to fuck off.”

Just below that in smaller text it read:

“P.S. it’s your turn to make dinner.”

“No way…” Jimmy’s mouth was agape as he wheeled a foot away from Clark in shock, snapping him back to reality as he folded the note and shoved it into his pocket. “You’re totally having sex with that bartender!”

“Jesus, Jimmy! Keep it down.” Clark’s ears flushed a bright red, neck heating up quickly and unforgivingly. Jimmy wheeled himself back over quickly, placing his hands onto the desk as he readied himself for possibly the gossip of the century.

“Tell me everything—not like, the sex, but I thought she hated everyone.”

Clark Kent, if described in one word, would be called kind. Not just because he was Superman, or because he was a hero, but because he saw the flaws in people and things, and chose to love in spite of it. He chose to love Earth with all his heart, even when it turned its back on him, even when he saw the nastiest pieces of humanity.

He saw your flaws, saw your weaknesses, and instead of turning his back on you, he pulled you into his arms and wiped your tears like you were porcelain. Clark Kent loved your flaws, loved your strengths—Clark Kent loved you.

Your Ma had always told you spring showers brought summer flowers, that the cold earth of the winter would melt away into a warm fuzzy wonderland where life blossomed beneath the sun. Each summer, you would wait before your window, rays of moonlight forcing their way through the cracks in the curtains, and you would listen to crickets orchestrate their song, chirping loudly in their vast lifetime. In the morning, you would do the same to the birds, listening to their own songs of summer. The forest beside your Pa’s house was alive, even if it was only for a short time till winter returned harsher than ever.

You had blossomed in your own ways, and once more, winter returned. Yet it did not leave this time. Your Ma and Pa were lowered into the cold, unfeeling ground and the petals you’d prided yourself on had shriveled with their corpses. You were left the estate, a drab wooden house that looked different now that you were older and had seen wonderlands beyond the forest, beyond the Mississippi Delta.

Chasing stardom in New York led to dead ends and debts carved into your spine, leaving you crawling back to the Delta with empty hands and more alone than you ever were. The funeral was held a week later. You’d been told it was cardiac arrest that caused the grim reaper to come knocking on their door, but something sat wrong within your stomach, twisted and vile as you watched those two wooden boxes into heaps of barren earth.

Returning to that cold, empty house felt worse than death itself. You’d turn the corner of the hallway, expecting to see your Ma’s sunken cheeks curved into a smile, or hear your Pa’s banjo strumming outdoors in the spring heat when it grew too stuffy inside of the home. You were met with nothing.

Two months came and passed, spring bleeding into summer like an old festering wound. The house was the same besides the introduction of your luggage shoved into the corner, discarded and untouched. You remained in the house, occasionally wandering the forest looking for the life that had seemed to abandon it in the years you’d been gone. The days were alright, it was the nights that were deceiving, sorrow worming its way into your heart until you choked upon tears.

It wasn’t until you’d finally run out of those soap scraps you’d been harbouring that you finally brushed the tears from your weary eyes and gathered yourself just enough to pay a visit to the Chow’s shop. Walking through town felt like being a moth surrounded by beautiful butterflies, eyes occasionally flickering to you with concern for your… not so pleasant appearance. The past few months had been rough, and it was showing in your skin, your posture, everything.

You picked up the pace a bit till you had actually reached the shop, stepping up onto that creaky wooden platform as your posture sunk inward, eyes drifting the shop for the one and only thing you desired. The shop hadn’t changed at all in the years you’d were gone, the wooden interior all varying shades of brown besides the small pop of color provided by roses that were no doubt Grace’s choice.

Your hand grasped the paper wrapped bar firmly as you walked around, feeling a sense of success as you turned upon your heel quickly to pay and return to your den of sorrows. Keep your head down, make yourself unnoticeable—like a fly on the wall, that was the plan. Yet no matter how much you could attempt to avoid the world, the world wouldn’t ignore you.

“Now, now, it’s been some time. How ya been?” That familiar twang of Bo’s made him recognizable in a crowd of thousands, his arms crossed over his chest as he smiled down at you with thinly veiled sympathy in his eyes. He knew of your Ma and Pa’s funeral, hell, Grace and him had even provided the flowers, but they didn’t come—you didn’t want them there for some stupid reason now looking back. Maybe it was because you wanted your Ma and Pa to have some sort of privacy in their graves, but you knew better—you knew you were too chicken shit to actually ask for help, to reach out, like you’d always been.

“Feel like death’s knockin’ at my own door, but besides that, fine.” You’d expected a small chuckle from Bo—anything, but he remained silent as his faux cheeriness melted into pure sympathy the longer he looked at you. He looked around the shop, eyeing Lisa from across the store—drawing your attention to the girl you’d last seen when she was just a bundle of cloth within her mom’s arms, all chubby cheeks and wishful eyes.

Lisa followed the silent command from her dad, leaving the shop to go grab her mother from the white’s only side of the street. Turning back to Bo, you hadn’t realized how much your face betrayed your shock until he started laughing finally—clear and true as ever. “I remember when she was just a tadpole. Have I been gone that damn long?”

“She’s lookin’ more like her momma everyday, ain’t she? She’s a good kid,” Bo paused for a moment, his posture loosening into something more relaxed. “I like to think we did a pretty good job for the Delta.”

“You did, no one would doubt that.” You sighed out, posture soon matching Bo’s own. “You built your roots here and you raised that lil’ girl with all ya’ could give, Bo.”

“Sometimes I wish I coulda’ just given her somewhere else to live, a kinder world, maybe?—shit, I ain’t even know what I’m sayin’.” Bo spoke in that familiar chuckling voice, a deflection of the deeper meaning beneath.

“He hardly knows what he’s sayin’ half the time, that’s why I handle the hagglin’.” Grace swiped the palms of her hands against her apron, a smirk etched into the corners of her lips. The air in the room lightened instantaneously in a way that caused you to be become brutally aware of the truth that had quietly settled.

Now, you and Grace had practically been school girls together—if that meant getting up to trouble in unholy hours of the night in your early years, before she married Bo. Even though you’d known Bo for less time, you found yourself loving him just as much as you loved Grace. Each time they spoke to one another, even when they were in petty arguments or bickering like they were double their age, there was love, unyielding love.

The hug you’d given Grace was tight, unspoken words bleeding out from the contact as you squeezed—and in turn, she held you just as fiercely. “I’m sorry about your Ma and Pa, sweet pea. How ya’ been?”

“Been alright,” You caught yourself in your lie just as you spoke it, scoffing gently as you corrected. “Well, could be worse. Just been cooped up in that damn house.”

Her eyes traced along your face, taking in your more sunken in state. You hadn’t eaten in some time, ain’t really cared for yourself either. Grace’s brows were suddenly drawn tight as she kept her hands resting gently upon your elbows. “Now that just won’t do, won’t it? You been eatin’? Prolly not, knowin’ you.”

She leaned around you for a moment, catching the attention of Bo as he wiped down glass jars with his rags. “Bo, we still got that catfish ready to be cooked?”

“Now, that ain’t necessary—.”Grace shushed you like she would a child, continuing to talk with her husband, drawing together plans for you right in front of your face and as much as you wanted to hate it, you couldn’t, not when it was practically your best damn friend who was clearly so worried about you. Though, you wouldn’t deny the guilt you felt for taking up Bo and Grace’s time the way you were.

Before you knew it, Bo and Grace had invited you to dinner and you were seated at their table with a plate full of food. You ate it like you were starved, because you were. The evening was loud, not in the way that a juke was, but in the way friends gathered and spoke of the parts of their lives the other had missed. Bo had packed you up a nice bag full of food for you to eat rather than starving, and Grace had already made plans to pay you regular visits and to finally carve those shallow bones of an estate into something you could call home.

The first day of work had been grueling, plows striking against hardened earth as you attempted to make the garden actually resemble itself. The second day was not any better, but soon, they became easier. Each evening and the days when the shop was closed, Grace and Bo would be right beside you, working away at the chipped exterior of that house to find the gold beneath that had once shined so brightly with your Ma and Pa around.

Wallpaper in your favorite shade with flowers splotched across decorated the living room and the couch that had once sat unused was dusted, cleaned, and restored to its original form. After weeks of work, this house—your home, was finally something you could look at without that familiar ache in your chest. You kept the key parts the same, like your Pa’s banjo leaning just against the doorway to the garden, and your Ma’s embroidery mat was delicately draped across the kitchen table, but now it felt like the place was breathing with life after it had been vacant for so long. The walls thrummed with unheard music, the garden seeded with new coming harvest, and the nights stopped being something you’d dread, but instead something you embraced.

Everything was peaceful, the world seemingly in tune for the first in a very long time.

Then, he came.

Spring had bled into summer, and summer into fall. No matter how the seasons changed, the Delta was never truly cold. After a long day of working in the garden, you wanted to spend a bit of time on your porch enjoying the swing you and Bo had just built, a glass of iced tea in your sweaty palm. The sun faded past the horizon, graciously welcoming the moon in its place, and if anyone were to ask you which you’d admired more, you would always find comfort in the quiet solstice that moonlight provided you.

Taking a long swig of your beverage, you hummed to the sound of crickets and fireflies floating through the air. Your legs ached from your days work in the garden, but you ignored their protests just to keep that gentle swinging motion you’d got going. Your eyes had only fluttered shut for a moment in bliss, autumn breeze trancing you until your eyes were forced to open once more. That’s when you first saw him.

A man stood at the front of your gate, white picket fence gleaming in the moonlight. His hands were shoved into his pockets, gaze locked with yours as if he’d been watching us for much longer than you were aware of. You shifted to stand from your seat, a shiver running down your spine as you took a step closer to protection of your home. From the distance, you could see the faint quirk of his lips beneath the surface of his fair skin. Then, he spoke:

“I apologize, I ain’t intend to scare ya’. I was just wonderin’ where that beautiful voice was comin’ from.” He pushed past the gate effortlessly, feet so light against the dried yellow grass that there was barely a noise made with each step of his black shoes. He kept moving forward, kept intruding until he was at the bottom of your porch steps, his head tilted upward to look at you.

You didn’t respond. Your Pa always taught you to be cautious of strangers, double-so for a white man—a white man on his own was the Delta’s version of the devil. Instead, you met his stare with one of your own—cold against those prying eyes of his.

“Name’s Remmick.” He spoke once more, offering his hand up toward you—callouses and bumps on his pale palm catching in the porch light. You took a step back toward that doorway of yours and his expression shifted, something so subtle in the darkness, yet it was there nonetheless—whispering when his voice shouted.

Remmick cleared his throat as his smile transitioned into something more hidden, lips drawn a bit more thin as he shifted onto the ball of his feet, his hands returning to his trouser pockets. “Nice home you got here.”

He leaned a bit, peering past your shoulder, gaze following into the dimly lit living space—fully refurnished with life and comfort, and here you stood just beyond that barrier. Your voice was a whisper as you shifted to block his view a bit, dusty blue eyes locking with your face once more. “Thank you.”

“Nice voice you got when you’s talkin’ too.” That damned grin was back in a flash at the sound of your voice, like he was relishing in just two seconds of dialogue from you.

“Sir,” you cleared your throat. “Now, I ain’t wish to be crass, but it’s awful late and I do believe you got other places to be besides my doorstep.”

You put on that fake, honeyed tone—holding yourself a bit taller just like your Ma had taught you to do when white men passed you on the street. Your eyes finally met Remmick’s for the first time since he’d opened his mouth, both of your gazes matching the other—two people trying to read the stranger in front of them like a book, and failing. Remmick was no longer smiling.

Remmick glanced behind him for a moment, eyes visibly catching on the forest’s edge in the distance. He didn’t breathe as he did so, simply just watched the mossy green earth. Turning back to you, he finally stepped down off your bottom porch step—his smile returning in a more subtle form. “Alright, I can recognize when a missus doesn’t want me ‘round. Can I at least have your name b’fore I leave?”

Your hand on your glass clenched, the air having gone stagnant in that short period of time. Your Pa would’ve cursed you for ever entertaining this man and not shooting him for stepping on your porch in the first place, your Ma would’ve scolded you for being so direct without another man around. Either way, you would’ve lost that battle. Maybe that’s why you told him your name, and he repeated it like it was the sweetest sugar he’d ever tasted on his tongue—like he’d devour your name and you with it.

Remmick’s retreat from your home was slow, pinstripe shirt illuminated by the porch light as he made his way to the perimeters of your fence. The further he walked, the more your shoulders began to release their tension—your body drawn tight like a banjo string and you hadn’t even realized. Your glass clattered onto the porch as condensation made the glass difficult to grip, your concentration on Remmick finally breaking.

“Shit.” Crouching down, you grasped the cup, silently grateful it was already empty. It probably would’ve made your night worse to waste a perfectly good glass of iced tea. When you looked back up from the glass, you had expected to see Remmick retreating back to whatever place he was from—but there was nothing. Your fence swung mindlessly in the breeze, and the longer you stayed there, the more you realized that the crickets had stopped their nightly song and silence seemed to consume everything around.

You cleared your throat as you stood, and you didn’t hum to yourself this time as you moved from the porch into the boundaries of your home. You locked the door and checked it twice, not willing to admit your paranoia but far more interested in staying safe in the end. Hell, you’d even placed your Pa’s old shotgun on the kitchen table, just in case, you told yourself.

You dressed for bed, cleaned up a bit—made sure to close all the curtains and windows and checked the front door lock one last time before finally finding your way to your bedroom. The linens and blankets were warm against your skin, settling you in perfectly, and once you reached across your nightstand to turn off your oil lamp, you had the moon that streamed so prettily through the sheers to guide you to sleep.

Warm light caused you to stir, your voice muffled within your own ears as your eyes refused to open—eyelashes peeling apart hesitantly as your oil lamp flickered. The first thing your eyes caught upon was the moon above, so big and round, staring down at you with its own singular eye.

The next thing you felt was sensation, intense and growing heat between your thighs beneath your nightgown.

Your eyes struggled to break from the moon, but when they had, they immediately found tuffs of brown hair between your legs as two strong hands gripped your thighs—hiking your dress up higher as a hungry mouth latched right onto you. Your mouth parted into a cry, but nothing came out. Your body wasn’t yours to move, you were simply just there—a vessel writhing against a prodding tongue.

Those pale hands gripped your thighs a bit tighter as a deep vibration left the throat of the obscured man’s face, sending a tingle up your spine. You could feel each lick of his tongue along your seeping hot slit, each suck his lips gave to your clit—each sensation building in the pit of your stomach and all you could do was take it. He worked you up so damn good and if you were able to scream, you would’ve been.

Your back arched, heady gasps finally managing to break past your lips. His hands trailed from your thighs, bunching the fabric along them and dragging it upward onto your pelvis. The man’s hands were decorated in veins, skin oddly cool against your own as he continued to devour you. Each flick of his tongue dragged out into a maddening eternity as you were forced to just wait, to give in to that pressure growing between the sweetness of your thighs.

Blistering hot white pleasure began to creep into your vision, legs quivering as your chest heaved as your peak grew closer. The man chuckled, sending sweet vibrations right against where you needed it most. He gave one final suck to your clit and just as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, you jolted awake.

Sunlight was much harsher than moonlight, that was for damn sure. The burning sensation from your dream lasted in the pit of your stomach, and for a moment, you’d questioned if the dream was real. Tugging the linens away from your legs, you found the real cause of that heat—red, hot and angry upon the linens. Shit.

After cleaning and swapping the linens and slipping on your sanitary belt, you’d decided that today would probably be best spent as a day of relaxation rather than in the town. You curled up on your sofa with a book, mind occasionally drifting to the man on your porch step last night, but you were easily distracted by the words on the page.

As the sun leaned toward the horizon, the book was left abandoned on your sofa as your hands found your Pa’s old banjo. The rickety thing hadn’t been played for some time and was certainly in need of tuning, but you tried your best to remember the fingerings of each note—each shift of your fingers producing a new sound and pitch.

You hummed the notes to yourself each time you played a different one, glimpses of your Pa passing through your mind. He loved this banjo, used to play it from dusk to dawn on your little back porch. That man could also sing like hell too, would drag your Ma into his musical antics no matter how much she protested. He taught you everything you knew about music, he was the one who hugged you tightest when you went off to New York.

You thought you were ready for New York, thought you was able to survive the competition and control that came with newfangled stardom. You were wrong, so very wrong. You’d put all your money into your gig, singing late into the night at all-black establishments that could barely stay open on their own terms. The money was shit, but the feeling was amazing.

Then there was one night that changed everything. A white man came into the club you was playing at, called you a star-in-the-making and took you home with him. In exchange for your… services, he set you up with the big man—a man who had power and money in all the right places. You began to play bigger gigs, had your appearance changed from that humble black girl from the Delta into something the white folks in New York could pretend to accept.

It didn’t last long. Turns out, white folk like the sound of a black woman’s voice but don’t like the face it comes from. The big guy who was supposed to be your handler turned his back on you, claiming you’d taken his money and robbed him—utter bullshit spewing from that filthy mouth of his. You were desperate, hungry, and you sure as hell weren’t proud of what you did next.

You took some cash, just enough to buy a one way ticket back to the Delta. That’s when you found out your Ma and Pa had died, as if it couldn’t get any worse. The leftover cash was put into their funeral, and you were back to square one.

Warm, quiet tears fell onto the banjo in your hands, fingers continuing to slowly pluck a tune on that banjo that you could only recognize as your Pa’s song, the one he played for Ma each and every time she would listen. You hummed the lyrics obscurely, unable to fully grasp each word but knowing the meaning deep within your heart where it whispered loudest.

A slow sigh left your lungs as your fingers stilled, the last plucked string reverberating throughout the room, the last note you could remember of the song even if you knew it was incomplete. The silence that followed was careful, floating through the air, delicate as glass.

Then it was shattered. From just beyond your open window, you could hear the gentle strumming of a banjo outside your home—each note confident in a way your rendition hadn’t been. Glancing toward the billowing sheers of the window, you could see that the sun had finally disappeared into an endless black darkness. You brushed off any figment of dust from your dress as you stood, approaching your front door, smooshing your ear up against the wooden structure as you listened carefully.

A man’s voice followed, sweet and smooth as honey: “Love, oh love, oh careless love… night and day, I weep and mourn.”

You don’t know when your hand had grasped the doorknob, all you could recognize was that familiar creek of door hinges as you pulled.

“You brought the wrong man into this life of mine—“

Remmick stood on your porch now, standing tall as his fingers worked the banjo in his hands—its strap slipped across his shoulders diligently. Your hip and shoulder found a comfortable place against the doorframe as you leaned, arms crossing over your chest as you watched him silently—watched the performance he put on just for you.

Those familiar blue eyes of his were locked onto your own, a smirk sprouting onto his face as he sang. He was good, you’d admit that—it ain’t change the fact that he’s on your doorstep in the middle of the damn night.

“For my sins, ‘til judgement I’ll atone.”

There was a beat of silence, then you spoke.

“You’re good,” you eyed Remmick up and down, mentally noting that he was still wearing the same thing as yesterday—still wearing that pinstripe button-up and black slacks. “But that ain’t change the fact that you’re on my porch again, in the middle of the damn night.”

“But you still answered the door for such a late hour, ain’t ya’?” Remmick was almost smug as he spoke, slipping his banjo over his shoulder as his gaze broke from yours to see inside your home once more—the sudden intrusion causing you to clear your throat and straighten up a bit.

“That still don’t give an invitation for you to be playin’ at my doorstep, Remmick.”

His expression suddenly shifted to this look of faux guilt, head dipping as he stared down at his feet. “I’m sorry, missus. I know I shouldn’t keep showin’ up here n’ all, but you’re just so… pretty and your home just seems so welcomin’. Can I just come in for a bit?”

Even though Remmick’s lips were formed into a pout and he did a damn good job at furrowing his brows to look like a child caught stealing a cookie, something in his eyes disconnected from the rest of his face—something sinister hidden beneath that innocent facade.

“That ain’t a good idea, Remmick. You know that.” You were blunt, remaining against the door frame as you stared at him intensely.

Finally, something seemed to crack within that crafted porcelain as he met your eyes once more—a twitch in his lip and a dilation in his pupils giving way to something a bit more animalistic beyond the man. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the eye contact communicating enough on its own. You weren’t budging.

“…you can sit on this porch. I’ll bring you some tea. You like it sweet?” Even if you weren’t willing to let him in, you could indulge in this little fantasy—even just for a few minutes.

“No sugar, please. Thank you.” Remmick was polite as he sat down on your porch, waiting patiently like a puppy dog getting a treat. When you returned, that charming facade was back—his hand brushing against yours as you handed him the cool glass, the coolness of his fingertips contrasting the warmth of your own.

Placing a pillow onto the floor, you sat across from Remmick with your own glass of tea. You both took silent sips of your tea, and for once, you weren’t staring down each other. You were staring off at the woods behind Remmick, watching how the trees swayed and how the crickets had fallen quiet once more. It was odd for the woods to be quiet, especially at this time of night when everything seemed to be so alive beyond the world of humans.

“Did you grow up in these parts?” Remmick finally broke the silence with a question, drawing the glass to his lips.

“I did. I even used to play in those woods back there.” You pointed as you took another swig of your own tea. “Used to run around for hours and get lost, then my Ma’s voice would guide me back home.”

“It’s big in there, too damn easy to get lost and turned around. I wonder how many people have gone in and haven’t come out…” Remmick muttered as he craned his neck in the direction of your finger, clearing his throat and taking another drink as he turned back to you.

“You from here?” There was a thoughtfulness that overcame Remmick at your question, like he had to remember where he was from rather than just say it. Your own brows furrowed, watching as words formed on his tongue yet didn’t leave his lips. “Didn’t realize I was askin’ such a loaded question.”

“I’m from around here. Moved a lot growin’ up, made it easy to forget where I was truly from.” Even though he spoke with conviction, the words didn’t feel right leaving his lips, like half the truth was missing.

You hummed out, taking another long sip of your tea. “Must’ve been hard movin’ all the time.”

“That’s awful sweet of ya’ to think of it like that. The further away I moved, the more I forgot those lands. I miss ‘em, but they’re more of just a memory now… a distant dream.” Remmick drawled, his hand coming down to support his weight as he leaned a bit, bicep flexing beneath those pinstripe sleeves and you ate up the sight greedily.

“If you miss it so much, why ain’t you just visit?” The answer seemed so on the nose to remedy this homesickness.

But Remmick was beginning to show he was anything but simple. “It don’t exist no more.”

A quiet ‘oh’ left you at his words, followed by an apology. He chuckled at that, taking another sip of his tea before placing the empty glass beside him. “You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you? Why ain’t you ever left the Delta before?”

“I did—well, I tried to.” You took a moment to clear your throat, hands smoothing over your dress as your eyes found the fabric, following its simple patterns with the tips of your fingers. “Went to New York for a bit. It ain’t shit but buildings and men lookin’ for their next big star, just to dump them in a week. Then my Ma and Pa died, and I came back home.”

You don’t know why you told Remmick your story, don’t know why it felt so good to either. Maybe you were lonelier than you thought, still seeking for something to fill that aching hole left in your chest. The house had become your comfort, but it still lacked that little pattering of feet, the scent of your Pa’s coffee and the sweet scent of cinnamon while your Ma baked. You found yourself thinking about having someone proper in your home, someone to love and to be loved.

Remmick’s smug and smiley disposition shifted into something more demure, quiet as his brows drew tightly together. “Losin’ your Ma and Pa must be a hurtin’ feelin’. I’m sorry to hear that.”

There was a pause of silence once again.

“I went to New York once,” He watched closely as your face lifted to meet his once again, emotions swirling hidden just within the depths of your eyes. “Bustlin’ city, decent night life… I prefer the Delta. I ain’t meet people like you in New York.”

A giggle bubbled within your chest before you could stop it, distracting you from the ache in your chest as flattery wove its way into your mind. Remmick visibly brightened at the sound of your laughter, egged on by the noise and relishing in it as he took in a deep breath. “You ain’t so bad yourself, Remmick.”

His hand moved to his chest, lips parting dramatically. “Now, I think that’s ’bout the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

Your giggle soon turned into a chuckle as your posture dropped into something more comfortable, genuine. “I can sweet talk too, banjo boy. I just choose to not use it on strangers.”

Strangers. Remmick’s grin widened at the thought, the potential bond forming between you two, even if it was risky. “Well, I find flattery is the best medicine.”

“Keep flatterin’ me and we’ll see if it works then.” You flirted back, smirking to yourself as your head came to rest against the doorframe.

The trees beyond the fence swayed with the night breeze, owls cooing in the darkness. The porch light perched on the wall flickered every few minutes, catching the misty blue of Remmick’s eyes as he spoke. You found yourself drawn to him, taking in each word he said in that sweet drawl. Remmick watched you speak as if you held the voice of angels above, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Time was the least of your focuses the longer he talked, you were tunnel visioned by the man in front of you, and so was he.

Morning birds began to chirp, their noises a reminder that there was more to the world than two people sitting on a porch. You found yourself caught on those magic words as you considered inviting Remmick in for the day, tongue tasting each syllable yet the longer they sat within your mouth, the more foul they tasted. Remmick rose from his position on the porch, hands brushing dirt from his trousers.

“You’ll be back again tonight, right?” You asked, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so eager. But Remmick wasn’t turned away from the invitation, no, he found himself smiling so sweetly at the desperation hidden so poorly within your voice.

“I’ll be here every night ‘til you let me in, darlin’.” The wording was odd, but Remmick had an odd way about him, and nonetheless the sentiment warmed your heart.

Remmick’s feet were light against the porch as he descended the steps, his form completely weightless as he trudged across the grass and toward that familiar white gate. His movement stalled just as his hand came into contact with the wood, neck craning around to look at you one last time before waving.

Your brows furrowed the longer you looked at him in the darkness, saw the way his form seemed just a bit taller—less man and more animal now that he was farther from you, like a facade slipping away. You brushed away the idea, telling yourself it was just exhaustion weighing on you. Mustering up a small quirk of your lips, you waved back to Remmick before closing your front door—locking it securely.

For those few hours you slept, it was like you had never truly fallen asleep. Your conscious was oddly aware of everything around you, aware of each twitch of muscle and the linens against your legs. Your heart calmed, breath evening as you relaxed deeper into this odd slumber. Then you felt it, two hands—strong and heavy as they held onto your waist, the cushioning of the bed dipping behind you.

The hands gave way to arms, tugging you closer and closer till your head was resting against someone’s chest. A man was whispering into your ear in a language you couldn’t recognize. His arms were deceptively cool against your form, chest rising and falling slowly against your back as he continued to hum and whisper—each syllable twisted and falling into the open space.

The language was old, smooth and effortless leaving the tongue. It sounded like a song being spoken, beckoning you to fall deeper into his embrace the longer he hold on. A shiver ran down your spine as two sharp points trailed down the juncture of your neck, your arms and legs twitching as his grip tightened around you. The sensation tickled, tracing from your neck onto your shoulder and back, teasing—testing to see how long you would last before waking.

The man’s lips locked onto your shoulder, placing open mouthed kisses, leaving behind a trail of cool saliva in his wake. The sensation sent tingles down your spine, light and airy—then suddenly sharp, hot blistering pain took its place, two sharp points piercing the skin.

You screamed as you jolted awake, tearing the sheets from your legs as you looked around your bedroom—looking for anything or anyone. Yet it was empty, devoid of sound beyond your breathing. Your hands found their way toward your neck, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed as you quickly found your Ma’s mirror. Nothing, not even a single scratch, was there. It was just a weird, vivid dream.

It was too late in the day to go back to sleep by the time you’d opened the curtains, sunlight greeting you far too happily for someone who’d gotten three hours of rest. The headache that followed you throughout the day was frustrating, but nothing compared to the concern you’d begun to feel regarding your dreams. You hadn’t had nightmares since your Ma and Pa’s funeral, and those never involved a man—never involved a touch so sweet and sinful it made your skin crawl.

You tried to distract yourself throughout the day with mundane tasks, keeping to yourself as you tended the garden. Grace paid you a visit for a bit, remarking how “You looked like you’d just seen the devil himself”. Maybe you had, maybe he had buried his head between your thighs and tasted you and was now following you in your sleep—god, that sounded fucking ridiculous. Regardless, weird dreams didn’t mean shit for reality where you were still busy fixing up the final touches to your home.

Remmick came by that night, and the night after, and the night after that. It became a routine of yours. You slept in, woke midday, spent some time fixing whatever was broken before waiting for Remmick to show up and spending the whole night with him. Subconsciously, you relished in the company he gave—the way he listened, the way he watched, all predatory hiding beneath a fawn’s gaze. You never invited him in, always considered it but never did. And each night when you laid in bed, you’d dreamt of a man holding you, touching you, devouring you whole.

Grace said she wasn’t concerned, but you could tell by the way she visited more now, the way she looked at you as if you dying right before her eyes, that she wanted to say something neither of you were willing to admit. She helped wherever she could, but there wasn’t much to do admittedly with how long you’d begun to spend cooped up in that damned house again.

“A man came into the store yesterday, a white man.” Grace’s brow quirked upward, asking a silent question as she scrubbed at the dishes in your sink.

You were sitting down at the dining table, sewing up a hole left in one of your Ma’s table covers. The thread within your hands slowed as you lifted your gaze to meet Grace’s, expression soon matching hers. “A white man? What’d he look like?”

“Tall, dark, sleazy. Everything New York ‘bout him. He asked ‘bout you.”

Fuck, that wasn’t good. You thought you’d covered your trail from your star days, left that girl dead and buried to resume life here—but you were so very wrong. “Shit, Grace. What’d you say?”

“Said you’d moved. He had that look in his eye though, like a man willin’ to drag someone through hell for answers. You know him?” Grace placed a clean cup onto the drying rack, turning to face you as she leaned against the counter.

“I do—well, I did. Knew him back in New York, is all.” You were quick to answer, too quick for complete reassurance.

But Grace wasn’t the type to pry, not when it came to things like this. You both continued on working in silence, your mind drifting somewhere else entirely—drifting to those woods, to that pinstriped shirt and banjo you’d grown fond of, far too fond for comfort. Grace left quietly from your home, casting you one final look as she pushed past that picket fence into the setting horizon—and something in your stomach soured at the sight. It was like she sensed something you were unable to see.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, and once again you waited on your sofa, perched like a bird waiting to hear the crow of its lover. You waited—and waited, and waited. Then, there was a knock on the door.

The sound struck you as odd since Remmick never knocked, always calling out to you in the darkness, but who were you to dictate the right way to visit someone. You’d dressed yourself in your best dress tonight, mentally planning on inviting him in and hopefully having a decent supper together. It felt like being a schoolgirl all over again, rushing around your living room as you brushed away any speck of dust and grime from your dress, if there was any. You lit the candles along the dining table, checking to see if the food was still warm before approaching the door.

Sucking in a tight breath, you gathered all your nerves, grasping that doorknob tightly as a smile etched its way into your cheeks. The hinges creaked as the door swung open, his name beginning to form on your tongue only to die out at the sight that met you. “Remmi—…”

Your old handler stood on your doorstep, cigar between his lips as he looked back the woods near your house. His head whipped back toward you the moment he heard the door hinges swing open, that familiar cruel smile curling on his lips. “Hey, sweet pea. Never thought you’d see me again, huh?”

You began to close the door only for him to block you with his hand, leaning far too close for comfort. The man stunk of cigar smoke and New York sewer, something that never quite washed off no matter how far you got away from the place.

“No, I ain’t.” The words were dry leaving your lips, dragging against your throat as your posture tensed.

He peered past you, his form imposing on you the longer he stood there. A deep chuckle left his mouth, humorless. “Waitin’ on someone? Were you waitin’ on me, sweet pea?”

God, you fucking hated that nickname—hated the way he used it to carve his claim into you even after all these months. That sleazy old bastard still knew how to get under your skin, to dig his fingers into a wound you that had healed and rip it freshly open.

“I was waiting on my husband to come home. He should be here soon.” Lies, all of it, but maybe it would keep him from staying past his already overdue stay.

But that man knew better, took one glance at your hand and knew better. You met his eyes once more before quickly moving to close the door, but he was fast and too damn strong. He forced his way inside quickly, plucking the cigar from his lips and smooshing the ashes against your Ma’s counters. “Nice place you’ve gotten yourself, hope it isn’t all from that money you stole, sweat pea.”

“None of this is your money, ain’t ever been your money. Now, get the fuck out of my home.” You rounded the dining table, trying to put as much distance between you and this bulking figure as possible. Your eyes followed him like a prey being chased by a predator, trying to slip from the jaws of something that would chase you till the end. If he was gonna try and kill you, you were going down with a fucking fight.

He scoffed at your words, glancing around your home before looking at you once again. “There’s that fire I missed so much. Listen here, I got two options for you, sweet pea. You can either pack it all up tonight n’ head back to New York with me, and I’ll work ya’ ‘til you pay back every damn cent you took. Or…”

The man didn’t even need to finish as he reached into his suit jacket, a click resounding as he turned off the safety to his gun.

Returning wasn’t an option—it had never been an option. You knew better than that, knew that going back to New York was a death sentence dressed up in glamour. So, you were left with only one choice.

The dish you’d spent an hour on went flying across the table, shattering into the man’s face as the food came splashing onto the floor. “Shit!”

Your feet pounded against the floor as you rounded the table, heading straight for the doorway as his hands scrambled towards his face, then toward you. Pushing past the threshold of your door frame, the once gentle breeze whipped against your face so intensely—the balls of your feet bouncing against the porch steps.

“You fucking bitch!” The man’s steps weren’t far behind as you ran, stumbling into the forest haphazardly. Your feet slipped and caught upon moss, but the consequence of falling was far less than the consequences of being caught.

Your lungs ached, legs burning with each pounding step as your form weaved between trees and branches. In the past, you’d known this forest like the back of your hand, but in the darkness, it seemed much more sinister, twisted and all-consuming. Rounding a tree, you’d stopped to catch your breath—chest heaving as your once-nice dress was now torn and stained at the hem.

The forest was silent all around, no crickets chirped, no owls hooted. It was agonizing, brittle silence. You prayed this forest would protect you—keep you hidden and tightly wrapped in its mossy arms from the predator that was changing you, but the forest had a funny way of protecting people, of hiding them.

A branch snapped beneath weight just a few feet away, goosebumps riddling your skin as you turned to run—only to feel a hand snap around your arm and pull you back. You opened your mouth to scream, but another hand quickly covered your mouth. Bark dug into your back as Remmick stood in front of you, crowding your body with his own as you stopped struggling—his eyes not on yours, but on your handler who stumbled by a few trees over.

When he finally looked at you, there was something different in his appearance—something distinctly wrong. Frothed drool dribbled down his chin, his eyes no longer than misty shade of blue but blood red. His nails were sharp upon your arm, prickling blood unintentionally—but just the scent alone caused his nose to flare hungrily.

“Get inside.”

There were no questions needed to be asked as Remmick released your arm, your form stumbling back through the woods. As you ran, you glanced back to Remmick one last time—watching as the moonlight streamed through the trees and caught upon his form, and that’s when you truly saw him. That animal hidden in human flesh was no longer pretending, talon-like nails protruded as his tongue dragged across razor teeth.

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes the longer you ran, bile sloshing in the pit of your stomach and soon exiting through your mouth. You dry heaved as you push past the white gate of your home, now tarnished with blood. A blood curling scream left the trees, your heart leaping and squeezing in your chest—but you didn’t stop moving, never stopped until you past the boundaries of your home, slamming the door shut and locking it.

The waiting had been the worst part—waiting to find a savior or the devil at your doorstep. You swept and scrubbed the floor, the actions so mundane for someone whose mind was far from their body. You scrubbed, and scrubbed—working your hands till they were raw as blood trickled down your arm. Silence consumed your home, consumed you with it.

The sight of the food on your dinner table, the broken promise of a night you were supposed to have, made your stomach sour and clench. Fear gave way to anger as you swept all the food into a trash bin, tossing the plates into the sink and scrubbing at the dishes till they were spotless—lacking any memory of the ordeal, just as you wished you could do.

You scrubbed the counter where he’d smooshed the cigar, wiping bitterly as the ash stained and carved a permanent marking into the wood. Fucking asshole—fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your manic cleaning was broken by the gentle sound of humming beyond your door, a foreign language sitting upon unseen lips—the same lithe tongue spoken in your dream. Remmick was here. Your hand rested upon the doorknob, arms ready to accept the fate beyond the door—but something in your brain made you pause. You didn’t know what Remmick was, but you knew he wasn’t human—knew he a creature of the night, something dangerous, something sinister.

You backed away from the door as Remmick called out your name from the other side, his voice soft, too soft. The shotgun in the closet found its way into your hands, loaded as you swung the door open—taking aim at the man you’d once considered your friend.

Remmick stared down the barrel, a dry laugh leaving his bloodied lips as he stared at you. He looked at you as if you even prettier this way, full of scorn, scared and shaking in front of him, like he wanted to devour you whole right then and there. He was smeared in blood that obviously wasn’t his, shirt ruined as one of his suspenders hung loosely off his shoulder. “Ain’t no need for that, pretty thing.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You raised the gun, feeling hot tears well in the corners of your eyes and escape down your cheeks. “What the fuck are you?”

That facade he’d embraced was long gone now, replaced by this thing—replaced by what he truly was. Remmick didn’t respond, simply lifting his claws into the air almost defensively as he smiled down at you with his fangs poking past his lips.

You cocked the shotgun, a sharp glare crossing over your face.

“I’m your Remmick, darlin’. Always have been.” Your Remmick, how fucking rich. “That man won’t be botherin’ you anymore. Won’t be botherin’ anyone anymore, really.”

Remmick spoke like what he’d done was mundane—like it was an average occurrence through his week.

“Shut the fuck up, Remmick!” You screamed finally, shoving the barrel of the gun toward, aiming toward Remmick’s head with shaky hands. “I thought we was friends, real friends. What the hell are you? Why the hell would you hide this from me? Jesus—fuck!”

Remmick cooed in that familiar drawl of his, but it wasn’t charming this time—far from it. “We’s still friends, darlin’. I’m yours… just like you’re mine. Why don’t you lower than gun and let me come on in?”

His clawed fingers slowly grasped around the barrel of the shotgun, inching it away from his face as he stared down at you—near quite breaking eye contact as his crimson eyes burned into your face. His tongue dragged across his lips at the sight of your tears, drool beginning to slip out at the corner of his mouth again. Fuck, you looked just as pretty when you cried.

You knocked his hand away from the barrel quickly, aiming it once again as your brain continued to try and convince you to hate him—to blow his brains out and move on with your life.

But that ache in your heart was louder.

“…come in.” You whispered out, dropping the shotgun to the floor roughly. Your mind wanted to hate him, wanted to despise what he was—but your heart had known for a long time that Remmick was far from normal and part of you loved him for it.

The first step he took beyond that barrier felt like glass shattering, the world tipping the moment he was fully inside your home—here, with you, covered in blood. The grin he had on his face was almost childish, like he’d just received candy and gotten a pat on the head.

You didn’t speak to him, just gestured for him to take a seat while you turned your back, dipping a towel in a soapy water concoction.

“Pretty home,” Remmick hummed as he looked around, slipping his suspenders down to his waist before claw-like fingers began fiddling with the buttons on his shirt slowly until he had fully peeled away the fabric to sit in his undershirt and slacks. “Ain’t as pretty as you, though.”

For someone who just had a gun held to his face, he still managed to flirt like you were the next hottest thing.

Wringing the towel out, you handed it to Remmick, his fingertips brushing against the softer palm of your hand and there was a slight hitch in his breath at the contact, like he’d been waiting for this moment for a long time—waiting to touch you, to carve himself into your bones and make it his home.

“You’re hurt.” You didn’t like the way the words came out so pitifully, like you were genuinely concerned for him even when you should despise him. He was a murderer, a monster.

Your hands moved before your mind had fully processed, fingertips pushing up the side of his undershirt to reveal a gash left in his side from what appeared to be a bullet. It was weird that Remmick wasn’t reacting to the pain, but honestly there were a lot of weird things that happened tonight so you didn’t even have the mental bandwidth to question.

Instead, you took the towel from Remmick’s hands, fingers finding their place along the plane of his abdomen, cool flesh settling against the warmth of your own as you dragged the towel along the bloodied wound. You could feel the way his flesh expanded and contracted, feel each vibration in his chest as he let out a mix of a scoff and laugh.

“You’re too good for me, darlin’.”

“I know.” Your response was snippy, quick as you wiped one last time before stepping away from Remmick—but his hand caught your wrist before you could reach the water bucket, grasping firmly.

Your head whipped around to look at him, to fully look at him—taking in the blood, the mess, and goop. Admittedly, those red eyes were what hypnotized you the most, the way they watched you—took in each change in your facial expression and yearned for more, begged for more. His claws released your wrist, slowly making their way to your face.

The tingling sharpness on your jaw felt perfectly contrasted by the gentle nature of the touch, so light as if he was scared to draw blood. Your knuckles tightened around the towel, pale bloody water pattering onto the floor going unnoticed. Your breath was hitched, caught within your chest the longer he touched, but fuck, you knew exactly where you wanted him.

One hand found its way to his shoulder, tracing along the fine tuned muscles, tracing each ridge and bump of cool skin beneath your fingertips. The space minimized in seconds, the contact of lips so light it felt like a feather had brushed you. Your stomach clenched at the contact, mind doing backflips while your heart thrummed in a frenzy.

Remmick didn’t wait to go back in for a second taste, opposite hand finding its place on your hip as he gently guided you down into his lap. Your legs parted, making room for Remmick to slot himself perfectly as his lips consumed your own. The second kiss was different, full of hunger and need that lasted centuries.

The rag in your hand was thrown somewhere you couldn’t see, the hand instead finding placement in his hair—fingernails scraping against the nape of his scalp. Remmick’s mouth parted in a mixture of a whimper and a groan, tongue swiping across your own looks in search of acceptance.

The hand on your hip held firm, tilting your pelvis as it began to rock you up and down the curvature of his cock. You broke the kiss in a gasp, giving Remmick his opportunity as his tongue began to explore your mouth greedily. The sensation was suffocating, clouding your brain as your hips began to rock on their own, matching the rhythm Remmick had set.

“You’re so sweet f’me, so precious.” Remmick whispered into your lips, hands dipping into the arch of your back as your pebbled clit languidly dragged right against his slacks. You weren’t the only one aroused either, his cock swelling within its confines with each buck.

You nipped at the his bottom lip, a high-pitched gasp leaving your lungs as Remmick’s fingers tweaked your nipples through the fabric of your gown. “I ain’t sweet all the time.”

Remmick shook his head, dipping his head into the juncture of your neck before licking a wet stripe up the flesh. “No, I bet you ain’t. Neither am I, darlin.”

He punctured his words with a mean nip at your jawline, just enough to make the skin red and puffy. Slick gathered between your legs, dripping through your panties like sacred honey. You rocked your hips faster, feeling that burning sensation beginning to form in the pit of your belly, desperate and hungry. Your hands perched on Remmick’s shoulders, breathless whines leaving your gasping mouth as you chased that precious peak.

Remmick’s eyes were trained on your face, that annoyingly smug smirk plastered across his lips. He watched as your brows furrowed and your legs began to tighten, clit bumping against his hardened tip so beautifully it made you want to cry. He watched as you worked yourself to the crest of that peak, only to rip it away from you.

“Ah, ah, ah…” His arm suddenly wrapped around your torso, lifting you up as you released a strangled pant. Remmick laid you down on the kitchen table, using those perfectly veined hands of his to languidly bunch the fabric of your dress along your thighs, teasing you.

“Remmick—.”You wanted him, needed him to make you feel so good again. Felt like you’d die without it. “Shh… sweet thing, I’ve got you. Let me treat you proper.”

One hand splayed itself across your hip bone, the other resting onto your inner thigh as Remmick used his food to pull a stool up to the table. The wooden thing creaked under his weight, shifting till he was sat with his face hovering between your thighs. Remmick’s eyes were a bright red now, full of hunger as saliva dribbled down his chin and dripped onto the counters.

The hand on your thigh finally moved toward where you needed him most, tracing light circled just below your clit—allowing the slick to build on the tips of his fingers before pulling them away, slotting his middle and index past his lips with a heady hum of approval.

“Fuck, you taste as good as you smell.”

You were quick to lift your hips, removing your panties with a bit of assistance. Remmick pocketed them before returning to your altar, watching sweet dripping wetness leak from your slit all the way down onto the table. A needy moan broke past your lips, hips writhing against the table in search of friction.

“Sh… I got you. Let me pray before my meal.” Remmick propped his elbows on the table, fingers intertwining as he whispered words you couldn’t quite hear. “Amen.”

There was no warning before he lunged into your cunt, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness. You released a startled cry, hands darting out toward his hair. Remmick moaned into your lips, hands grasping your thighs and hiking them onto his back as he devoured you from the inside out. Your hands were tight in his hair, a whine breaking past his throat as he ate you out intensely.

Your hips lifted for a moment but Remmick was quick to push you back down with his hand, wanting you to sit pretty and just take what he was giving you. His lips squelched against your cooze, tongue slipping lower until it was prodding against that first ring of muscle.

“Remmick—oh, fuck!” The sensation was foreign as his tongue exploded your crevices, thrusting and working you so good. His nose rubbed against your clit, pressed just right and you clenched around him. Remmick was a messy eater, sucking loudly, groaning into your cunt like it was the best meal he’d eaten in centuries. Your fingernails scraped against his scalp as you gasped, legs squeezing around his head and threatening to suffocate, but that didn’t stop him. In fact, it only spurred him on as he released your thighs.

One hand planted itself on your pelvis, thumb swiping mean circles across your clit as his mouth pulled away. Remmick slowly brought his middle and ring finger between his lips, tongue swirling around his digits before he removed them, a string of saliva connecting his tongue to his fingers.

“Take a deep breath for me, darlin’. You’s a little tight, and that just won’t do.” He lined his fingers up with your entrance, pushing past that first ring with little resistance. Remmick cooed at the sight, watching his fingers disappear while you writhed against the table, back arching as your mouth parted into a breathless moan at the intrusion. “That’s it, you’re doin’ so good. So good f’me.”

Remmick gave an experimental thrust of his fingers, testing the way you stretched and moaned before starting to curl them in a careful rhythm. He listened to each moan that left you, finding that spongy spot that made you moan loudest in seconds. You released those brown locks, hands finding purchase on the table as you propped yourself up—watching as Remmick dove right back into your cunt.

He suckled your clit, tongue swiping across that precious nub while his fingers rubbed right against your g-spot. The combination of sensation sent your brain into a frenzy, body shuddering as you got worked up fast and hot, your moans and gasps becoming desperate and whiny. Your hips bucked into Remmick’s face and he groaned right back, sucking harder till the dam in the pit of your belly broke. “Wait—let me catch my breath—oh, fuck… fuck!”

Your back arched, hips bucking wildly as Remmick’s free hand came to hold your thigh against his face, stubble rubbing deliciously against the tender flesh. You wailed into your orgasm, vision blurring as you pulsed with life. Remmick sucked on your clit till you sobbed, pussy weakly pulsing around his fingers as everything became all too much.

“That’s my girl.” Lifting his head, he withdrew his fingers from your cunt, covered in your orgasm. Remmick was quick to lick up his fingers, cleaning the mess you’d made with a delighted hum. He patted your thigh, rising from the stool as he began to fiddle with his belt. Your brain was scrambled, frothy from pleasure and one hell of an orgasm—but that still didn’t stop you from trying.

Your hands found Remmick’s shoulders, attempting to push him down onto the table with you. “Let me ride you, least I can do.”

Remmick chuckled, a flicker of something sinister crossing over his face as he pushed your hands away, the belt falling to the floor with a thud. “Maybe next time, darlin’. I’ll be takin’ you nice n’ proper, as proper as fuckin’ you on the table can get.”

With that, he guided your back onto the wooden surface, placing your legs comfortably around his waist as he unzipped his pants. Your eyes greedily took each movement in as Remmick pushed down his boxers just enough for his cock to spring free, bobbing out of its confines. He was thick, a singular vein lining him all the way down to the base where a thick patch of dark brown hair peaked out. Fuck, that’s what you were going to be taking, made your stomach clench and your pussy pulse.

“You’re massive… holy shit.” You whispered out, a gentle scoff leaving Remmick’s lips. Remmick spit into his hand, sliding saliva up and down into a gentle pump on his cock before lining it up with your entrance.

“It’ll feel real good, darlin’. So good you’ll be screamin’ f’me. Just breathe.”

You followed his words, taking in a deep breath only for that air to be punched out of you a moment later. Remmick pushed forward, his tip splitting you open painfully. You tensed, legs squeezing his waist as your face bunched up in a pained groan.

Remmick’s thumb traced tiny circles across your clit, cooing and whispering words of encouragement until you’d adjusted a bit, tension seeping out of your body steadily. He continued this process, inching in until he was fully sheathed, that delicious hairy patch grinding against your clit as his mouth perched itself on your pebbled nipples. Remmick sucked diligently, fangs grazing every few seconds before switching to the next until your chest was coated in his saliva. “Fuck—you’re so damn tight.”

You felt full, unbelievable full. Each breath was full of Remmick, each sound was full of him. You shuddered at the sheer size of him, prodding each spot in you like it was nothing. Your chest heaved, rising and falling as your eyes remained wide as you adjusted to him just a bit more, allowing his cock to imprint itself inside you.

Remmick placed a kiss on your collarbone, followed by one on your cheek. Pulling his face an inch away from yours, he whispered. “You ready, sweet thing?”

The slightest movement caused him to slip deeper into you, a weak groan leaving your lips as you stuttered over the words. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

You didn’t need to repeat yourself as he caught your lips with his own, hips rolling experimentally. You whined into the kiss, his cock pressing into you greedily as your hands grasped the table desperately. Remmick matched your sounds with ones of his own, whining and gasping against your lips with each thrust. The more he moved, the more you were able to adjust—soon finding yourself relaxing into the sensation, pussy contracting and pulsing.

“I’m gonna—haah—gon’ move you a bit.”

Remmick’s hands dipped under your thighs, unlocking them from around his waist before placing ankles onto his shoulders. He leaned forward and the stretch was almost immediate, his cock somehow piercing a completely new part of you. A garbled noise left your lungs, eyes snapping down to where you both met so beautifully.

Remmick gave a singular rough thrust, a snarl forcing out of his mouth, animalistic and raw. His fingers dug into the fat of your hips, dragging you into him as he began to rut into you—fucking you into the table. Your hands left the table quickly, nails scraping crescents into his biceps as they flexed with each thrust.

“Remmick—oh, my… god. I can’t—ngh!”

The stretch was overwhelming, each spot inside you being scraped bare as Remmick pounded into your walls, tits bouncing as your back arched.

“You can—shit—you will.” One hand planted itself on your pelvis, applying just the right amount of pressure so you could feel him dragging against your walls from the inside out.

“Feel that? Feel me fuckin’ that pussy, fillin’ you up? Fuck—haah… you’re squeezin’ the life out of me.”

You clenched tighter, pulsing as your eyes rolled shut—mouth opening in silent moans and broken screams. Remmick leaned forward, a glob of spit forming on his tongue before plopping directly onto your pussy. His thumb caught the saliva, smooshing it against your clit in mean little circles.

Your legs spasmed instantly, tightening and milking around his girth. Remmick released a strangled whine at the sudden tightness, his unoccupied hand grasping your tit tightly.

“You gon’ cum? You gon’ let go all over me, yeah? Fuck—fuckin’ do it. Show me how good I can make you feel.”

Your vision blanked as your body shook, legs spasming on his shoulder as your pussy clenched so tight Remmick swore you’d break his dick. Your lips parted in a scream, breathless and high-pitched. Remmick didn’t stop moving, rutting into you as his whines turned into snarls, hands moving to dig into the fat of your hips in a bruising grip.

“Mmph… oh, fuck—take it, darlin’.” He released one final moan as he ground his hips against yours, balls drawing tight before he burst within you—cum spilling into your pussy and plugging you full. Remmick collapsed on top of you, sweat coating both of your forms.

The room grew silent except for your mutual gasps for breath, your eyes prying open as your hand gently played with the hair at the nape of his neck. Remmick placed mindless kisses along your jaw, hands softening their grip.

Slowly, Remmick pulled out from your spent entrance—his seed and your arousal leaking down your thighs and onto the table beneath. His eyes caught the concoction, a distinctly smug smile crossing over his face. “You did so good for me, darlin’. Let me clean you up.”

You hummed, completely blissed out that you couldn’t even register Remmick’s head between your thighs until he was already tonguing your slit again. He ate you messily and quickly, sucking and prodding as you whined and attempted to push his head away only for him to suck harder. You felt that stinging hot sensation build within your core once again, mumbling pleas leaving your lips as tears brimmed your eyes from overstimulation.

Remmick gave one final suck to your clit, sending you right over the edge of that cliff and into deep waters as you came for the third time. Your body convulsed, legs spasming as you gasped for air like a fish out of water. You were spent by the time the orgasm subsided, and Remmick knew it—wouldn’t let you live it down as he smiled down at you like he hadn’t fucked you into this.

The brown haired man rose from his spot, disappearing from your vision for a moment before returning with blanket. His movements were gentle as he guided you, gently reaffirming how good you were with each touch of his hands on tender skin. Soon, you bundled in the blanket, guided to the sofa and curled into Remmick’s form like a lap cat.

“You can fall asleep with me, darlin’. You did so good, took me so well.” Remmick cooed into your ear, red eyed watching the way your eyes were slowly fluttering shut.

“I don’t wanna fall ‘sleep yet… not yet…” A vibration left Remmick’s chest as he laughed at your sleepy sex-induced delirium.

“That alright. Talk to me then, tell me ‘bout what you want, what you need.” Remmick’s hands stroked down your back and side rhythmically, his words whispered into the top of your head as you lolled against him.

You hummed out tiredly, thinking for a moment as your eyes closed. “I want… a picket fence house on a hill… the sound of a banjo all the time, the fresh scent of cinnamon wafting through the halls… two kids, one that looks like you and one that looks like me… and… and…”

And you were out cold. A smile wedged its way between Remmick’s lips as he listened to you speak, to you dream about a future with him—a domestic life filled with love. He didn’t have the heart to tell you that would never happen, but he was willing to pretend that life was a possibility for now. Just like he was willing to pretend like your handler finding you was a coincidence, and that Remmick hadn’t led him here to you.

Remmick wanted to be your everything, your life, your love, your death. So what if a few people got caught in the middle? If it meant that each night you’d be curled up like this in his arms, he’d do it again and again. Just to keep you here with him.

Forever.